I watch him glance north for the dozenth time and realize what he must be thinking. "You should be with the Gales right now."

"I should be following my orders."

"That's dumb. You did your job. You told me where to go and I'm going there-I don't need a babysitter for the rest. Go help your dad."

Gus looks tempted, but he shakes his head. "The Gales had a reason for not bringing me with them."

"Yeah, and your dad had a reason for sending his message to you."

Gus stares at the dried blood on his thumb. Then he wipes it away on his pants. "He sent it to me so I could protect you."

"Ugh-I'm so sick of that."

I don't want to be the useless weakling everyone has to protect.

I'm the last freaking Westerly.

I should be out there leading the charge.

Isn't that what they've been training me for?

I'm still not sure how I'm going to handle the whole violencemakes-me-vomit thing, but if I'm ever supposed to take down Raiden, I'm going to have to start standing up and fighting.

"What are you doing?" Gus asks as I dive and touch down in the middle of the desert. "Is this where we're going?"

I don't answer, calling one Easterly, one Northerly, and one Southerly to my side and coiling them around each other to make a wind spike. It's different from the way Audra taught me, but over the last few weeks I've learned they're stronger this way. One of each wind.

I reach out my hands and call the Westerly I'm missing.

"So you can control the fourth wind," Gus says, staring at the draft as it swirls around my waist.

"You thought I couldn't?"

"I'd been starting to wonder."

I roll my eyes and weave the Westerly around the wind spike, ordering the drafts to converge.

The gusts spin to a blur, twisting out of my grasp and hovering above my head as a crack splits down the center. Gus covers his head like he expects the spike to explode. But the dull outer sh.e.l.l simply rolls away, leaving a gleaming deep-blue spike with sharp points at each end and a glinting sheen.

"Whoa," Gus breathes as he reaches slowly toward it. "Can I?"

I nod and he hesitates a second before he curls his fingers around it. "c.r.a.p it's like . . . solid."

I can't help laughing. "That's the power of four."

"I guess." He slices it through the air a few times before he turns to me. "You realize I'm never giving this back, right?"

"Oh really?"

I whisper, "Come," in Westerly and the spike launches out of his hand and floats straight into mine.

"You were saying?"

Gus blinks. "Okay, wow. That's pretty d.a.m.n impressive."

"I'm glad you think so, because I'm going with you to the Gales. I'm tired of being fussed over and shuttled around like I'm some delicate little flower they have to shelter."

"No one thinks you're a flower, Vane. We've all smelled you after training."

"Maybe so, but I'm not going to hide in the sand anymore either- and you can try and talk me out of it, but we both know that's a waste of time. So let's just skip that part and go get your dad."

He still doesn't look convinced, so I offer the one thing I know will win him over. "I'll make you your own special wind spike. You won't be able to command it, but I'll keep track of it for you."

I hurtle the spike into a cactus and the th.o.r.n.y plant explodes, showering us with slimy cactus goo.

"It didn't unravel," Gus mumbles, pointing at the wind spike lying in a puddle of greenish slime.

I call the spike back to me and hand it to him.

He stares at it for a few seconds before he slips it through the strap of his windslicer scabbard. I weave another spike for myself, wishing I'd worn a belt with my shorts. I guess this is why the Gales keep wanting me to wear a guardian uniform.

"Okay," I say, ripping a hole in my pocket and slipping the spike through. "Armed and ready. Now let's go find Feng."

Gus nods and tangles himself in a group of nearby Easterlies. "This time you follow me."

He leads me into the mountains, over a forest of spiky, gnarled Joshua trees.

I keep searching for a change in the winds or a storm in the distance. But everything stays bright and clear and normal.

Until Gus spots a smear of red on the ground.

He takes us down to an area I remember hiking in with my family. A garden of weird green, tubey plants that look kinda like what would happen if palm trees and cacti hooked up and had a bunch of bristly babies. I'm careful to avoid the white thorns that almost seem to reach for me as we make our way to the red-stained cactus.

"It's his blood," Gus says quietly as he reaches up and touches a broken stem. "This must be where he grabbed the piece he sent me."

"But I don't hear his echo in the air," I remind him as he turns away to wipe his eyes. "So he's still alive."

Gus nods, sucking in a breath. "We should find the Gales. Os chased the Stormers southeast."

I can hear the nearby drafts whispering the same thing-and the wind isn't supposed to lie. And yet . . .

There's one draft singing a completely different song.

I call the Westerly to my side, letting it fill the air with its warning about a hostage heading north into a valley of death. And when I listen to the other winds again I realize there's no melody to their song. They whisper the words with no life or energy.

