by Cora Carmack
“Did the imaginary firestorm catch up to you? Or did you just fall?”
And there it was.
Without answering, she looped her hands around the back of one of his knees and jerked forward as hard as she could. He made a satisfying splash as his back hit the water. Roar was soaked and freezing, but soaked and freezing with a smile. When he surfaced, it was with none of the hacking and flailing that she had done, just water streaming down his cold, calculating face.
He wiped one eye, then the other. His movements were slow, economical, as if not a muscle in his body ever moved without a purpose, and her heart thrummed with something like terror, but lighter, like the feel of climbing a tall tree for the first time as a child or her first successful attempt at sneaking out of the palace. An anxiety that was both awful and wonderful in equal measure. Then his hands darted forward, clasping her arms, and he pulled until her back hit the water. The last thing she saw before the river swallowed her was Locke hovering above her, the smuggest grin set on his face. She screamed, bubbles streaming up from her mouth, and hooked her legs around whatever part of him she could reach. She jerked and twisted, propelling herself upward until she successfully rolled him beneath her.
Dark hair was plastered to her face and her teeth clacked together from the cold, but that didn’t dampen the victory she felt with his whole body pushed beneath the surface. When he rose out of the water, deadly calm, that victorious feeling disappeared and laughter died in her throat. She cringed, waiting for his attack.
Instead his long fingers brushed away the hair stuck to her forehead and cheek, and she flinched when skin met skin. He stilled and looked at her like hunters looked at prey, as if he were trying to make himself appear as nonthreatening as possible. Then his wet palm slid over her cheek. The slip of his skin over hers was unlike anything she had ever felt. It didn’t feel like that when she touched her own face in the bath or wiped her cheek in the rain. It didn’t feel hot and cold and every temperature in between and all at once. His thumb caught on her chin, the rest of his fingers tickling across the slick skin of her neck, and her mouth fell open from the weight. Or from how hard it was to breathe. Or from the way her heart thought it was a good idea to force its way into her throat. All of them. Or none of them. She didn’t know. She could barely hang on to a thought for more than a heartbeat before it scattered under the intensity of his gaze.
His fingers curved and with the barest pressure on the back of her neck, her body tilted toward his. And it was only then that she realized she still had a leg on either side of him, and the wet fabric of his clothes pressed against the wet fabric of hers. She should have been cold. Freezing. But instead she had a firestorm raging beneath her skin.
Another hand, the one that wasn’t on her neck, touched her hip, trailed up to the dip of her waist, and over to the small of her back. He pulled her closer, all the vials and other supplies hanging from his chest trapped tightly between them. His head angled and bent, and his breath breezed over her open mouth.
She was uncharted territory, and mountains formed where he touched her and a river of sensation flowed down her spine. She watched his mouth, watched it form her name on a barely audible whisper. The hand around her neck tightened, his thumb sliding forward to brace at the edge of her jaw.
When he spoke, his voice vibrated through them both. “Fog is rolling in. What do you do?”
“What?” Her own reply came out breathy and small.
“Fog? Low clouds that cause disorientation, even madness if that magic is potent enough.”
“I know what fog is,” she snapped. The hand at the small of her back sneaked lower, grazing the upper curve of her bottom and making something tighten low in her belly. “Why?” she breathed, unable to form the rest of her question. Unsure even what question she had meant to ask.
“When you’re distracted or feeling strong emotions, the natural barriers of your mind are weaker and more susceptible to being mesmerized by a storm’s magic. Which means something as simple as a thick fog could do much worse than make you forget where you are or what you were doing. It could keep you in the fog, even as it moves, dragging you along with it. Your mental barriers must be without weakness.”
“They are.” It was part of every child’s lessons when they were young, and as princess her training had been more rigorous than most. His thumb smoothed along her jaw, sliding up to tease at the corner of her mouth. She did not know how to react; her brain said to pull away, but her body said something different.
