From across the darkness, I heard Finn’s roar.
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.
