Let the Sky Fall (Sky Fall #1)(23)

He struggles to swallow, and his eyes stay glued to the sword I keep trained between his eyes. “So why don’t we run, then? Why stay here and face them?”

“Stormers are expert trackers.”

“Yeah, well, I can be an expert hider. I can stay so far off the grid they’ll think I vanished for good.”

“It doesn’t work that way. And even if you could get away, what about your family? Could you convince them to abandon everything and flee with you? What about your friends? What about the innocent people living here? Would you let them die for you? Could you live with that?”

He doesn’t have an answer.

“Believe me, Vane. If there were any other option, I would take it. This is it. You and me against them. And it isn’t a game. No amount of snarky jokes will spare you in a wind battle. I can teach you to defend yourself, but only if you let me. Otherwise, you might as well hand yourself over to Raiden now. See if he appreciates your sense of humor more than I do.”

His eyes dart between my face and the blade.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

I have no idea what he’s thinking, but he looks as scared as he should be.

I breathe a sigh of relief when he finally asks the right question.

“So where do we start?”

I lower the windslicer. “Take a seat.”

He drops to the dusty ground, scooting to the far edge of the floor, against one of the walls. Keeping a safe distance from me.

Good.

I sink to my knees in front of him, placing the windslicer between us. “Rule number one—the most important rule for our training sessions: Never speak to the wind in anything other than a whisper—is that clear?”

“What does that even mean?”

“You don’t have to understand. You just have to agree. Until the Stormers find us, you cannot do anything other than whisper to the wind. We don’t need the breezes telling them more than they already know.”

I wait for him to agree.

“Yeah, fine. Whatever.”

I roll my eyes. He has to be difficult. “Hold out your right hand, palm facing me, and spread your fingers like mine.” I stretch my fingers wide, curling the tips like I’m gripping an invisible sphere. “Memorize that position. It’s the easiest way to feel for the nearby drafts.”

He copies my position. “Okay. Am I supposed to be feeling something?”

“You tell me. What do you feel?”

“Besides feeling like an idiot for sitting in a burned-down house at five-freaking-a.m., holding out my hand like it’s some sort of deformed claw . . . not a whole lot.”

I grit my teeth, but I refuse to let him get to me again. “Then maybe you should try actually paying attention. Close your eyes.”

He heaves a heavy sigh but does as I ask.

“You should be able to detect any movement in the wind within at least a twenty-mile radius—and be able to tell where it’s coming from. Focus on the way the air hits your skin. You’ll feel something like an itch wherever the wind stirs.”

He opens his mouth—probably to complain again. But then his hand twitches and his jaw falls slack. “My thumb itches. Like . . . something moving across my nerves, tugging at me.”

I release a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. His senses are strong. Really strong. That draft barely tickles the base of my thumbnail, and it’s at least thirty miles away.

Maybe this task won’t be as impossible as I thought.

“There’s a weak Easterly stirring over there,” I explain. “That’s what your thumb is telling you.”

He drops his hand, shaking his fingers hard. “That’s really freaky. I don’t like it.”

“Well, get used to it. It’s part of who you are. And it’s an amazing thing. Groundlings would kill to do the things we can do. Maybe you should try being grateful for your gifts.”

“Groundlings?”

“Humans. We can have a vocabulary lesson another time. Right now I’m trying to teach you how to call the wind—another one of those ‘freaky’ things Windwalkers do, so brace yourself. We’ll start with the most basic call. It’s one you heard me use yesterday, and it will be the one you use most often. Repeat after me. ‘Come to me swiftly.’ ”

He shakes his head like he doesn’t understand, and I know he’s struggling with the language shift. I switched to the Easterly tongue. I repeat the phrase, waiting for his mind to translate.

“Come to me swiftly,” he finally says, his tongue fumbling with the swirling intonations of the words.

I grab the windslicer and point it at his throat. “I told you to whisper—it’s a good thing the wind needs a complete command to respond, otherwise you could’ve just given away our exact location.”

“Hey—you didn’t whisper!”

“I was testing you to see how well you were paying attention earlier. You failed.”

“Because you set me up for it.” His hands clench into fists and he looks like he wants to pummel me. But his gaze settles on the windslicer. I have him right where I want him—and he knows it.

“Try it again. Focus on the draft you’re feeling—and whisper this time,” I order, setting the blade back on the ground between us. “Come to me swiftly.”