Chapter 54
The wind swept through the canyons of the city, curving around limestone edifices and steel spires. It rode over the landslide mountain at the center of the city, sliding along the jagged-edged broken glass and whistling through the fallen steel beams.
The landslide shifted and brushed ash and dust over the wind. The acrid scent stung, so the wind blew it aside.
The boy had cushioned the building’s fall. The wind had promised no being was inside. But after the boy and the girl had flown away, the trickster had spasmed and shook, seizing violently. The wind hadn’t known what to do. The boy had said the trickster would be fine. But he wasn’t.
The wind had circled the trickster worriedly, rounding his spasming form as screaming humans sprinted past, ignoring the trickster—trampling him, even.
Blood and froth had trickled from his mouth, and the wind had felt the trickster’s spirit struggling.
But then the father had come, and after one look at his son, he’d twisted his hands and conjured a forest fire to ravage the plaza.
Then he’d lifted the trickster, pressed an illusion to his forehead to silence the seizures, looked east, and vanished. East—that was the Smiths. The wind had blown free before the solange-eyed one and his brother arrived.
But the trickster?
It was a strange thing, caring what happened to a being. Not the boy—the wind had accepted long ago that it cared for the boy. But other beings. Other living things.
It made the wind itch, like it had rubbed stinging nettles or brushed alongside a jellyfish.
Its sides stung, and it was restless and uncomfortable.
It wanted to scrape over rough bark or run over jagged gravel, or even to roll over the spines of a porcupine.
Anything to soothe the itching discomfort that had invaded its being.
But the wind was practical, intelligent, logical. It knew what this was. Making itself just human enough for the boy meant it had made itself just human enough for others too.
The wind had a pulse of worry. Something similar had happened eons ago to one of its cousins.
They’d made themselves human enough for a girl, and then they’d become human enough for others.
But when the girl had died, the wind’s cousin died too.
It wasn’t a death like a human’s, where their body decomposed but their spirit remained.
No. It was a different death. The wind’s cousin had fallen still.
Had become silent. Had . . . ceased to be.
In nature, nothing ever ceased to be. Water became vapor. Vapor became rain. Flesh became soil. Soil became flesh. Every molecule, when broken apart, became something new.
Except . . . the wind’s cousin. It was gone, as if it had never been.
The wind moaned. Would it cease to be if it became too humanlike?
If it cared too much?
It rubbed along the edge of the East River, scratching its underbelly on the concrete pylons.
What could it do?
After eons of watching dispassionately, of collecting secrets, of being the wind, something had changed.
It would have to be very careful. It would have to be cautious.
It would . . . No—it was too late for careful and cautious.
This change had started years ago, a trickle at first, and now a flood.
The wind was already infected with feeling, with discomfort, with a small, newly awakened voice that urged it to find the trickster and make certain he’d survived.
The boy had a lot to answer for.
The wind sighed, rushing north.
It found the trickster at the lucky one’s home. Dawn was just splintering over the river, catching the waves in broken-glass fragments. The sun’s shattered reflection bounced through the lucky one’s open window, and the wind rode on a blue-yellow beam into her bedroom.
The lucky one curled into the trickster’s side, tangled sheets wrapped around them. The wind followed the peppered sunlight and blew over the trickster’s jaw.
The lucky one stroked her fingers lovingly over his warm skin. They were quiet. It was the solemn quiet after a night of too many words, when promises had been depleted and there was nothing that could be said.
The wind ruffled the trickster’s black hair, sleep-mussed and finger-combed.
It hummed happily, glad he’d survived. Glad he’d gone to his lucky one.
There were purple bruises under his eyes, thin cuts on his skin, tight lines around his mouth.
The jackaltooth mottling had nearly extended to his shoulder, and there were bruises on his ribs. But he was alive.
The sun had extended over the river, reaching into the bedroom. The wind fluttered the linen curtain, ready to leave the trickster to his lucky one.
“Cora . . .”
The sheets shifted, rustling under them, as the lucky one pressed kisses along the trickster’s bruised ribs.
“Shh.” She pressed her fingers to his mouth as he made a protesting sound.
“When I’m married—”
“No, Luvic. We’re not talking about that again. Not here. Not now.”
He tilted his head back, his lips parting on a gasping breath as she explored lower. He dug his fingers into her red-gold hair and closed his eyes.
“I won’t ever betray you,” he whispered. “She’ll be my wife. But you’ll have my heart. My body. My soul. Cora—”
The trickster didn’t notice the tears at the corner of the lucky one’s eyes. The waterfall of her hair hid her face from view. She tugged the sheets free from the trickster and pressed her mouth to his naked hip bone.
“You won’t marry her,” she promised. “You won’t become a jackaltooth. What have I told you? The luckiest day of your life was when you found me. As long as I’m here—”
A teardrop splashed from the lucky one’s cheek onto the trickster’s abdomen, and she quickly kissed it away.
Neither of them spoke after that. The wind didn’t expect them to.
It slid out the window, ruffled a pigeon’s wings, and fluttered down to the pavement.
It would be another hot, sun-scorched day.
Perhaps it would go for a swim. It could find a speeding boat and bounce in the spray and rip through the coughing roar of its engine.
