Let The Wind Rise (Sky Fall, #3) (17 page)

“Help me lift his legs,” Solana whispers.

I obey—and then regret it when she pulls down his pants and the dude’s going commando.

Solana laughs as I cringe. “What were you expecting?”

“Uh—how about some boxers? Even tighty-whities would’ve been better than nothing.”

Solana looks at me like I’m speaking alien, which raises a super-weird question.

“Sylphs wear underwear, right?”

“Why would we? The less we have between our skin and the air, the better.”

I have absolutely no idea how to respond to that—and I have to work very hard not to think about what’s clearly not under Solana’s tiny dress.

Then again, it does also cast a new, rather interesting light on all of my memories of Audra . . .

Solana kills the fantasies by tossing the pants at my head. “Get changed.”

“Dude, his junk was floating around in these.”

“Well, apparently yours won’t be.” She raises one eyebrow and my face gets hot. Especially when she adds, “You should consider it. Might make a difference. But either way, you’re currently dressed like a Gale. And they know we’re here.”

I really really really really really hate her for being right.

I also hate how badly my cheeks are burning.

And I’m
definitely
not going freebird in these things.

“What about you?” I ask as I duck behind some trunks and struggle out of my coat.

“I’ll change if we find another Stormer—or pass a supply closet. But now that you’re in uniform we’ll be okay. If we see anyone, we’ll pretend I’m your prisoner.”

“That’s asking a lot of my acting skills.”

“Hopefully it won’t come up. How’s it going back there? Need help?”

“Don’t even think about it. You just worry about naked boy—and maybe cover his bits with Raiden’s blankies.” I emerge a minute later, fidgeting in the itchy fabric and wishing my new pants weren’t so much tighter than my others The stuff from my pockets barely fits. “Should we tie him up so he can’t walk out of here once he wakes up?”

“That won’t be a problem.”

Maybe it’s the unnaturally calm way she says it. But it makes me take another look at the Stormer and realize the draft silencing him is covering his mouth
and
nose.

“Before you freak out,” Solana says, holding out her hands like she’s calming a rabid dog, “remember, he
chose
to serve Raiden. He deserves whatever happens to him.”

“Not this.” I grab my dagger and try to cut him free, but my swipe grazes right through the ruined draft.

By the time I realize I need to use his black windslicer, a cold, rattly sound echoes through his chest, and he goes a different kind of still.

“You didn’t have to kill him!” I say—barely remembering to whisper.

“He would’ve killed us! And what if he’d escaped? What if he led them back to this room to wait for us? This is our exit. We have to keep it clear. This is why Aston said I should be the one in charge. He knew I’d be the only one who could make the tough choices.”

“This wasn’t a ‘tough choice’—it was murder!”

“No, it was war—and keep your voice down or you’re going to get us killed.” She turns away from me, pulling at the hem of her dress, and I notice her hands are shaking.

When she looks back my way, there’s a plea in her eyes, begging me to let this go.

But there’s something else there too. That same junkie-glint as the last time she let the power of pain take over.

Even my Westerly shield agrees, switching its tune to a song about
traitors.

“We need to get back on track,” she whispers. “We’re making too much noise and moving too slow. If we don’t get Gus and Audra out of here now, we never will.”

I know she’s right.

And some part of me knows this isn’t her fault. It’s the disgusting power breaking her down bit by bit.

But I can’t be a part of this.

“Here’s how this is going to go,” I say, heading for the door. “This is
my
mission, and we go by my rules from now on.”

“You really think
you
can get us through this?”

“No, but I’m hoping the wind can. This isn’t up for negotiation. We do it my way—or we split up. Your call.”

Solana sighs. “We’ll see how long this lasts.”

I’m feeling pretty good about the whole taking-back-control thing, until we get to the door and I realize it’s locked again.

“
I
can open it . . . ,” Solana says.

Traitor,
my Westerly whispers.

Got any bright ideas, then?
I ask the wind.

I’m expecting it to sing some sort of vague melody about resisting temptation. Instead, it slips through the cracks and unlocks the latch.

