The brother sat in the chair. His knees hit the bed, and his elbows were on his knees, his head in his hands. He covered his face, but the wind didn’t think he was mourning. He was too tight. Too tense. Like a tendon pulled taut and ready to snap.
The wind nudged at him, and he looked up. No. He wasn’t grieving.
He was . . . decided.
The brother clenched his hand, and the skin of his knuckles bled to white. “I told you,” the brother said in a quiet rumble, “what I would do if she hurt you. You can’t see it. You’re blind. But while you’re giving up years to save her, she’s killing you. Don’t you think she’s using this against you? Every word? Every action? We’re on the brink of war, and you’re inviting the enemy into your head. Into your bed.”
The wind slid across the bedroom and landed on the solange-eyed one’s chest. His breathing stayed even. He was asleep. His body was worn out, the illusion surrounding him a low, quiet hum.
The wind sniffed. Lightning. Summer rain. Soap. Sweat and salt. But no acrid taint, and no cruelty. It curled into a ball and lay on his chest.
The brother stood abruptly, shoving back the chair. His hands were clenched at his sides. “She killed you, Finn. She’ll do it again. You—” He raked his hands through his hair.
The wind peeked up at him. His pulse pounded in his throat, a conflicted, angry beat.
“Your heart stopped.” His deep voice broke. He shook his head.
He stared at the solange-eyed one for a moment longer. “I sprinted the stairs. I didn’t want to conjure a defibrillator. What if I messed it up? What if I made it worse? What if . . .? One minute, Finn. It took me one minute to?—”
He looked up at the ceiling and blew out a long breath.
Then he looked back at his brother and nodded as if he’d come to a decision.
He turned and stalked from the room. The wind slipped off the solange-eyed man’s chest and hurried after him.
“No one goes in,” he snapped, twisting his hand and conjuring a trap for anyone who attempted to enter. “If they try, they die. Do not leave this post.”
The wind trailed the brother to the entry hall, where he barked, “Durst, Pole, Haddock, you’re with me.”
Three Smiths raced across the hall, grabbing weapons as they did. They fell in behind the brother like an arrow and shot after him out the door.
The wind flew behind the brother as he sped across the river.
The sky was furnace-red by the time they reached Hell Gate. The sun slid over the horizon, lighting orange flames across the early morning. It would be a hot, scorched-earth day.
The brother and his Smiths stood at the iron gates of Hell Gate.
The wind moaned and then blew against the brother as he raised his arms.
Hell Gate was sleeping. It was sunrise, when all the creatures shrugged off the night and curled up in their dreams. Was the girl there? The innocent one? The solemn one? Did no one see the brother at the gates?
The wind gusted against the door, rattling the knocker. It sent a blast against the windows, shaking the glass panes. On the roof, the copper gutters clanged and clattered like a warning bell. The grotesques snarled down, silent in their stony anger.
The wind raced back and struck the brother. His clothing swept in the wind; his hair blew back. But he stood solid, his jaw clenched, his lip curled.
“Hit it fast. Hit it hard. I don’t want to see anything left of this hellhole. No creature crawls out alive. It ends now, you hear me?”
The Smiths heard him. They lifted their hands in unison.
“Haddock. Hide it. Now.”
The tallest Smith wrapped the surroundings in illusion, shielding the devastation to come from human eyes.
Then the battle-hardened one twisted his hands, and a flash of fire consumed Hell Gate.
The wind screamed.
Lightning and fire stormed down. The wind was consumed by the violent blast. It was a whirlwind of fire. A thousand fireballs. A meteor shower. A barrage of napalm.
