Let the Sky Fall (Sky Fall #1)(5)

Trained physically. Mentally. Emotionally.

I’ve given up food and sleep. Suffered hour after hour under the relentless weight of the desert sun. Lived in total isolation. Relegated myself to demeaning tasks like playing chaperone while the stubborn, ignorant boy rebels against everything that matters.

And now he may have gotten us both killed.

But it’s my fault as much as his.

Once again, I’ve called the wind too loudly. And once again I’ve given us away.

The Northerly wind was too far beyond my reach to command with a whisper. I had to shout. Which means my call is branded to the draft now—and it carries Vane’s trace as well. There’s no way the Stormers won’t check the cold wind coming from the warm valley. And when they investigate, they’ll finally have their prize.

The world starts to spin and I suck in a breath.

I won’t let it happen again.

I can stall them. Confuse their search.

Then I’ll deal with Vane.

He drives away in his white smog machine, and my legs shake as I step from the shadows, scanning the street for the dark shape I know will be roosting on a roof nearby. I hold my left arm out and he swoops down, gripping the sleeve of my jacket with his talons. Gavin knows not to screech. Our role is to be invisible.

It’s Vane’s fault we’re exposed. He’s lucky I went gentle on him. He has no idea who he’s messing with. But he’ll soon find out.

I stroke the soft gray feathers around Gavin’s neck, trying to calm the panic seizing my chest, making it hurt to breathe. “Go home, boy,” I whisper. “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

Gavin’s sharp, red-orange eyes lock with mine and I know he understands the command. Then he spreads his wings and, with a powerful flap, takes to the skies. I envy his easy flight. Mine requires significantly more effort.

I retreat to the shadows, my fingers searching the air for an existing breeze to hide my trail.

Nothing. I have to wait.

The sporadic stillness of this place is like a drain, drying up my energy, my options, and my sanity. If the air hadn’t turned stagnant earlier, I could’ve put a damper on Vane’s “date” sooner. I wouldn’t have been forced to walk among the groundlings to try to scare him off. I wouldn’t have had to let him see me. And I wouldn’t have had to call the Northerly to stop him from bonding to that girl.

We’d still be safe.

Of course, if he didn’t insist on breaking rules, we wouldn’t be in this mess either.

I hug myself, squeezing my shoulders to calm my trembling. He’s never come that close before. Another second and . . .

My eyes blur as my mind flashes to the memory of him on the porch. His hand on her face. Leaning in. Their lips coming so close.

If I hadn’t stopped him—I can’t even think about the consequences.

An ache in my jaw warns me that I’m grinding my teeth. I force myself to relax. A guardian must be calm and clear-headed at all times—the Gale Force drilled that into me. Suppressing emotion is the key to our success. The only way to endure the life of sacrifice we’re sworn to.

Plus . . . it isn’t technically Vane’s fault. He doesn’t know about the ordinances he almost violated, or how big a commitment a single kiss is—though I’ve given him enough warnings over the years. He should’ve caught on.

But it’s pointless to dwell on things I can’t change. I know better than anyone that the past can’t be undone. Moving forward is the only option.

A wispy wind tickles my fingers. An Easterly—finally, a stroke of luck.

Soft, untraceable murmurs bend the draft to my will, wrapping it around me. When I’m completely entangled in the feathery breeze, I breathe one final command in the Easterly language and surrender to the force of its power.

“Rise.”

The word sounds like a hiss, and the wind races away, pulling me along with it.

Riding a draft is the closest to freedom I ever come. Rushing higher and deeper into the sky brings clarity to my life. Meaning. I can never fully control the wind. I can coax it, cajole it, ask it to obey—but it’s still a force of its own, free to do what it wills. The trick is to listen as it speaks and adjust as needed.

Most Windwalkers are twice my age before they reach my level of control. I can hear even the softest whisper of change or dissent, translate any turbulence or unease, and adjust. It was my father’s gift. He passed it to me the day he returned to the sky.

Not a second goes by that I don’t wish I could give it back.

Dark peaks appear on the horizon and I whisper, “Dive.” The gust drops low enough for my toes to skim the ground. My legs speed to a run, and once I have my bearings, I release my hold. The wind unravels, racing away as I screech to a halt, my feet firmly planted on the cool, rocky ground of the San Bernardino Mountains.

The air is so much purer up high—the gusts so much stronger. I allow myself one minute to let the surging winds restore me. They ripple across my skin, filling me with strength and confidence that can only come from being in my natural element. Part of me could stand there all night, drinking it up.

But I have a job to do.

It feels wrong to command the wind at full volume—just like it felt wrong earlier. But that’s the point. One mistake to hide another.

Still, my voice shakes as I send Northerly squalls on all sides of the mountains and order them to surge through the desert basin. Sandstorms streak across the empty dunes, leaving dusty footprints in their wake. Scattering my trace in every direction.