Solana’s eyes are as wide as mine as I pull the door open.

Maybe the fourth language can take down the power of pain after all.

W
e’re finally making progress.

Slow
progress.

But progress.

Slipping through secret doors to new parts of the maze.

I have no idea where we are, but at least the halls have changed.

Rougher walls.

Uneven floors.

The path we walk even feels like an incline, heading for the surface.

I’d be celebrating if Gus’s skin weren’t turning as pale as a sun-bleached stone. His breaths also hold a gurgly rattle that makes my stomach knot.

I coiled the Easterly around him, but it seems to be making no difference. And Gus claims that if he absorbed it, he’d use the energy up even faster.

I keep calling for other drafts, but so far none have been around to answer. Even Raiden’s ruined winds seem to be avoiding this hall—not that they would help us.

“So I just realized you never told me the whole plan,” Gus whispers. “How exactly are we supposed to escape through the Shredder?”

“Aston’s guide maps out a path through the fans.”

Gus stops walking. “How many fans are there?”

“Seventeen.”

It sounds so much worse out loud.

Seventeen
leaps through spinning blades.

The slightest miscalculation—a split second of difference—and we’re nothing more than a splatter of red.

Gus whistles. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing I’m in such great shape then.”

He smiles at his joke, but it still breaks my heart.

I remember Gus during the early days of my guardian training. He’d be doing sit-ups or push-ups or practicing fight moves long after the rest of us retired for the day. His focus was legendary, and it pushed me to try harder, be better.

And now . . .

“Relax. It’s going to take a lot more than this to finish me off,” he promises, getting us moving again. “I’m way more worried about the fact that we haven’t run into any Stormers.” “I’ve been thinking the same thing.”

Not that I
mind
an easy journey—but I don’t trust it either. We’re escaping the world’s most impenetrable fortress. We should be constantly dodging guards.

“I can’t imagine Raiden would only assign one Stormer to cover this area,” Gus whispers.

Neither can I.

Even if Vane and my mother are distracting him, it’s a sloppy, careless mistake—and Raiden doesn’t make mistakes.

“Do you think we’re heading for an ambush?” I ask, glancing over my shoulder.

“I think we’re heading for
something
,” Gus says.

He whispers to his Easterly, asking it to search the path ahead. The wind darts away, and Gus’s knees buckle, dragging us both down.

“I wish you’d absorb my Westerly,” I tell him as I pull him back to his feet. “It made you so much stronger.”

“It did,” Gus agrees. “But that draft has had more bright ideas than both of us combined. No way am I locking it up somewhere it can’t help us if we need it.”

The Easterly returns, reporting emptiness ahead.

“It can’t be this easy,” Gus says, reaching for the windslicer strapped to my waist.

As soon as he draws the sword, it slips from his weakened hand.

The
CLANG!
that follows sounds like a hurricane raging down the hall, announcing our presence to the entirety of the universe.

I retrieve the weapon and push Gus against the wall, standing in front of him to cover us.

A minute passes in silence.

Then another.

And another.

“I know I should be relieved,” Gus whispers. “But
someone
should’ve heard that.”

“Wait here. I’m going to sweep the area.”

I crouch low as I move—checking the walls, the ceiling, the floor.

Still, I don’t notice the slightly raised stone until I step on it.

The second I hear the click I drop to my stomach, knocking the breath out of my chest as a wind spike blasts out of the wall and explodes.

Pebbles and dust cloud the air, making it impossible to see if I’m near any other triggers.

“DON’T MOVE!” I shout to Gus, forcing myself to remain still. “The floor is rigged.”

“That blast was designed to maim, not kill,” Gus says. “Someone’s probably on their way to scoop up the injured.”

I’m sure he’s right. And I have no idea how to get us out of here. Gus is too weak to run—and who knows how many other traps we could set off?

Then again, the more traps we trigger, the worse they’ll imagine our injuries . . .

“Maybe we should play with their expectations,” I say as I spot another raised stone and tap the center with the edge of the windslicer.

