by Cora Carmack
But when her mouth touched his, every other thought fled his mind. She had clung to him so hard, which he now realized was probably because of the pain the storm had fed into her. She was not herself, probably terrified, and he let his attraction to her overrule his better instincts. It had taken more control than he wanted to admit to even keep his kiss gentle, his desires in check. He wanted to devour her, touch and taste every bit of her he could reach. The cling of wet fabric to her skin had only enflamed him more.
He swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat and quickened his pace as they approached the inn. It was late, and there did not appear to be another soul awake in the entire building. When he reached her door, he asked if she had the key. Her tired hands searched her pockets, her movements slow and jerky, and he wondered if she was still in pain. He had to set her down to unlock the door, and she leaned into him for support. He still wanted her, even though he clearly did not deserve her. And the instinct to protect and care for her was stronger than ever, even though it was him she needed protecting from.
He kicked the door open and wasted no time scooping her up into his arms once more. He didn’t want to get her bed wet, knowing that she would need to rest, so he carried her toward the wooden chair in the corner of the room. Her hands trailed over his forearms as he situated her, then dropped into her lap. Her head drooped, and his heart cracked.
He had been such a beast to her. He had lived so long thinking only of himself. Survive. Thrive. His every action had been focused on those goals, and anything that threatened them he pushed away. To lead a life like his, you had to be a little selfish. He swallowed a dark laugh, because for the first time in a while Roar reminded him of his sister again. His selfishness had harmed her too, had led directly to her death.
“I can try to wake a maid,” he said. “A bath might take away some of the chill. Or food, maybe? Something warm to drink? Or I can leave. You probably want to be alone.”
She caught his arm when he began to turn away. “Don’t. Don’t leave.” She took a shuddering breath and tilted her chin up to face him. “We need to talk.”
Of course. She deserved the right to rail at him for what he had done. But first, he wanted her resting. He moved to her bed and turned down the blankets, and then he cursed prolifically.
“Bait,” he growled, when he saw that her bed had been filled with sand. He swore. Not only were the novie’s pranks rarely funny, he always had the worst timing. It would take too long to clean, and Roar was practically falling asleep in the chair behind him.
Resigned, he gathered Roar’s bags and her tired form and took her to his room instead, and made a mental note to make the novie pay tomorrow. Once again, he sat her in a chair, then laid her bags at her feet. He checked his bed, relieved to find that Bait was not stupid enough to prank him as well.
“You change into dry clothes,” he told Roar. “I am going to get you something to eat and drink. Then … we’ll talk.”
He left her there, both relieved to escape and aching to stay. He could apologize. Maybe he had not completely ruined the chance for trust between them, but there had been too little to begin with. Someone had hurt her, and now he had as well. So much for the promises he had made her only a little while ago.
But he was still her mentor. It was her survival he needed to focus on now. He needed to discover whatever was happening to her and find a way to fix it. Or temper it at least. Otherwise, he would have to take her back to Pavan, whether he wanted to or not. He would not let her suffer every time a storm came near.
He searched the main part of the inn and found a night maid on duty. She looked at him with wide, nervous eyes that only made him feel guiltier. He was tall and broad and not just a little intimidating. Most of the time, he leaned into that image, but tonight he wished he could be different. Softer, somehow. With a hot cup of tea and a plate of toast, he ventured back to his room.
He knocked, but Roar didn’t answer, so he carefully eased open the door, keeping his eyes low in case she was not finished changing. When he heard no scandalized scream, he looked around to find Roar fast asleep. She had changed clothes as he suggested. But she lay sideways on his bed, not even under the covers. How bad must the pain have been to leave her in such a state?
He gritted his teeth against his frustration and laid the tea and toast on a rickety table beside the bed, in case she woke later and wanted it. Then as carefully as he could, he lifted her sleeping form into his arms. She groaned and mumbled something unintelligible, pressing her face into his chest. He dipped down, wrenching back the covers and laying her gently on the sheets. She curled up on her side once more in the same way she had during the storm. The sight sent a twinge of pain through his chest, and he rushed to pull the covers up to hide the reminder.
He’d made the choice to care about her, and he could not undo that now. In fact, he was sure it had been inevitable from the moment they met. He took a seat in his desk chair, resigning himself to a night sleeping upright.
“I’ll figure this out,” he vowed in a whisper.
He had to. It was the only way he stood any chance of keeping her.
* * *
A cold smile spread over his lips at the sight before him.
It was rare to see this many people gathered in the open air in a wildlands town. Normally the people tended to spend their days indoors, and when they did venture outside, they walked with a hurried pace as if their presence might tempt the skies to unleash their rage over the mere sight of a human. Like scurrying, insignificant insects hiding in their holes.
But the one thing that could always lure them out into the open was gossip, and he brought plenty of that. Still dressed in the dead Locke soldier’s uniform, he had stumbled into the town this morning, gasping and crying out for help. The people were wary at first—so superstitious the wildlanders were. But when they saw his uniform, they surged forward to help. After all, their town sat only a few days’ ride from Pavan, and everyone knew that the Locke prince had soldiers scouring the countryside searching for his bride.
