Let the Storm Break (Sky Fall #2)(15)

The swift, tricky winds.

Easterlies do whatever it takes to survive. . . .

But I have my bond, I tell myself, wishing I could feel the pull in my chest. Without the wind, the pain has faded. And even though Vane’s still a part of me, I can’t help worrying that our connection won’t be enough. That Raiden will find some weakness and push until I break.

I’ll know soon enough.

The damp air makes me shiver as I watch the sun melt into the ocean. But the hollowness inside me feels far colder. The silence starts to smother me, so I hum one of my father’s favorite songs, letting the low, deep melody fill the air. It’s a sad tale of loss and longing. Chasing things that can never be caught.

I’ve always wondered why my father loved it so much, but sitting here, waiting for my enemy to return, I think I finally see the appeal. Success isn’t always about triumph.

It’s about carrying on, continuing the battle. Even if the fight can’t be won.

“You didn’t scream,” a raspy, male voice says, making me jump. He has an accent I can’t place—clean and precise. Like each word has sharp edges. “Didn’t you want to call for help?”

His words echo off every inch of the cave, making it impossible to tell where he hides.

I clear my throat. “I’d rather save my voice.”

“It is a lovely voice,” he agrees. “I’ve been very much enjoying it. But do you really think so little of yourself that you believe no one would come to your rescue?”

Yes.

Instead I say, “You left me ungagged for a reason. I decided not to find out what it was.”

He laughs. A creaky, hollow sound that gives me chills. “You are a clever girl, aren’t you? I must admit, I find you incredibly fascinating.” “Glad to entertain you.”

“Oh, it’s far more than entertainment. Far more.” He falls silent, and I can tell he’s studying me, even though I can’t see him. “So tell me, clever girl. What should I call you?”

“Audra.” I see no point in lying. Plus there’s genuine curiosity in his tone. Maybe even a trace of sincerity. I decide to test my boundaries. “What should I call you?”

“Let’s stick with you for now, shall we?”

“But I’ve answered all your questions. Shouldn’t you have to answer at least one of mine? It’s only fair.”

“Ah, so you still foolishly believe that the world we live in is fair?” “No. But you eased my pain.”I nod toward my seaweed-wrapped wrist. “So I’m assuming you have some sort of moral compass.” He’s quiet for so long that I worry I’ve crossed a line. But when he speaks again he says, “Pick a different question and I’ll answer it.” Hundreds of options swarm my mind, but I pick something easy. Something that might earn me another.

“Where am I?”

“A cave.”

He laughs when I scowl.

“Fine. Fine. Apparently you want questions and quality answers. Such a demanding prisoner. I believe the precise name is the Lost Coast. The groundlings decided it was too difficult for their clunky, land-bound bodies to get to, so they all but abandoned it years ago. Which makes it an excellent place to hide.”

So he’s hiding from someone.

Working alone.

That doesn’t sound like a Stormer.

But he fights like one. . . .

“Your turn,” he says, interrupting my musings. “And since these questions are costing me now, I’m skipping to the more interesting ones. How did the Gales convince you to join the guardians?” “I volunteered.” At the time I thought I was making amends for causing my father’s death. Plus he’d begged me with his final breaths to take care of Vane.

If I’d kept that promise and stayed to do my job, I wouldn’t be here.

“You volunteered?” he repeats, stepping from the shadows near the entrance. Even though a dark cloak completely covers his face, I can feel his eyes boring into mine. “I thought your kind were supposed to be peaceful. And how did you keep yourself hidden all these years? Last I heard, all we had left was a boy.”

I bite my lip.

He must think I really am a Westerly—which may actually work in my favor. Better that he doesn’t know how much easier I might break.

“It’s supposed to be my turn to ask a question,” I remind him, avoiding all of his.

He grins. “There’s fire in you. Fight. You would’ve run me through on the beach with that pathetic little wind spike if you could have, wouldn’t you?”

I’m still trying to figure out how to respond when a cold wind whips my cheek, stinging like the edge of a blade. I choke down the pain, refusing to let him see that he can hurt me.

“See? Fire.” He moves closer, his steps so light they don’t leave impressions in the sand. It’s unnatural the way he moves—almost a slither—and when he calls a draft to his side, I can’t understand the words. “You’re different from the others,” he whispers.

I stare at the wind coiled around his wrist. It’s turned sallow and dull. Sickly.

“The others,” I whisper. “You mean the other Westerlies you killed?”

“No—I mean the Westerlies who chose to die. The Westerlies who lay down and let the life be stripped out of them instead of standing up and fighting back.”