Instead of the spike I’m prepared for, a mangled wind bursts out of the floor and tangles around me.

I’ve been caught in a crusher before, but this one is suffocating
and
sharp. Every time I try to twist free, it feels like the wind is peeling off my skin.

“Hang on!” Gus calls, careful of his steps as he rushes to help.

He slashes the vortex with the windslicer, but the black metal passes straight through.

One of my ribs cracks, and Gus grabs hold of the crusher with both fists.

Veins bulge in his arms, and his face contorts with agony as he lets out an unearthly scream and tears the crusher to shreds.

I collapse to my knees and he crumples beside me, both of us shaking and gasping for air. I recover first and drag us away from the rest of the trigger stones.

That’s when I notice Gus has stopped breathing.

“He needs wind!” I beg my Westerly, and it coils around him. But it can’t seem to sink under his skin without Gus giving the command.

I send the Easterly to find an exit, but I don’t have time to wait.

Gus’s lips are taking on a bluish tinge.

I faced this same dilemma with Vane—and I never did determine whether a bond would form if I pressed my mouth to his.

That did hold a much greater risk, since I already cared far too deeply for Vane.

Still, I care for Gus in other ways, and what if . . .

I don’t have time for this debate. I prop his neck on my knee and open his mouth.

Maybe if I cover his lips with my fingers, the barrier will ensure there’s no connection.

“It’s going to be okay,” I whisper as I lower my mouth to his and blow all the breath in my lungs.

Half of it breezes through the gaps around my fingers. The rest doesn’t sink deep enough.

I pull my hand back and suck in another breath, checking the hall around me for signs of the Stormers.

I can’t hear what the wind is doing—can’t tell if any guards are drawing close.

I lean down again and breathe straight against his mouth.

Our lips barely touch—but I can feel how cold they are.

I lean back for a new breath and repeat the process again.

And again.

By the fifth time, I notice his mouth turning warm.

“Come on, Gus,” I whisper. “You’re so close.”

Three more breaths and my lips turn tingly.

The next time, Gus gasps on his own.

I scoot back, letting him cough and wheeze. That’s when I realize I can hear footsteps charging closer.

I search for the Easterly and find it slashing at the ceiling.

I send the Westerly to help and order them to
Sever
as I drag Gus toward the exit I hope the winds are making.

Silt rains down, stinging my eyes as the drafts cut the seams around a square hatch.

I drop into a deep crouch, begging my Westerly to fuel my jump as I burst off the ground. The stone is heavier than I expected, and my wrists scream in protest, but I manage to knock the hatch aside and make an opening.

I land next to Gus and throw him over my shoulder, wondering if I can leap high enough with his added weight.

My Westerly has a better solution, coiling around us both and repeating the command it wants me to use.

“Elevate.”

The wind pulls taut and drags us like a rope. It’s not a comfortable process, but it’s worth it when we launch through the hatch. I’ve barely pulled my legs inside when the Stormers burst into the room, and I shove the hatch closed and collapse on top of it.

“Is there a way to seal the door?” I ask the winds.

Neither have any suggestions.

And Gus is barely conscious.

And I left the windslicer down below.

I scan our new tunnel, searching for actual options.

The thin metal slats lining the ceiling could possibly serve as a weapon—but when I try to pry one off, the metal is welded too tight.

The best I can manage is to coil the Easterly and Westerly into a weak sort of wind spike. The point feels dull—wind spikes need the strength of the Northerlies. But it’s better than nothing.

I drag Gus behind me, glad to see he’s still breathing. If only his eyes weren’t closed and his wounds weren’t seeping through his bandages.

I’m wishing for wind—and maybe the sky hears me—because the metal slats tilt and cool air rushes in.

For two seconds I let hope swell in my heart. Then I realize the Stormers haven’t tried to follow me. And when I pull on the hatch, I find it sealed shut.

I press my ear to the floor and hear the voice of the Stormer who ripped my dress.

“Flood the tunnel with flurries. She’s useless in the cold.”