With his voice shaking and blood smeared on his clothes, he told everyone who would listen of the fearsome Stormlord who was picking off companies of Locke soldiers one by one. He sowed tales of the Stormlord’s ability to call a storm from the sky with whim alone. He spoke the storms’ language; they followed his command. He even bore the image of one upon his chest, as if his very heart were a storm and it beat only for destruction, for carnage, for death.
No one is safe, he told them, feeding little morsels of gossip to different groups here and there. You must tell everyone to beware. Beware the Stormlord. The rumors say he was sent by the gods to cull the prideful plague of Stormlings. And he can do it. After all, he had already laid waste to Locke.
He had feigned distress. Oh no. I’m not supposed to say that. No one was supposed to know. You cannot tell.
Each time he accidentally let the truth spill to a new group, the villagers clamored for more, squealing like pigs before the slaughter. But he told them no more.
The King of Locke himself swore me to secrecy. I cannot. But … beware. He’s coming this way, demolishing every town he lays his eyes upon. He will not rest until he destroys Pavan, destroys the Lockes, and every Stormling thereafter.
He created the spark, and then sat back and watched the flames rise. He had done this in every town he passed since he walked from the wreckage of Locke, and every time it played out the same. The people were not stupid. They put together quickly enough why one of the Locke heirs wanted to wed into the royal family of Pavan, and the king had forbidden soldiers to talk of the destruction of Locke. Then, oh then, the fury came. These poor people, forsaken by the Stormlings, barred from their cities and protections, pushed to the very fringes of civilization and then forgotten—they were already disillusioned. The perfect kindling for his blaze.
He slipped into the shadows, content to watch the havoc he had created. The stories were told and retold with
more anger and fear each time. And when the whole village was aflame with the news, he left, the soldier’s uniform tucked beneath his arm.
Then he called down a friend to play, a firestorm that seethed with hatred and hungered for slaughter. “Punish,” he whispered to the storm. “We’ll punish them all.”
And he let the town burn in truth.
Not all of it at first. He kept leashed his friend’s thirst for blood until a few dozen insects had escaped. Then he rained down fire and fury until nothing was left but a smoldering pile of ash and the remnants who would walk the wilds before him, carrying on his words.
* * *
Roar woke to a pounding on her door, and she jerked upright, her heart flying into her throat. She looked around, disoriented, trying to piece together why her body felt like she had taken a beating and her eyes were swollen. Even more confusing … the bed was on the opposite side of the room from what she remembered.
She spotted a cup of tea and toast on the table, both long cold, and then the night before came back to her. Locke had gone to get her something to eat, and she had stayed back to change. He had brought her to his room, and she had been working up the nerve to ask him to stay with her, really stay. She wanted to sink into his arms and let him hold her together through the night. But apparently she had fallen asleep before he returned. If she was in here, where had he slept?
The insistent knock came again, and she bolted out of bed, both afraid and eager to see him on the other side. She wore her second pair of trousers, the ones that fit a little too snugly across her hips. But her favored pair had been burned in the firestorm and now sat wet and wrinkled in a heap on the floor. Her hair was a wavy, wild mess upon her head, but there was nothing to be done about it now. She calmed it as best she could with her fingers. What did it matter what she looked like anyway? Locke had seen her look far worse. With a deep breath, she pulled open the door and narrowly missed getting knocked in the face by the fist of an impatient Jinx. Laughing, the witch said, “Sorry about that. We’re having a meeting over breakfast. Locke said to let you sleep, but I figured you wouldn’t want to miss out.”
Even through the chaos of her other emotions, she snagged on to the familiar feel of annoyance. He was always trying to leave her out, but maybe this morning it had more to do with not wanting to see her at all.
“Let me clean up, and I’ll be right down,” Roar said.
Jinx nodded, but made no move to leave. In fact, the girl looked her up and down and said, “We really do need to get you some new clothes while we’re in civilization.” Then Jinx pushed inside, plopping down on the unmade bed. “I hear we were both the victim of one of Bait’s abysmal pranks.”
Roar vaguely remembered something about there being sand in her bed.
“I like the kid, but sometimes I want to bury him alive. I could do it too. He could not let us have one night’s sleep in a real bed before he tried to ruin it? I threatened to start an earthquake beneath his bed if he didn’t switch rooms with me. I didn’t even have to use my scary witch expression.”
“And what does your scary witch expression look like?”
Jinx shook her head. “No can do. It loses its potency if I use it too liberally. Special occasions only.”
Roar laughed, feeling a little better than when she woke. Quickly, Roar washed her face at the water basin in the corner and used paste to clean her teeth.
“You know,” Jinx said behind her, “I love the color of your hair. That dark is so striking against your pale skin.”
Roar nervously smoothed her strands, worried somehow that Jinx would be able to tell it was not her natural color. Nova had given her an extra jar of the dye so that she could touch it up when it faded, but what would she do when that ran out? “Thanks,” she said simply. “I like your…” In lieu of the words, Roar gestured toward the side of Jinx’s head, where her hair had been shorn short, cut with a jagged pattern. “It really makes you stand out.”
Jinx snorted. “That’s me. Always standing out.”
