Let the Sky Fall (Sky Fall #1)(6)

The Stormers won’t be able to pinpoint our location—but they’ll know we’re here. And they won’t leave until they find Vane, tearing the valley apart in the process.

The telltale flurry will reach the Stormers’ fortress by nightfall tomorrow, and it’ll take another day of swift flight for them to arrive in the region. I’ve bought us an extra day with the false trails they’ll have to rule out.

Which means we have three days. Then people will start to die.

Vane has to have his first breakthrough tonight. Three days will be enough to train him in the basics, and I’m at my peak strength, thanks to my years of sacrifice. We should be able to fight them off together.

But there’s only one way to be sure the breakthrough happens.

My mouth coats with bile at the thought.

I reach for another Easterly, focusing on the way the edge of my palm tingles as I call the swift gust and wrap it around me. The cool tendrils wash away my fears as they brush my skin.

“Return.” I say the word so softly, the wind’s roar washes it away. It sweeps me in its force, carrying me gently down the mountain, across the parched, empty sand, to my house.

It isn’t much of a home, but I don’t have time to stay anyway. I have work to do.

Tonight will be a very long night.





CHAPTER 5


VANE


My parents are still awake when I come home. Of course they are. It’s barely ten o’clock. I’m probably the only teenager in the valley who never breaks curfew.

Course, I bet other guys don’t have icy drafts attacking them out of nowhere or hear their name on the wind. Goose bumps erupt across my arms just thinking about it.

Deal with it later.

I find my mom in our cluttered pink family room, reading on the mottled brown couch. The salty scent of meatloaf still fills the air, and when I glance over her shoulder I can see plates piled in the kitchen sink. Great, I’m home before she even did the dishes. Fail.

My dad waves from the living room, but he doesn’t get up from his worn leather recliner. He’s too engrossed in some Discovery Channel special—I have no idea how he watches those things—to want to hear about his son’s latest dating disaster.

My mom, on the other hand, closes her thick book, sweeps her long blond hair out of her face, and motions for me to take a seat.

I’m not in the mood for one of her “chats,” but I know she’ll read too much into it if I flee to my room. My mom’s a gold medal worrier. Part of her is probably glad I’m not out impregnating some poor teenage girl right now. But I know another part always worries I’m not having a normal life.

She has no idea how abnormal it is.

No way have I told my parents about my dream-girl stalker. I’d rather not spend endless afternoons sprawled on a couch while some shrink spouts useless psychobabble and drains my parents’ limited savings account. I had quite enough of that when I was “The Miracle Child.”

“How was the date?” she asks as I cross the brown shaggy carpet and plop down beside her.

I answer with a shrug—my best weapon against my mom’s never-ending questions. It’s always fun to see how long I can get away with it.

“Was Hannah nice?”

Shrug.

“What did you guys do?”

Another shrug.

“Vane! That’s not an actual answer.”

Dang—only three. Usually she lets at least four or five go. She must be especially interested. Or especially worried. Can she tell how freaked out I am?

Her pale blue eyes don’t blink as they watch me. They’re the only feature we have in common, the only thing that makes people think maybe, maybe there’s a family resemblance between the tall, dark-haired boy and his short, blond mother.

I try distraction. “Hannah was great. In fact, we drove to Vegas and got married ’cause she needs an American visa and I figured, why not? She’s hot. She’s packing her stuff right now. Hope you don’t mind sharing a roof with a honeymooning couple.”

My mom sighs, but I can tell by the way her lips twitch that she wants to smile. I let her off the hook.

“Hannah was nice. We went to dinner. Then I took her home. It was all very exciting.”

“How come you’re home so early?” she asks.

“We . . . didn’t really hit it off.”

It’s sort of true.

“But you’re okay?” The lines deepen across her forehead.

“Of course.” I smile to sell it. “Just tired. I think I’m gonna play a few games and hit the sack early.”

My mom relaxes. If I’m okay enough to play video games, there’s no reason to worry—Mom’s parenting rule number fifty-three. It comes right after As long as the principal isn’t calling, there’s no reason to worry about his grades, and right before If his eyes aren’t bloodshot, he’s just hungry—it’s not the munchies.

That’s why I love her. She knows when to keep me in line, and when to let me be—both my parents do. I totally scored in the adoptive family department. Even if they don’t look like me and live in a town where the weather can be considered cruel and unusual punishment. They even let me keep my last name—which is awesome because Weston is way better than Brasier. It rhymes with Frasier, but I know I’d have been Vane Brassiere to every kid in school.