Page 1 of Storm Caller

1

When I broke into The Shield’s high-security tower to access sensitive information and then fled the city of my birth, I was fully prepared to be arrested.

In fact, I was prepared for a wide range of unpleasant consequences.

In hindsight, a little jail time would have qualified as the least surprising thing to happen in the past twenty-four hours.

What I didn’t expect was being arrested in the Wastes.

“Hands up,” says a petite woman in her twenties who’s just found Rook and me huddled together on the hard ground where we collapsed a few hours ago.

He’s pale and sweaty, and he winces as he shifts beside me. I eye the dark spot on his shirt where he was bleeding profusely before I stitched him up.

The woman stalks over. She’s slender but muscular. Not an ounce of softness, from her angled features to her thick chestnut hair twisted into a tight braid. At first, I mistook her clothing for tactical gear, but the molded leather and crisscrossed stitching look more like armor I’ve seen in old images from the Warming Age.

To complete her intimidating look, thick black makeup is smudged around her narrowed blue eyes.

She’s beautiful. Fearsome. And definitely pissed.

“What are you doing so far from home, Athira?” she snarls, planting a hand on her hip.

Rook’s only answer is a groan as his eyes slide shut and he slowly lies back.

“He’s hurt,” I say, as if that isn’t obvious, while I mentally deal with the fact that she knows Rook.

Less than a day ago, we escaped the halls of Amery Academy and New Manhattan through a network of underground tunnels beneath the city. Now we’re in the Wastes, the tunnel collapsed behind us, and Knox—

I swallow.

I was so sick of his shit, but knowing he might be dead is harder than I might have expected. We shared a history despite everything, and I wouldn’t have wished that fate on anyone. Not even him.

The woman’s brow arches as she takes in the blood coating Rook’s skin and ruined shirt, along with the dried, rust-colored streaks covering my hands.

She sighs and gestures behind her. “Vess, come deal with this, will you?”

We’re surrounded by a dozen people in combat boots and more of the same leather gear, their eyes also ringed with black, making them look like ghostly apparitions. Everyone is armed with knives and the occasional stunner.

Or rather, something close to the stunners I’m used to, but with some alterations that I suspect make all the difference in how they incapacitate. Instead of sleek white alloy, these are dark, shiny metal and honed into sharper angles.

A woman peels off from the crowd. She’s lightly tanned with dark-blond hair pinned into a neat bun. She’s dressed a lot like the first woman, but in brown leather instead of black. She stops and contemplates Rook.

“What do you want me to do?” she asks. “Ease his death?”

I exhale a squeak of protest, but the first woman interrupts me. “Get him fit for travel. We’re taking him with us.”

I’m not sure if that option is any better.

Vess drops her backpack, kneels on the cracked earth, and starts pulling out various medical supplies, setting each object in a neat row on a thin patch of parched grass.

When she reaches for Rook, I shift instinctively, blocking her hand. I have no idea who these people are. They might know Rook, but they don’t seem all that friendly.

Vess sits back on her heels and rolls her eyes. “You wanna deal with this, Calliope?”

The first woman crosses her arms and spreads her stance.

“Let her help him,” Calliope sneers at me, her tone devoid of patience or concern.

My teeth clench as I stare about the circle again. Rook’s breathing has turned labored, sawing in and out of him like wet marbles.