“No, I mean it. I’ve liked it from the first night we met. It’s clear that you know who you are and you own it completely.”
“You’re not too bad either.” Jinx smiled. “You ready?”
“Sure.” She had to see Locke sooner or later, might as well do it now.
Jinx bounded for the door, and Roar followed. Roar heard the other hunters in the taproom before she saw them—Ransom’s booming laugh followed by Bait’s “Come on! It was funny.”
There were four long tables with bench seats. The hunters were the only ones in the room. Roar was fairly certain they were the only guests in the inn at all, likely the only guests this town had had in a long while. Locke scowled at a grinning Jinx. Somehow, Roar had the feeling that Locke hadn’t just suggested they let Roar sleep. He had probably demanded it, and Jinx clearly didn’t care to take his orders.
The witch sat down on the left side of the bench across from Ransom and patted the seat beside her for Roar to take, which would put her directly across from Locke. She took a deep breath and slipped into her seat. “What did we miss?”
She and Jinx both began loading up their empty plates from the breakfast laid out on the table. Glazed pastries and jams and eggs and even meat. After weeks on the road eating only things that could be cooked over a fire, Roar’s stomach rumbled with eagerness.
“We were just about to discuss our plans for the next few days,” Duke said, and then gestured for Locke to take over.
He glanced briefly at Roar, and then got right down to business. “I spoke with the blacksmith last night after we arrived and arranged a deal for the use of his forge and equipment. It could take a few days to over a week to fix the Rock. I’ll know more after I get a good look at the damage today.” Roar didn’t relish the idea of spending an entire week in this town. She was already dreading the blood she would have to offer again this morning. Locke continued: “Since Ransom and I will be spending most of our time working on the Rock, Jinx will be taking over Roar’s training.”
Roar froze with a bite of food halfway to her mouth. “What?”
Locke did not meet her eyes as he explained, “With her earth magic, she can challenge you in ways that I can’t. And now that we know you don’t react negatively to magicborn storms, she can use those too.”
The food in her mouth tasted like ash as she swallowed it down.
“And”—Locke shot Roar a pained, apologetic look, and she suddenly wished she were back in bed—“you all might have heard a thunderstorm last night. Before I dismantled it, the storm had a similar effect on Roar as the twister.”
“She attacked you again?” Sly sat diagonally across from Roar, and her glare was furious. “And you said nothing?”
Roar’s stomach sank and an uncomfortably hot flush spread up her neck.
“She did not attack me. And I’m saying something now,” Locke answered. “As with the twister, Roar was overcome by an emotion that was not her own.” He didn’t elaborate, and Roar was grateful. She felt clammy and queasy just thinking about revealing what happened last night. “My guess is that Roar is sensitive, but not to storm magic. I think she’s sensitive to the hearts of the storms, which would explain why she was not affected by the firestorm magic or the thunderstorm I released to manage the flames.”
That couldn’t be true. Roar had held Stormhearts in her hands. She wore one even now beneath the fabric of her shirt. None of them had ever reacted to her. She began to shake her head, but Locke cut her off. He said, “I know that we all have different beliefs about storms. I’ll be the first to admit that while we’ve always acknowledged that storms have hearts, I had never really thought of them like human ones. With the capacity to feel and want and hurt. But I don’t see any other explanation. Roar was overcome with violent rage moments before and during the twister. And again … last night…” He hesitated, and Roar braced herself for him to spill everything. “Last night you grieved when that thunderstorm rose. I could
tell just by watching that you felt intense emotional pain.”
Jinx cut in to say, “We could ask around town. Sacredites worship storms. If it’s possible for someone to feel an emotional connection with a storm, they might know.”
Sly cut in, “I’ve never heard of any such thing.”
“Still, it is worth exploring,” Duke said. “Perhaps I can subtly ask around so that Jinx can focus on training Roar.”
“Is this your nice way of telling me you don’t think I can be subtle?” Jinx asked.
Ransom mumbled, “I think you have answered your own question.”
“I heard that.”
“You were supposed to.”
“All right, then,” Locke cut them off. “Sly and Bait, you’ll be with Duke the next few days. He wants to flesh out our maps of this area while we’re here. See if there are any hotspots within hunting range. Now all of you finish your breakfasts so we can get to work. Bait and Roar, don’t forget we need to go to the altar for our daily blood offering.”
Roar really wished she had just stayed in bed.
They ate quickly, and Roar only listened while the rest settled into their usual easy banter. They all teased each other like brothers and sisters, and she imagined that this was a family for them. She knew Locke had no blood family left. He had implied the rest were all the same. And look at the damage that she had already done to their unorthodox family. Sly barely spoke, which wasn’t unusual except that there was a palpable air of anger emanating from her. Locke didn’t join in the conversation with the rest of them either. He sat stiff and silent, and Roar knew it was her fault.
A while later, a quiet maid cleared away their plates, and everyone set off in different directions. She followed Locke and Bait outside toward the altar. In the morning light, it glittered like black glass, but she saw clumps of rocky sediment in it too. She guessed that whatever it was, it had been dug up from the red sands that surrounded the village.