“So tell me, if fog has moved in and it’s too late to run, what do you do?”
That’s what this was about? He was … was seducing her to make a point about distraction? She grabbed his wrist, digging in her nails a little harder than necessary, and ripped his hand from her face. She shoved at his chest, and he had to let go of her hip to keep from plunging into the water again.
Scrambling backward, she put as much distance between them as possible. Because right now, she was definitely feeling strong emotions. The old betrayal and rage she felt with Cassius mixed with the anger she felt now, until a black fury permeated every part of her.
Her words were close to a snarl when she answered, “If I were trapped in a fog and I could not run, I would tie myself to a tree before I lost my senses, so that I wouldn’t wander. I would divest myself of any weapons, should the fog cause me to be a danger to myself. Then I would try to clear my mind and wait it out. And hope my mind was still mine when it passed.”
She did not wait for him to pronounce her answer satisfactory; she knew it was. She whirled around, climbed up onto the bank, and set off at a hard run once again.
When he fell into stride beside her, she sped up so she didn’t have to see him in her peripheral vision, anger still thick and potent in her blood. And even though he was faster than her, even though he could have easily passed her, this time he didn’t. He stayed behind and out of sight. She seethed, unsure whether she was more upset with him or herself. Because she had hesitated. She’d gotten the right answer in the end, but it had taken too long. Long enough that had the threat been real, she likely could have been mesmerized, just like he said.
Once again a man had manipulated her, and she’d fallen right into his trap.
In facing death, the first Stormlings found life.
In risking their souls, they gained dominion over the souls of tempests.
—The History of Stormlings
12
On the way back to camp, her exhausted legs were the only thing distracting her from the riot of emotions inside her. Roar heard a shrill whistle break through the trees, followed by the low, vibrating sound of a horn. Locke cursed loudly behind her, and she could no longer pretend he wasn’t there. She spun around, and his eyes met hers.
He reached out to grab her, and she swung her arm away before he could make contact.
“Storm coming. We have to get back.”
They ran through the trees, gnarled branches scraping at her arms. When she emerged into open air, her head whipped backward so fast she would likely be sore tomorrow. But the sky was … fine. A little dull for this soon after sunrise, and a smattering of clouds hung above them, but they didn’t appear dark, nor did Roar see any sign of rotation or skyfire. She spun around, searching for what the hunters called storms of tide. There was none of the fog Locke had quizzed her on. No dust storm or strong winds that she could detect. There was nothing at all.
Locke skidded to a stop behind her, and she turned to see the same confusion cross his face. But when the horn blew a second time, he took off toward camp again. They’d run far enough down the bending river that the crew was nowhere in sight. And it became clear within moments that the relentless, punishing pace Locke set in their workouts wasn’t even him at full speed. He’d been taking it easy on her, and now he was pushing himself so hard that Roar couldn’t keep up, not even when she urged her limbs to their limits. She chased after him, her lungs threatening to rebel and coll
apse.
When they rounded a bend and the camp came into sight, everyone was in motion. They’d already packed up. Ransom and Sly worked to calm the panicking horses. Duke and Bait were in the Rock, the top of the carriage still open as they fiddled with different instruments. Jinx was pacing, apparently waiting for them, and she ran to meet them halfway. Roar knew she should be afraid. She was about to face a storm for the very first time, but her earlier anger blocked out the fear.
The crystal tucked beneath Roar’s tunic went from warm to blisteringly hot. She sucked in a breath and tugged it up by the leather strap to keep it off her skin.
“What is it?” Locke asked Jinx as they covered the last of the distance to camp.
“No clue,” Jinx said. “We were all eating breakfast when the instruments went haywire. Temperature dropped so fast Bait thought the gauge was broken. Pressure is all over the place, rising and falling like nothing I’ve ever seen. The storm crystal is measuring at the hottest level. Whatever is coming, it’s packed with magic.”
They pulled to a halt and Locke nodded, his expression blank as the sky. “Roar, in the Rock. Now.”
