Chapter 101
The wind was a tornado of fire.
It burned and ravaged. It threw hot tongues of fire against the horror. It spun in a vengeful whirlwind and careened through the darkness.
The wind had been tornadoes before. It had swept over forests, tossing trees in the air like they were twigs. It had roared through towns, yanking houses from the ground like shallow-rooted mushrooms. It had devastated and destroyed. It had raged.
Sometimes, humans cursed the wind. They hated its hurricanes and its tornadoes. They hated the violence of its breath. They wanted a tepid wind. A weak, paltry, flagging wind.
They wanted a wind that was less.
But a tepid wind, an indifferent wind, a merely benevolent wind, couldn’t love with terrifying force and yawning eternity. The hurricane was necessary for the spring breeze; the tornado was essential to the cooling kiss.
It had once believed it was indifferent.
But the indifference—if it had ever been there—was shed.
The wind’s indifference had died, and it had become a new thing.
It was like a dried husk dropped from a tree.
The husk withered and blew away, and in its place, a seed grew.
A new thing. The husk had to die for the new seed to sprout.
The wind had shed its husk. It had died with the boy. It could feel itself becoming something new.
It flashed through the street’s dark valley, shoving fire at the horror.
The monster was growing even with the trickster’s courage and the Smiths’ volley.
The solemn one and the girl were sprawled on the ground. They made dying wind noises and gasped for air.
The wind couldn’t help them. It was a fire tornado. If it shot toward them, it would consume them. They would have to save themselves.
The wind had always known it couldn’t save the girl. It never had been able to. It had only thought it could save the boy.
It shot in front of the citrus and pearl dust scented woman, shoving back a flood of swarming larvae.
“Lia!” the musician shouted, his water illusion sputtering. “I’m almost out. We can’t stay—”
The trickster sent a water lance through the horror, spearing it before it reached his sister. “Go!” he shouted. “Ragnor’s right. Go!”
The woman gritted her teeth. “No. We’re staying together. We’re—”
“Daughter?”
The wind shrieked and spun toward the Bard. He hopped out of the way, shoving a wave at the wind. It dodged, weaving out of his reach. It moaned at the look on the father’s face.
The wind had never been good at reading human emotions, but it was getting better. It knew happiness, loneliness, anger, love.
But this? There were too many emotions to read. There were as many flickering across the father’s face as pages in the books the boy had loved. The wind only knew it didn’t like any of them.
It shrieked, and the father smiled. He wore illusion. He looked like the haughty king, the mournful monarch, the conniving father. He was glittering, dark-haired, bejeweled, and beautifully pristine.
He held his hands out in a gesture of absolution and said, “Daughter. I’m so very, very, very happy to see you. Come here. I’ve missed you.” He held his arms wide.
The musician laughed and stepped in front of his sister. “Wrong play. I think your lines are, ‘Oh, my children! Why have you betrayed me?’ Quit acting, Bard.”
The Bard stiffened and tilted his head to study his eldest son. “So it’s been you,” he murmured. “Your traps. Your thefts. Your—”
The citrus and pearl dust scented woman stepped forward, cutting the father off.
“Celia,” he murmured, smiling at her bloody form. “Loving you has been a terrible thing.”
Her hand drifted to her abdomen and fluttered over it. The wind moaned at her protective gesture. She knew. She knew that she and the boy had made a child together.
Could she feel his Ward power?
Was that how she knew?
The father’s gaze caught on her gesture, and the wind recognized his expression now. It was fury and hate.
Hate was one of the easiest expressions to read. It was flat and monotone, and it had none of the uniqueness and varying shades of love.
The father had always believed himself the most wonderful, most magnetic, most majestic conjurer in the world. His children were the reflection of his rising sun. If he shone, they shone. If they were dim, then he was dim. Any blemish in them was a reflection on him.
He could never bear anything less than perfection.
Or, at least, the illusion of perfection.
But not even illusion could heal the citrus and pearl dust scented one. She was evidence that the father was not perfect. That he was mortal and weak.
He hated her for it.
The woman lifted her chin. Her brothers moved next to her.
The father sighed. It was a sigh worthy of the stage. “Children never do what you ask them to. It’s why dogs are the better companion. Luvic.”
