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.