“What? But there’s nothing even happening. I can—”
“I said now.”
She fisted her hands until her nails bit painfully into her palms.
“I can handle this. I know—”
He gripped both of her arms, pulling until Roar was on her tiptoes. “This is not a discussion. You get in there, or we drop you off the next time we’re near a town. Your choice.”
She batted his hands away, rage bubbling up so fast in her chest that she nearly attacked him. She wanted to … with a ferocity she had never felt, not even back in the water. Roar was not a violent person. Or perhaps she hadn’t been before. Before she’d left her whole life behind, abandoned her mother, and thrown herself on the mercy of this brutal world for the slimmest chance that something might change.
She looked at Locke, felt his fingers pinching her arms, and rage replaced her lungs. She screamed something halfway between words and a wail. Locke’s face went slack with surprise, and only his quick reflexes saved him from the claw of her fingernails. He cursed, and his arms banded around her middle, locking her elbows against her waist. Roar kicked and yelled and dug her fingers into his forearms. He picked her up, burying his head in her neck to protect his face. She wrenched her body in different directions as he barked out commands.
“RANSOM! JINX! SLY! It’s on you. Spread out. I don’t know what’s coming, but be ready! Be quick! Be smart!”
Then he hauled her, hissing like a wildcat, toward the Rock. She clawed and punched and kicked, and when her foot connected hard with his knee, he went down. She broke free, and for a moment her mind was filled only with thoughts of destruction—of crushing and dismantling Locke and everything that surrounded her. This rage … it was bottomless. A vast, empty nothing that would suck up every shred of happiness in her, bleed her dry until nothing was left but hurt and the desire to hurt in return. Punish, it whispered. Punish them all.
Locke stood to challenge her once more, and over his shoulder Roar saw the sky yawn night into the day, black pouring from blue like blood from a wound. A slim, spinning funnel reached for the ground, and she swore the dust from the earth leaped up to meet it. It punched downward, fast and fierce, and touched down less than two hundred paces in the direction Locke and she had come from. It landed near the tree line, ripping up roots that had probably spent centuries burrowing into the earth, as if they were little better than the weak, worn stitching on her clothes.
Roar’s heart was beating so fast, and between the rage and fear, she felt like she might split in two. Her body jerked and twisted with a desperation that she didn’t understand.
Locke cursed. “Everyone—anchors now!”
One by one, the storm hunters lifted what looked like small crossbows attached to their hips, shooting iron arrows into the earth with long ropes uncoiling from a leather pouch on their harnesses. Something thunked next to her, and she saw similar arrows being shot from each corner of the Rock, securing it to the earth.
Distracted, she didn’t notice Locke coming until he picked her up and hurled her over his shoulder. The fury pushed back to the forefront of her mind, swallowing up her panic, and she beat at his back as he climbed the ladder on the side of the Rock. He pitched her none too gently inside. Jumping in after her, he slammed the hatch at the top shut. For a moment, Roar was disoriented by the chaos inside the vehicle. Dials spun and something else rang with a shrill squeal. There were maps piled precariously on a small table in the center, and Duke sat in a chair bolted to the floor near the front, where most of the tools and apparatuses appeared to be. Another seat was placed near the back by a huge metal basin like the cauldron of some fairytale witch. Beneath her was a glass floor that revealed metal pipes and gears that sat motionless. The space felt too small, and she readied herself to fight harder, scream louder; but before she managed, a hard body slammed into hers, forcing her down on the floor. That set her screaming again, and the sound echoed painfully in her ears.
Roar fought, but Locke’s body lay fully atop hers, taller and broader and heavier. Her teeth found the round, muscled mass of Locke’s shoulder, and she bit down, screaming into the thick leather vest he wore. He grunted at the attack, but made no other sound.
“Calm your mind,” Locke growled.