It could cool off and forget how it had worried for the trickster instead of doing wind things.
It could shed the itch and pretend it was still a dispassionate hurricane, an impersonal tornado, an aloof breeze. It could be the wind.
It sped toward the water and then skidded to a surprised halt.
It was the cruel one’s sister. She stood in the shadow of a delivery truck, dressed in heels and a dress that barely covered her pale skin. Tracks of black raindrops were dried on her face. Did the cruel one’s sister cry black tears?
She stared at the lucky one’s window, and the wind shuddered at her expression.
The wind had never been good at reading human emotions, but it was changing. It was learning. If it had to name this emotion, it would name it hate.
Once, the wind had visited a colony of nesting birds in the Arctic.
The spring currents had taken it there, and it had peeked over a clifftop, swirling on the rocks and perching on pale blue flowers tucked in the rocky crevices.
On the clifftop, the female birds had laid their eggs.
One of the females had mated with a male who was not her mate.
She’d laid his eggs. When she left the nest, her mate came and rolled all six eggs off the cliff.
When the female had come back and found her nest empty, her mate had copulated with her, fertilizing new eggs. She’d laid them. And that was the end.
The cruel one’s sister had the exact same expression as the male bird right before he’d shoved all six eggs off the cliff.
The lucky one and the trickster were framed in her apartment window. They were dressed now. The trickster held her tight and pressed a long kiss to her mouth. When they pulled apart, he lifted his hand to her cheek and held it there for a long, still breath.
Moments later, the trickster hurried from the building and strode quickly down the sidewalk. His head was down, and he didn’t look left or right. Instead, he pressed his hand to his mouth and then dropped it back to his side. He nearly turned back, but then he shook his head and kept walking.
As he passed, the cruel one’s sister watched him from the truck’s shadow. Her hands clenched angrily, and the wind was certain she would attack. The trickster’s back was to her, and he had no idea she was there. Attacking from behind was a favorite practice of the Clarks.
But when she twisted her hand, there was no avalanche assault. Instead, the cruel one’s sister placed an illusion over herself.
The wind huffed in surprise.
She’d become the trickster.
Now, she was a Clark, not a Bard; her illusion wasn’t perfect.
She was a pinkie’s length too short. Her nose was too long, her lips too thin.
Her expression—twisted mouth, narrowed eyes—was one the trickster had never worn.
She wasn’t beautiful and symmetrical like the trickster, but perhaps this was how she saw him.
She looked like a hateful version of the trickster.
She even walked like one, with a cutting swagger that hurt to watch.
The wind rushed after her as she knocked aside an older woman on the sidewalk and then shoved past a couple opening the apartment building’s door.
The wind swirled around her feet. What was she doing? What did she want?
At the lucky one’s apartment, she gave two quick knocks.
The wind moaned, tapping on the lucky one’s door. She wouldn’t be fooled. She was new-penny-tossed-in-a-fountain-lucky. She was—
Opening the door. Smiling.
“What are you doing back alre—?”
Her smile died.
She tried to slam the door, but the cruel one’s sister was too fast.
She shoved into the apartment and blew the door closed with a blast of air.
The wind shrieked and flew back across the hallway.
There was a sharp scream. It was muffled by the door, but the wind knew the sound of the lucky one’s voice.
It raced over the tiles and hit the door. It thudded against the wood and bounced back. The lucky one screamed again. The anguished sound was cut short, like a cord sliced by a knife. The scream was strangled.
The wind moaned at the silence and made itself flat. It rushed beneath the wooden door. Too late. The cruel one’s sister was already swinging it wide.
She was herself again. This time, her face was clean, her hair smooth, her dress long.
The wind rushed around her legs and blew through the apartment, searching.
No furniture had been overturned. Nothing was shattered.
The bed was still mussed. Still warm and scented with lovemaking.
The kitchen tap was dripping, a coffee pot half-filled beneath the faucet.
Coffee grounds were measured out in a filter on the counter. Nothing else.
The lucky one wasn’t there.
The wind rushed after the cruel one’s sister and escaped the apartment just as she closed and locked the door.
The hate-filled look was gone. As she left the apartment, she was smiling. It was a happy, joyful smile.
The wind moaned and blew through the small wicker basket she held.
It was round, with a solid bamboo top and bottom and a smooth ivory handle.
The basket was loosely woven, so the wooden slats made a tiny, open-aired cage.
It was barely bigger than a cantaloupe. But it didn’t need to be large. It only held one small being.
“Stop crying,” the cruel one’s sister said. “Crickets don’t cry. They sing. I expect you to sing. I expect you to be happy when I give you to my husband as a wedding gift.”
When the cricket began a frightened, quiet humming song, the cruel one’s sister smiled.
“That’s better. You’ll like this. You’ll be with him all the time.
You and me and him. After my husband dies, if you’re good, I’ll keep you.
I like crickets. I had one once who looked just like you.
It lived for years in a little basket. I’ll call you .
. . No . . . you don’t get a name. Creatures who are insects don’t get names. ”
The wind hummed a question to the cricket, but it only hunched in the corner of the cage and sang a low, frightened song.
The cruel one’s sister swung the basket and hummed happily as the sun rose high over the city.