Let the Sky Fall (Sky Fall #1)(61)

My mind flashes to the girl Vane was with tonight.

Soft blond hair.

Soft blue eyes.

Soft fingers twined around Vane’s hand.

He chose me.

The thought feels foreign.

But it’s also true.

The thrill that gives me is wrong for more reasons than I can count—but I feel it nonetheless.

My head aches from my tight braid, and it’s too much for my exhausted brain to handle tonight. I undo the careful knot at the end, letting my hair unweave, finally releasing the pressure. The dark, wavy strands settle around my face.

I will never be glamorous like my mother. I have too much of my father in me. His square jaw and narrow nose. The low arch of my brows.

Still, there’s something dark and mysterious about my reflection in the window. Something striking and powerful.

Is that enough to count as beautiful?

What does Vane see when he looks at me?

I turn away, tempted to punch the glass. I’m in the greatest danger of my life, and I’m playing with my hair and wondering if the boy I can’t have—and refuse to let myself want—thinks I’m pretty.

It’s time to get ahold of myself—now.

I reweave my hair into the braid, pulling the strands tighter than ever. If only I could wrangle my feelings as easily.

I can’t. So I’ll do the next best thing.

I slip into my jacket, unsheathe the windslicer, and stomp outside to the widest clearing in the grove. The still night is thick with the sounds of skittering rodents and chirping insects, and the warm air makes my clothes cling to my skin. But I don’t care.

I bend my knees, squatting into my starting posture. Two deep breaths bring me focus. Then I throw myself into my memorized exercises.

I slash and stab. Dip and spin. Race up the sides of trees and back-flip off. Dive toward the ground and somersault back up. Push my lithe muscles as hard as I can, ignoring the extra weight of the water, the extra burn in my limbs.

Sweat soaks my uniform and I pant for breath. Still I swipe and thrust, hacking leaves off the palms, slashing trunks, slicing the air with a surge of strength and speed.

This is who I am.

A fighter.

A guardian.

Stronger than Stormers.

Stronger than Vane.

Beyond all emotion.

I don’t give in to fear or pity or love. I’m the one in control.

The reminder fuels my weary body with an extra burst of energy, and I swing the blade with a vengeance. My thoughts vanish. My brain steps back, letting my limbs remember the motions on their own. Running on instinct.

My muscles throb, but the pain is liberating. Helps me clarify my purpose.

Vane needs to have the fourth breakthrough.

I can’t stand back and wait for it to happen. I have to trigger it myself.

But how?

My legs turn to rubber and I collapse to the sticky, date-covered ground. I reach for the nearest Easterly and pull it around me to help cool me down. And as I listen to its song I realize . . .

Wind.

Vane needs maximum Westerly exposure. The more winds bombarding him, the better chance there is he’ll find a way to breathe one in and let it settle into his consciousness. To hear it.

I may not be able to call the Westerlies to him.

But I can bring him to the Westerlies.

Tonight.

Now.

It will work. I have to believe it will work.

And if it doesn’t, I doubt anything else will.





CHAPTER 35


VANE


I yawn for the ten zillionth time, shaking my head as my eyes blur from staring at the endless, empty stretch of freeway. I point the AC vent at my face to let the cold air jolt me awake.

“You know, when you said you’d come get me a little earlier,” I tell Audra, “I was thinking like four thirty—which is still ridiculously early, by the way. But two a.m.? Are you trying to kill me?”

“I need to know if this will work.” She sounds way too alert for this time of night. Doesn’t she ever get tired?

Her words hit me then. “If? I thought you said this would work.”

She shifts in her seat. “Nothing is guaranteed. But this should work.”

Should is a whole lot different than will. “And if it doesn’t?”

Silence.

Guess that means there isn’t a Plan B. Though, honestly, I’m surprised she found a Plan A.

We pass a sign that says LOS ANGELES 81 MILES.

I groan. “Remind me why we aren’t flying there?”

“I wasn’t sure I had the energy to get us there and back.”

The change in her tone makes me turn toward her. She’s fidgeting with the ends of her braid. She tends to do that when she’s hiding something from me.

I’m tempted to call her on it, but I have better questions to ask. The way I see it, this drive is an hour and a half of uninterrupted “Ask Audra” time—and I will get some answers.

“So,” I say, trying to figure out where to start, “assuming this works, and I have a Westerly breakthrough or whatever, where do we go from there?”

She considers that, like she hasn’t thought it through. Which says wonders about how unsure she is. “I suppose I’ll contact my mother so she can send word to the Gales.”

“Your mother? Your mother’s the one you went to a few nights ago? Who denied your request for backup?”