"I think the Stormers did something to the winds," I say, doublechecking the Westerly to make sure I'm not going crazy. "This Westerly says Feng was taken to Death Valley."

Gus turns his palms northward, concentrating so hard that a deep line forms between his brows. "I can't find his trace that way. Can you?"

I search the nearby air for the feel of Feng. The hint of cool energy around the b.l.o.o.d.y cactus has to be him, so I hold on to that sensation and reach further, concentrating on the Westerlies coming from the north until I find a draft carrying the same chilly rush.

I gasp when I realize it's not the only trace the wind carries.

"What's wrong?" Gus asks as I call the draft to me, but my head is spinning too fast to answer.

The tingly warmth gets stronger as the wind gets closer. And the sparks feel more like a punch to the gut when the Westerly wraps around me, singing about a girl who found more than she was looking for in the valley of death "He's definitely that way," I whisper to Gus.

And so is Audra.

CHAPTER 22.AUDRA.

R.

aiden has Vane.

The thought makes me want to tear through the basin, tackle Raiden to the ground, and scratch at his skin until there's nothing left but bone. But all I can do is curl my legs into my chest, wrap my arms around them as tight as I can, and rock back and forth as Raiden carries on with his speech.

I'm glad his back is to me so I don't have to see his cold, arrogant face-though the excitement in his Stormers' eyes is equally sickening.

Focus.

Think.

Maybe I'm wrong.

I concentrate on my heart, taking slow, deep breaths. The pain of my bond is definitely there-so Vane is still alive. But . . . it's weaker.

The searing heat is now a soft warmth, and the shredding pull is now a gentle tug.

That would happen only if I was moving closer to Vane.

Or if the Stormers are bringing him here . . .

My head spins and I lie down, pressing my cheek against the brittle ground. I could stay here, never get up, never have to face the possibility of Raiden having Vane in his clutches.

Or I could pull myself up and figure out a way to save him.

I choose option B.

Whether it was random luck or the will of the Easterlies that guided me, I'm here. Which gives me the chance to make sure Vane doesn't end up as another shriveled lump dangling from the ceiling of the Maelstrom. All I need is a plan.

I stand and scan the valley, searching for some miraculous idea that will allow me steal a prisoner from the clutches of the most powerful Windwalker on earth and fifty of his top soldiers-without any winds to help me fight.

The dark mountains have potential. Their weathered, dusty slopes would easily crumble if I trigger an avalanche. But the falling rocks would never reach where Raiden stands. At best it would cause a distraction-which could be useful. I could rush in and grab Vane and . . .

Be defeated before I even take a few steps.

Raiden has all the advantages. My only a.s.sets are surprise and a single Westerly shield. It won't be enough.

If I had a way to call the Gales and let them know I'm here and that Vane has been captured, maybe they could get here in time to- A horrifying thought stops me cold.

The Gales would never let the Stormers take Vane.

They would fight to save him until their final breaths . . .

So if I'm right, and Vane's been captured, I'm probably all he has left.

I'm shaking now, clinging to my Westerly shield the way I clung to Vane after the storm that stole our families and changed everything.

"Ah, here comes our guest now," Raiden says, pointing to a gray streak barreling toward us from the southern horizon.

A tornado.

"Clear a path," Raiden shouts, and his Stormers scramble over each other to get out of the way.

The ma.s.sive funnel roars into the valley, pelting everyone with sand and rocks as it tears across the basin, destroying the careful trails etched by the sailing stones. It comes to a stop directly in front of Raiden as the clouds swell above, blocking out the sun.

I clench my fists so tight my nails make my palms bleed.

The boy I love-the only thing that's ever mattered-could be tangled inside that storm.

I have to save him.

Have to.

But as I stare at the power-hungry faces of the Stormers, I realize something even more frightening.

I have to stay alive.

Vane will never surrender to Raiden's interrogation. He'll protect the Westerly tongue until his dying breath. So if Raiden has him, and I can't rescue him . . .

I will be the last Westerly.

I wish I could strip the language from my mind-go back to being a worthless Easterly who can sacrifice myself to save him.

But the language is part of who I am now.

I have to protect it accordingly.

The crowd crushes forward as the tornado unravels and three figures step out of the funnel. Two Stormers with splashes of red staining their angry faces. And a bloodied, limping prisoner in a black uniform, his hands bound in ruined yellow winds.

His face is covered with a hood and I try to tell myself it's not him.

Vane hated the Gale Force uniforms. I can't imagine he'd be willing to wear one.

But the pain of our bond feels more like an empty longing. Like all I would need to do is reach out and hold him and everything would be okay.

It would feel that way only if Vane were here.