Tears burn my eyes and I find myself hugging her tight before she pulls away. "We'll see you soon."

"You'd better," Vane's dad says before he wraps his arms around us both. "Try not to destroy the house."

Vane forces a laugh. "Dang, there goes all my plans."

"Oh, I almost forgot," his mom says, lifting a tattered shred of black fabric from the top of her suitcase. "I'm so sorry. I guess your clothes can't go in the washing machine. . . ."

It takes me a second to realize the sc.r.a.p she's holding is what's left of my uniform, and another after that to realize my mistake. I'd forgotten that groundlings use machines for their washing instead of water and air. Our porous fabric must not be able to hold up.

"It's fine," I tell her, even though I have no idea what I'll wear now. My shelter had nowhere to hide possessions, so I only had the one uniform. "I'll figure something out. Maybe the Gales have an extra-"

"We've been keeping all the supplies at the Dustlands Base," Os interrupts. "It's an hour away from here."

"I still have your jacket," Vane offers, pointing to a crushed pile of black on the floor next to his bed. "But that's probably not going to help much."

"I'm sure I can make your mother's pants work if I have a belt."

Solana lets out a slow, heavy sigh. "Or, I have a few extra dresses."

She doesn't actually offer them, but Vane still tells her, "That would be awesome!" and before I can argue, she nods like it's settled.

Vane's parents rush through a teary goodbye-making Vane promise he'll remember to text them this time. Then the house is quiet and Vane watches from his window as they drive away.

The tense line of his shoulders makes me want to hug him. But Solana turns to me. "My stuff 's in the living room."

She looks about as thrilled with this arrangement as I am, which somehow makes it easier to follow her down the hall. Until she shows me my choices.

One is nothing more than a tube of shiny teal-and not nearly enough of that. Another is sheer peach and dips almost as low in the front as it does in the back. And the third is bright red.

I'm positive it would take the fabric from all three to actually cover me-especially considering I'm at least two inches taller than her. But clearly the point of these dresses is to be seen.

And to catch the eye of a certain Westerly king.

The thought has me reaching for the red one, though I tell myself it's mostly because it looks longer than the others.

I realize on my way to the bathroom that I'd forgotten about my black shifting dress, tucked away in the eave of my old shelter. I want to believe that I don't switch to that because I don't want to waste any time-and not because I want Vane to see me in something new. But if I'm being honest, the thought did cross my mind.

Apparently I am turning into one of "those girls."

I'm even more disgusted with myself when I slip the silky red fabric over my head and glance in the mirror. The V of the neckline dips low enough to make me blush, and the thin straps tie around my neck, leaving my shoulders-and most of my back-bare. The sides at least come up high enough to cover my bandage, and the skirt is longer than the other dress options-but only in the back. In the front it cuts much higher, and the flowy design has me wondering what I'm supposed to do if I catch an updraft.

But the truly horrifying part is that I can't help imagining Vane's reaction when he sees me. I want to believe he'll be pleased-but what if he isn't?

What if he thinks I look as ridiculous as I feel?

I'm this close to raiding his mom's closet-she's only a few sizes bigger than me, surely there's something I can make work-when I step under the vent in the ceiling. The air sinks effortlessly through the thin material, cooling my skin and giving me a boost of strength.

Sylph fabrics breathe better than groundling ones-and I'm going to need all the energy I can get. Embarra.s.sing as it is, this dress is my best option.

I start to braid my hair, but that leaves far too much skin on display, so I smooth the strands as best as I can and force myself to walk away from the mirror.

Solana's waiting for me outside the bathroom, and her frustrated sigh makes my lips curl into a smile.

I must look better than I think.

It's an incredibly foolish thought to have when preparing for a fight, but Solana seems to bring out the foolishness in me. Maybe because she's changed into the even tinier flesh-toned dress, which almost makes her look naked.

"You have an interesting battle wardrobe," I tell her, pulling at the hem of my skirt.

"Not that I need to explain myself, considering I just bailed you out, but it's because of my gift."

"Your gift?"

"Yeah. I'm a windcatcher. So I need to keep my skin exposed to the air so I can absorb as many drafts as possible."

That explains what Os meant earlier-and why she looked so frustrated at the way he belittled her. Those who can windcatch are especially rare, and the gift requires continual sacrifice in order to maintain.

We both know that's not the only reason for her dresses, though. But since we seem to have reached a truce, I bite my tongue as I follow her back to Vane's bedroom.

I can hear some sort of argument going on, but my heart is pounding too loud for me to pick out the words. I keep my eyes glued to the floor as I slink through the doorway, cringing when the room falls silent.

Someone finally coughs and I brave a quick glance at Vane.

I'm sure my face is turning as red as my dress, but I can't help smiling at the intensity of his stare.

"Okay, so, new plan," Gus says after a second. "Let's just let the girls fly out there dressed like that and give them all heart attacks."

Os sighs. "We're facing an army of Living Storms. Pretty girls are hardly going to be an effective distraction."

Gus rolls his eyes. "I was joking."

"Now is not the time for jokes." Os holds his hands toward the window. "The winds are starting to flee, and there's only one reason they would leave. And there's only one thing we can do to give ourselves a fighting chance." He turns back to Vane. "Are you finally ready to teach us Westerly?"

"How do you know it's going to help?" I ask, feeling extra exposed as Os's eyes narrow at me.

"Are you saying that you don't think the power of four is useful?"

"No, but"-my mind flashes back to my disastrous escape attempt from Aston's cave-"how do you know the Westerlies' aversion to violence won't be triggered with the breakthrough?"

"The same way I didn't become steady and sluggish when I learned Southerly," Os snaps back. "That's exactly why it's so crucial that Vane share his language. We'll harness his power in ways he'll never be able to."

