Let the Sky Fall (Sky Fall #1)(48)

I do feel . . . something. An ache deep, deep inside. Almost like hunger.

My body craves that wind—in a way I don’t crave any of the others. Like it’s a part of me, and I’ll never be complete until I let it fill me, wrap around my mind, and sing its song, tell me the long history it carries.

Just like that first night in the sky with Audra, I know.

I’m a Westerly. A broken, defective one, but still a Westerly. And I need to have a breakthrough to my heritage, or I’ll never be complete.

So I let myself hope Audra will find a way to make her fake promise come true.

Because seriously, she’s not that great of a liar. I can see the hesitation in her eyes. The doubt. The fear. Like now. As we watch the elusive Westerly, I know what she’s thinking. I feel the same way.

The draft is racing away, taking our safety with it.

Audra clears her throat. “We’ll worry about the fourth breakthrough later. Tonight we’re here to train you to protect yourself.”

I can’t tear my eyes away from the Westerly. It’s so close. I just need one word. One tiny clue to its secret language. I can almost . . .

The sound of a roaring windstorm snaps me back to reality.

I turn to find Audra standing in front of a spout of swirling gusts soaring at least a hundred feet into the sky. The winds feed off each other as they spin, stretching the funnel higher with each passing second.

Audra makes sure I’m watching her, then steps through the winds.

My jaw drops as her shadowed form shoots up the wind spout and rockets out the top. She hovers in the sky, a dark angel at home with the stars. Then she’s falling, fast and hard.

She barely blinks.

I hear her whisper, “Catch me gently, hear my call. Sweep me softly before I fall,” and a Southerly uncoils from the funnel—at least, I think it’s a Southerly. It feels warm, but it’s hard to tell. The breeze wraps around her waist and sets her safely on the ground.

“Whoa.”

Audra smiles her small half smile as she whips the windslicer from her scabbard and slices the funnel to shreds. The winds howl as they unravel and streak away, tearing at my clothes and hair. I cough as sand peppers my face.

Okay, maybe windslicers are more powerful than I realized.

She sheaths the blade, dusts off her hands, and turns to me. “Your turn.”

“Good one.”

“I’m serious.”

“You expect me to fly up a giant funnel and hope I’m fast enough to call a draft to catch me—and avoid all these blades of doom all around us?”

She nods, and that kind of kills my laughter.

“Okay, you’re starting to scare me, because I don’t think you’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

I cough. “Need I remind you that the last time I ‘practiced,’ I knocked myself flat on my back—and all I was doing was standing there?”

“Do you ever pay attention?” She points to the shadowed space between us. “Do you see a funnel? Am I asking you to step into it and shoot into the air right now?”

“I . . . guess not.”

“Exactly. First you have to create the funnel. And believe me, if you can master the skill to create it, you’ll be able to catch yourself when you fall.”

Somehow I find that hard to believe, but I’m willing to see where she’s going with this.

“Okay. You need to learn how to make what we call wind melds—specific groups of drafts woven together in a specific order. Making them is like following a recipe. You have to do it precisely in order to get the right result.”

I resist telling her that the few times my mom’s tried to teach me how to follow a recipe, the only thing I made were inedible black lumps.

“The funnel I just showed you is called a pipeline. It’s a rapid method of transport, and it’s an important skill for you to master, because you can use it offensively, to hurl your enemy away from you, or defensively, to quickly escape a dangerous area. You can bend them in any direction you need to go. And it’s a basic formula, so even you should be able to complete it.”

I want to protest her whole “even you” thing. But I have a feeling I’m going to suck at this.

“Okay, the formula for a pipeline is three Northerlies blended with two Southerlies. Once they’re combined, you add four Easterlies one by one, and when that’s done you say the final command and jump back as the funnel expands. Memorize that.”

Yeah—I’m going to need that written on my hand or something.

Mental note: Bring a Sharpie to training next time.

“Start by calling the Northerlies and Southerlies to your side, so you can tell them what you want them to do. You’ll have to call each draft on its own, so the faster you get at calling winds the better. And each type of wind has its own call. I’ve already taught you the one for Easterlies. To call a Northerly you say, ‘Obey my command. Follow my voice. Race to my side and surrender your choice.’ ”

Her voice sounds like a sharp hiss—almost a snarl—and it takes a second for my brain to translate the words into the Northerly language. Making my mouth replicate the sounds is even harder. My tongue doesn’t want to bend the right ways. But I reach toward the Northerlies she’s shown me earlier and concentrate on the pins and needles in my palm as I whisper the call. After two tries I finally say it right, and a Northerly sweeps to my side, the cool air licking my skin.