Shannon Messenger - Let the Storm Break

I pull myself up and scan the shore, wincing as my muscles complain. The dark gray sand and white pieces of driftwood remind me of the beach I left hours ago.

In fact . . .

I turn to the ocean, feeling my heart jump into my throat when I see the stacks of stone standing tall among the waves. The glaring sun shows a fifth peak that I couldn’t see under the moonlight. But the twisted shapes are unmistakable.

I never left.

I never moved .

All that time I thought I was flying, I was really just hovering in the sky, spinning like a windmill rooted to the ground.

I have no idea what kind of command could bind me that way, but whoever gave it has to be here .

The beach is too empty.

No seals sunning themselves on the rocks.

No dolphins splashing in the waves.

Not even a single bird in the sky.

I reach for my windslicer, cursing myself for leaving it back at my old shelter. I was so focused on escaping my problems that I never considered that Raiden might come after me.

I should’ve known better.

He’s always trying to capture Gales to interrogate. And I’m Vane’s former guardian. He’d expect me to know all kinds of secrets about . . .

I sink to my knees as a horrifying thought hits me.

I know Westerly.

But no one knows that except Vane and—

No .

A few hours ago I shouted a Westerly call. If someone was watching . . .

My chest starts to burn and I realize I’ve stopped breathing—but how can I breathe?

I have the prize Raiden’s after, and I’ve basically hand delivered it to him, coming here with no weapons, no backup, no one even knowing where I am.

Bile rises in my throat, as bitter as my regrets. I choke it down and stand.

I’m a trained guardian.

I harness the power of four.

No Stormer is going to defeat me.

I turn toward the cliffs lining the beach, trying to guess which dark hole my attacker hides in.

It’s impossible to tell—but I know they’re watching me.

I call the nearest Westerly and coil it around my wrist.

Let them see how powerful I am.

Let them know that they don’t scare me.

“Show yourself!” I shout.

My words echo off the rocks before they’re swallowed by the waves.

I march toward the cliffs, but I’ve barely gone two steps before the winds vanish, turning the air quiet and still.

The calm before the storm.

You’re leaving?” my mom asks as I drag myself down the hallway, following Os to the front door. “I made you a torpedo.”

She points to the table, where one of her life-changingly good breakfast burritos is waiting for me. My dad’s there too, working on the crossword and trying to choke down a glass of questionable-looking grayish-green juice. The table is set for three.

I can see the hope in my mom’s eyes.

I haven’t had time for a family meal in weeks.

Os clears his throat. “We need to get going, Vane.”

My mom frowns, and my appetite vanishes. I know that protective you’re not taking my son anywhere without my permission look. She’s been using it a lot lately. And I’m not sure I have the energy for another fight.

“Where are they making you go now ?” she asks me.

“I—”

“That’s an official Gale Force matter,” Os interrupts.

“You can call things official all you want,” my mom snaps back, “but it doesn’t change the fact that Vane is my son and—”

“Actually, he’s your adopted son—and the only reason we allowed you to raise him was—”

“I’m sorry, did you just say that you allowed me to raise him?”

“Oooooooooookay,” I say, stepping between them before my mom goes into full-fledged Mominator mode. “We can fight over who gets to control my life when I get back. I’m sorry about breakfast, Mom. But right now I’m really tired, and apparently I have a long journey ahead of me, so . . . I’m pretty much maxed out in the things-that-I-can-handle-without-my-head-exploding category.”

I can tell by my mom’s glare that this is definitely not over. But she stands aside to let us pass, and I promise my parents I’ll see them tomorrow as Os follows me outside.

“Your mother is much more attached to you than I realized,” he says after the front door slams shut.

“Yeah, that tends to happen with family .”

I’m so sick of the Gales acting like nothing about my human life matters.

This is my real life—sylph or not. The sooner they get that through their windblown heads, the better.

“Yes, well, I guess we’ll have to discuss this later,” Os tells me as he wraps himself in Northerlies. “For now just try to keep up.”

He blasts off into the sky, and I’m tempted to run back inside and lock him out of my room. But I really do need to sleep.

I grab a pair of Easterlies and follow, spinning the winds fast enough to obscure my form in the sky—not that anyone’s around to see me. Os is leading me east, to the part of the desert where no one actually wants to go. Cactus-and-tumbleweed land, with no sign of life in any direction for miles and miles and miles.

The sun beats down, and I’m starting to feel like a Vane-crisp when thin, dark shapes appear on the horizon. They look like crooked poles, but as we fly closer I realize they’re trees.

Dead trees.

Palms with nothing left but twisted trunks and crumbling bark. There are dozens of them, arranged in random circles, like they were once supposed to be something. But now they’ve been abandoned, like some sort of palm-tree graveyard.

I move to Os’s side as he starts to descend. “Ugh, please tell me we’re not going to Desert Center.”

It’s the kind of town you go to only if you have to, and the deserted gas station by the freeway does not look promising.

“We won’t be there long,” Os promises. “It’s just the starting point I use to guide me from the sky.”

I’m not loving the whole starting-point thing. Especially since I can see pretty far in every direction, and other than some old, crumbling buildings, there’s basically nothing, nothing, and more nothing no matter which way you go. But Os sweeps low, landing in the center of the most isolated circle of trees. I have no choice but to follow him.

It smells like something died here.

Actually, it smells like lots of things died, and given the graffiti and the scary-looking shacks nearby, I wouldn’t be surprised.

“So now what?” I ask as I move to one of the crooked shadows, taking what little escape from the heat I can get. I’m still soaked in sweat in about thirty seconds.

“Now, we walk,” Os says, turning toward the foothills.

“Whoa, wait—you mean wind walk, right?”

“No, we dare not take the winds any closer. We would only get sucked in.”

“Sucked into what?”

“You’ll see.”

I’m about to press for an actual answer when I realize where Os is heading.

“Uh, hang on—that’s the freeway. You don’t walk across the freeway—not unless you want to get splattered against a few windshields.”

“We can weave our way through tornadoes, Vane. You need to learn to trust your instincts.”

“I’ve only known I’m a sylph for a month—I don’t have any instincts!”

But as the words leave my mouth, I realize I do.

I remember running through the tornado that killed my family, easily avoiding the drafts and debris and keeping my feet on steady ground. I never thought about how weird that was until now.

Still, as I watch the cars and semis whip by at seventy-plus miles per hour, I’m glad I didn’t eat my torpedo. Pretty sure I’d be spewing it all over the ground.