The trickster’s name was said with command and power.
The trickster spasmed. He wrenched, his muscles contorting. He fell to his knees.
The Bard twisted his hand.
At the same moment, the woman and the musician conjured together. They twined their illusion and threw a net at their father. It was a seaside scene. A net of mist. The wind could taste the poison of it.
The Bard threw a deep-sea monster at his children. Their net grabbed the monster and yanked it to the ground.
The trickster’s hands slammed to the concrete, and he choked on a strangled cry.
“Luvic!” the father snapped. “They threaten your Bard.”
The trickster shuddered and shook, fighting against the jackaltooth spreading through him. The gray mottling raced over his skin, covering all the gold that remained. He gritted his teeth, shaking his head.
“Stop!” the woman screamed. “Luvic!”
Yet what had the trickster warned his sister? What had the musician known? That in a battle between principal and heir, the trickster would stand on the principal’s side. He was a jackaltooth.
She furiously thrust a river of snapping piranha at her father. He waved them aside. She twisted her hand, conjuring the head of a mosasaur. It snapped down toward the father. Its giant teeth were as tall as a man. The father conjured a watery abyss that swallowed the beast.
The Bard laughed. “You think a child can surpass her parent? An heir defeat her principal? I think not.”
The musician began to sing. The mournful melody was enough to make a heart bleed.
A low, chirping cricket began to sing with him. A golden-honey, luck scented, new penny smell filled the air.
The trickster gave a ragged, painful cry. He twisted, falling to his side. He clutched his chest, gripping his shirt pocket. “Cora. Go—” His voice broke off, ending in a jackaltooth growl.
The father held out his arms and twisted both hands. “I would have preferred a different ending for you, daughter. Son.”
The woman shot a bolt of ice at the Bard.
The trickster erupted, tearing free from his human form. He spasmed, ripping apart and becoming a massive, prehistoric-size jackaltooth. He launched in front of the Bard, snarling as he leaped. The ice bolt shot through his side. He twisted in the air and slammed to the ground.
“Luvic!” the woman screamed as the trickster flew across the pavement, blood staining his mottled gray fur.
The Bard laughed and swallowed the woman and the musician in a cage of water. It pressed over them, choking the air from their lungs. The wind shrieked. It rushed at the water, but the liquid doused its whirling flames.
The father laughed at his children’s struggle. The water bound them so tightly they couldn’t conjure. They couldn’t breathe. The woman tried to twist her hands, but the water held them immobile.
“Luvic,” the father said, his voice cajoling. He called to his son. “You did well. Now, watch. Watch. We Bards love our tragedies.”
The trickster opened his orange eyes and lifted his jackaltooth head from the ground. A rattle sounded in his throat. He whimpered, his limbs shaking. Another rattled sounded as he tried to heave himself upright and then fell back to the pavement.
The wind licked at his fur, spinning close. The fire of its tornado singed the trickster’s paws.
Inside the water cage, the musician’s shoulders slumped. His head lolled forward. He’d run out of air.
The woman struggled, mouthing, “Luvic!”
The trickster lifted his head and howled.
The eerie, mournful sound of it raced through the wind.
So quietly that it was nearly impossible to hear, a cricket began to chirp. The trickster shuddered, whimpered, and then, with teeth bared, he shoved to his feet.
He snarled at his father and then moved toward him like he was pushing through quicksand.
The Bard laughed.
The woman’s eyelashes fluttered and drifted closed. Her body slumped forward.
The wind screamed. It beat fire and wind against the water cage. It frantically called to the woman. It shouted for the child’s spirit.
The wind cried, Fight!
The woman’s eyes snapped open. She looked toward the wind.
She’d heard it! She’d heard the wind!
Fight!
The trickster launched at the father.
The Bard grunted in surprise. He twisted his hands, conjuring death. The trickster leaped into the air. He soared over him and slammed into the water cage.
At the same moment, the woman’s eyes filled with shadows.
They were the boy’s shadows! The boy’s power!
The trickster was swallowed by the cage. The cage was swallowed by darkness.
Then the walls exploded.
The trickster flew through the air, the woman gripping his back, the musician in his maw.
They slammed to the ground, water raging around them.
Free.