I open my mouth to argue but stop myself just in time. He doesn't know I'm part Westerly now.

And maybe he's right. I learned the language through a bond. Maybe breakthroughs are different.

But the thought of Westerly words being whispered by the same man who shattered enough drafts to build a Maelstrom makes me physically ill.

I can see the uncertainty in Vane's eyes, and I want to grab him and run far away before he can say another word-or at least beg him not to share his secrets.

I stop myself from doing either.

Westerly is his heritage-and even though he shared it with me, this should still be his decision. It's his kinsmen who gave up their lives in Raiden's interrogations, his parents who were stolen because of Raiden's greed. And if anything happens to the sanct.i.ty of his language, no one will suffer greater than he will.

He runs his hands through his hair as he turns to Gus. "What do you think?"

"The only reason we escaped that valley alive is because you could control the Westerlies," Gus says quietly, "but you were also able to handle it without me."

I notice he doesn't mention anything about me, and when he glances my way I realize he did that on purpose.

Maybe I'm not the only one who doesn't trust Os.

Vane starts to pace.

Every time he crosses the room, Os's scowl deepens. "We don't have time for indecision, Vane. Only action."

"Fine."Vane turns back to me, and I can see his answer in his eyes.

It breaks my heart, but I press my lips together and keep silent as he says, "I'll teach you Westerly."

CHAPTER 33.VANE.

E.

ven as the words are leaving my lips, I can't believe I'm saying them-and the queasy feeling that follows doesn't seem like a good sign.

What else am I supposed to do, though?

Westerlies are the only winds Raiden can't ruin or send away. If I don't teach the Gales how to call them, they'll be completely defenseless in this battle. And I can't let any more guardians die for me.

But what about the Westerlies who gave their lives to protect this secret?

They trusted me to do the same, to keep our language safe from anyone who might abuse or destroy it. And now I'm going to hand it over to my entire army-some of whom I've never met-right after their captain basically threatened to torture me? . . .

My ears ring and everything goes dim as I start to sway-but then someone's wrapping their arms around me and I can finally breathe when the rush of warmth hits me.

"Audra?" I whisper, trying to get my eyes to focus. I can only see a blur of red and skin-which wouldn't be such a bad thing if my stomach weren't flipping and flopping and making the possibility of throwing up on her feel very, very real.

"Hang on," she tells me, pulling me down to the floor and helping me put my head between my knees.

Calm down.

Breathe.

Do not hurl all over your very hot girlfriend.

"He needs s.p.a.ce!"

Audra's voice sounds much too far away, considering I can feel her hand on my unbruised shoulder. The ringing is getting louder and my vision is completely dark and I collapse to my side, curling up in a ball and trying not to swallow as my mouth waters the way it always does right before I vomit.

"Okay, everyone out," Gus shouts. "Give the guy some air."

I reach for Audra and she squeezes my hand, just like that cold day in the snow. Everyone else stomps away, and when their footsteps are gone, Audra whispers a soft call in Westerly. A cool breeze sweeps into the room, circling around me.

"Try to relax," she tells me.

I concentrate on the cool wind brushing my skin and the whispers filling the air. The Westerly's song is peaceful and soft, but it's sad, too. About constantly trying to get back to the calmer skies it used to know. I know how the draft feels.

Sometimes all I want to do is rewind back to the days when my biggest problems were convincing my dad to cough up some gas money or getting teased about how I messed up yet another date. Now I don't even need my car-and I have pretty much the hottest girlfriend on the planet, who's sitting here next to me in an absurdly s.e.xy red dress, stroking my back even though I'm all gross and sweaty from almost pa.s.sing out around her again.

But I also have to figure out how to protect my army and all the innocent people in this valley from the creepiest dude I've ever met.

If only I could keep all the perks and not have to deal with the other c.r.a.p.

Especially since the only way I can think of to help everyone is the same thing that's making me stay crashed on the floor, counting my breaths and trying to figure out how to keep the promise I just made when the thought alone turns me into a useless Vane-lump.

I could make them all the special wind spikes, like I did for Gus. He didn't need to know any Westerly commands to use it to destroy the Living Storm.

But what if some of those fall into Raiden's hands?

If I don't teach the Gales the voice commands, they won't be able to call them back after they throw them or unravel them if the Stormers manage to steal them, and there's no way I can keep track of that many wind spikes on my own.

Another wave of nausea hits me, and I go back to concentrating on the Westerly, wishing its song would tell me what to do. The only clue it gives me is the verse "don't flee from the path"-but which path? The promise I just made? Or the path I've been on all this time? It could be either, and if I guess wrong . . .

I tighten my grip on Audra's hand. "This is a lot tougher than I thought it would be."

"I know." Audra reaches up with her other hand, running her fingers through my hair and sending gentle ripples of heat through my head. "I feel sick thinking about it too-and I'm not really a Westerly."

"You kinda are. Shoot-you have better control than me, and I'm pretty sure that Westerly you brought home wanted to be your pet."

"Maybe." She sighs, pulling her hand slowly away. "But this has to be your decision, Vane. I can't be a part of it."

"Why? I thought we were in this together now."

"We are. It's just . . ." A painful stretch of silence pa.s.ses before she says, "This is your heritage-and we may not be bonded forever-and if-"

"Uh, wait a minute," I interrupt. "Yeah we will."

My eyes sting when I open them and find my room filled with light-the sun must've risen while I was panicking-but it's worth the pain when I get another glimpse at her dress.

Holy freaking wow.

Right-focus.

"No way am I letting them break us apart," I tell her. "Not unless . . ."

I can't stop myself from remembering the look on Audra's face when Os threatened us. I thought she'd looked worried, but . . .

"Unless?" Audra prompts.