Over Locke’s shoulder, her eyes fixed on the twister through the domed glass at the front of the Rock. She thought it had been terrifying before, but now it was as dark as she imagined death to be, filled to the brim with debris, like a gaping maw, shoveling itself full enough to burst. And the more that thing ate, the blacker her anger became, until she snapped her teeth at Locke like she was an animal instead of the Princess of Pavan.
This was … not right. This was not her. And even though she told herself to stop, even though she could feel tears tracking down her face and shame filling her belly, nothing changed.
She was a monster. And monsters had to be contained.
Roar took one last look at the looming twister, saw Ransom’s bulky body and bald head moving toward it, and she knew that she was endangering everyone by distracting Locke.
“Knock me out,” she said through gritted teeth.
“What?” Locke panted, winded by the sheer force it took to keep her in check.
“They need you,” she growled. “Knock. Me. Out.”
He stared at her, brown eyes wide and intense. His long hair had escaped its tie and hung in chunks between them. He hesitated, and without any conscious thought, Roar reared upward, trying to head butt him. He was quick, but she still caught him in the chin. Pain reverberated from her forehead, and his chin split, dripping blood between them. She cried out, even as she took advantage of his momentary distraction to work one hand free. She reached for his hair, the long waves that she’d admired more often than she cared to admit. She gripped it without care and yanked hard. He hissed, but his only retaliation was to try and capture her hand once more. Then after another particularly hard pull on his hair, Duke came into sight over them.
Roar had a brief moment to sigh in relief before he swung a long, skinny glass bottle down and smashed it against her head.
Then she surrendered to the black. Where there was no rage. No fear. No twister.
There was nothing at all, but peace.
* * *
Blood ran from a cut near Roar’s hairline, and her fierce expression went blank with unconsciousness. Locke swung around, gripping the front of Duke’s shirt and dragging the old man up onto his toes.
“Why did you do that?” he growled.
“Because someone had to. I’ve never seen someone react to a storm like that, but I know she would have only hurt herself trying to hurt you.” Even in the face of Locke’s wrath, the old man was stoic and calm. “And you’re the torque specialist. They need you out there.”
Locke wanted to argue, but the winds howled l
ike bloodthirsty hounds, and the Rock shook forcefully even with the anchors down.
“Fine,” he growled. “Help me move her.” Together they carried Roar to the back of the Rock, and Locke found a towel to cushion her head. He hesitated a moment longer, but one glance outside the glass told him there was no time to wait. Duke pulled the lever that lowered a metal shade over the glass dome at the front of the Rock, blocking their view. Locke opened the sliding door at the bottom of the Rock, grabbed a bag of the enchanted jars they used to capture magic, and dropped into the narrow space between the Rock and the earth. He plucked the horn he carried from the pouch on his left hip and blew it hard to signal the hunters to retreat.
He knew his crew well enough to know that they had been focused on weakening the twister, not dissipating it. They would have been using opposing winds to slow the rotation. Jinx would be using her abilities as an earth witch to strengthen the surrounding trees so that the twister did not gain any more deadly debris.
They could have dismantled that twister fairly quickly, but they could not siphon off raw magic unless they got to the storm’s heart.
Jinx rolled into the space beneath the Rock, panting heavily, and Ransom squeezed under a moment after her. Sly was so silent that he didn’t realize she was already there, her short form tucked beneath the Rock horizontally above his head, until she said, “One minute out. I tried to slow the winds, but the moment I broke away to come here, they flared back to top speed.”
“It’s brutal, this one,” Ransom said. “Not that big, but the magic is potent. Even mesmerized me for half a second at the beginning.”
Locke cursed. Ransom had some of the strongest mental guards of any of them. It didn’t bode well that the twister had gotten through his defenses.
He opened the bag he’d brought with him and handed a jar to each of the three hunters. Then he rapped on the metal shell of the Rock above him and the sliding door opened, revealing a grinning Bait.
“We ready?” the teen asked, the Stormheart from his thunderstorm affinity already in his hand.