So it gasped when the solemn one rammed against the Smiths’ front door and shoved it opened.
The all-seeing eye blazed. A swarm of fire, like a dragon’s flame, spewed from the door. The all-seeing eye blinked, and the door slammed shut.
The solemn one was thrown backward. It was as if he’d been picked up by an invisible hand and flung into the night.
The wind screamed, rushing on the air, as the solemn one was rejected by the all-seeing eye.
The wind had suspected, but the eye had confirmed. There was no good left in him. Not even a sliver. Not even a shard. Nothing could pass through the door if it didn’t have even a dust-mote-size speck of good.
The solemn one was thrown over buildings, across the park, past leafy trees. He slammed into the giant stone base of Hell Gate Bridge. The wind was knocked against the stone and fell with the solemn one. It felt the sharp crunch of one of the solemn one’s ribs breaking. It rode on his jagged inhale and his pained wince. He moaned and coughed as he hit the patchy grass.
Then, digging his hand into the dirt, he shoved himself upright. Blood trickled from his lips as he struggled to stand. The wind fluttered under his shaking limbs, pressing on the bruises on his chest and his back.
What was he doing? What?
The solemn one’s gray eyes flickered. He clenched his jaw against the pain. Then he straightened, inhaling sharply at the groan in his cracked ribs. Had they punctured his lungs? Was that a soft wheeze the wind heard?
The solemn one closed his eyes. He slowly let out a shallow exhale. Smoke, bitumen, and the bitter tint of Furtig clung to his singed clothing. Pain lines whitened the edges of his mouth.
Then he opened his eyes and stared at the red flames shooting toward the sky. They were blocks away. The solemn one gritted his teeth and limped toward the Smith fortress.
Overhead, the boy streaked past, not noticing the man struggling to stay upright.
The wind caught the tail of his flying machine, shrieking as it flew as fast as a comet. The boy laughed, his eyes lit with delight. He threw his arms wide, balancing on the swooping kite.
The wind rolled over his fingers, holding his hands. They were sticky, bloody, and slimy, and they smelled like crushed insects and smashed larvae. But—they were the boy’s hands. The wind hummed and rubbed against him, holding on as they shot toward the fire.
“Wind!” the boy laughed. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be everywhere! You’re supposed to?—”
The wind pinched his hand. Then, flying up his arm, it flicked his ear.
“Oh. Well. I only meant I’m happy you’re here.”
The wind moaned as the inferno reached out toward them. Fire trucks surrounded the Smith fortress. Their lights bounced over the street, birthing strange light monsters and red and blue apparitions. The firemen sprayed giant jets of water. The rainbow arc of it sizzled and turned to steam. The men doused the building with fire-suppressing chemicals, but what could a man-made thing do against bitumen and blood and Furtig?
The Smiths would have to stop this. Or the boy. The wind nudged him.
He nodded and, twisting his hand, shot a storm of cool mist and not-air that smothered the flames.
The wind rubbed against his cheek. The boy touched a hand to his soft stubble and smiled.
“You worry too much,” he said happily. “There wasn’t any reason for you to come. You should stay with Lia or my sister, or even?—”
The wind huffed and shoved the boy again.
He wobbled on his flying machine and laughed. Then, straightening, he said, “Look. There they are.”
The wind trembled as the boy floated to the ground. He leaped from his machine and darted through the shadows. The battle-hardened brother was leading his cousins down a narrow, smoke-filled alley. Flames licked around the corner, but he shoved them back. They were shielded and hidden. They stood like Smiths did: battle-ready and dangerous.
The wind moaned. It didn’t like how the flames danced over the hard steel lines of the brother’s expression. It didn’t like the unyielding slant of his back. The wind didn’t like the memories of this place. It didn’t like?—
“It’s all right,” the boy whispered. “You don’t have to worry. I’m here, Wind.”
Once, the wind would’ve huffed. It might have shoved. It could’ve flown over the Atlantic or crossed into the stratosphere to show the boy that a being as wondrous as the wind did not need a human boy. Why should a human boy think the wind needed him?
I’m here.
Ha.
