Page 35 of Storm Caller

“Really?”

“Yeah. Is that okay?”

They blindfolded me and told me so little about this place, but Rook wants to share a piece of it, and that feels like a significant step toward finding what we lost.

I grab the leather jacket I arrived in. It’s seen better days, but I was able to get most of the blood off at least.

“This way,” Rook says. We walk side by side down various halls, passing a few people who nod to Rook and mostly ignore me.

I understand the source of their hostility now, and I can’t fault anyone for it. It would be easy to say that I wasn’t personally responsible, but to the people of the Tiera Frais, I represent the enemy. It’s that simple.

We enter a huge room with concrete floors, while the ceiling and walls are left as exposed rock, soaring high overhead. The scent is earthy, a little pungent, but not unpleasant.

“What is that?” I ask. “The smell?”

“Gasoline,” Rook says. “We use it in some of our vehicles.”

From a young age, we all learn about the wars people once fought for fossil fuels, so they could power their cars and machines. When the worst days of the Warming Age hit, a lot of it had been depleted, burned up, wasted. It’s also responsible for the storm clouds that now plague our world. It’s strange to think that a substance pulled from the earth could have caused so much heartache and death.

“Most of the cars operate on solar or electric power,” Rook explains. “But sometimes gas is needed in a pinch. It’s hard to come by, though.”

I notice a few people tinkering away at various vehicles. A few pickup trucks with wide, flat beds and some larger ones with huge carriages on the back are likely used to transport goods. I spy motorcycles and then a row of small, four-wheeled buggies.

“ATVs,” Rook explains, gesturing to one on the end. “Our ride for tonight.”

He unplugs one from a wall outlet, swings a leg over the seat, and drops onto it. “Hop on.”

I hesitate, knowing that riding together will mean pressing myself against him. I don’t hate that idea, but then I hate myself for wanting it.

“Come on,” he says. “I promise it’ll be fun.”

I huff out a small laugh and then swing my leg over, straddling the seat, with Rook’s warm body wedged between my thighs.

“Hang on,” he says, his voice low and rumbling. I wrap my arms around him, sliding my hands along his stomach, feeling the ridges of defined muscle. He’s so warm, and his heartbeat pulses against my chest. Then he flicks a key and twists the handlebars before the ATV roars to life. With a rev of the engine, we lurch forward, shooting out of a wide sliding door and onto a cleared stretch of plain.

The wind tears at my hair as we fly across the earth, entering the forest and barreling down a network of trails. Rook races us past the branches and leaves, and my heart expands. I inhale a gulp of air that tastes like sunshine. It smells just like Rook. A little wild. A little sharp around the edges, but warm and full of promise. We continue down the path for several minutes before he brings us to a stop.

He cuts the engine, and silence descends, enveloping us. But it isn’t completely quiet. Not really. If I listen, I can hear the wind rustling the leaves and the soft chitter of birds and insects. I hear the rush of water and the tiny, insignificant sounds of life breathing through the forest. Things I’ve only ever read about or heard through the filter of a screen.

Rook looks back. “How was that?”

“Amazing,” I say, and he grins.

“Come on. I’ll show you one of our gardens.”

We hop off the ATV, and he leads me down a narrow path through the trees. It doesn’t take long before we emerge into a large clearing lined with hundreds of rows of plants.

“This is one of our vegetable plots.” He sweeps out a hand, pride in his voice. “It provides most of what we need to feed Cloudspire for the summer months.” He points into the distance, where I see a row of greenhouses. “And those keep us sustained when the temperature drops. It never gets as cold as it used to in the Warming Age, but some things still can’t survive the winter. Resources can get tight, but we make sure no one starves.”

I stare at it all in awe. I haven’t had many reasons to visit the greenhouses in New Manhattan. I’ve simply trusted that food would always be available, but seeing this makes me realize just how much I’ve been taking for granted.

I spot a few people working, tending the plants and wearing long aprons with large pockets and wide-brimmed sun hats. Someone spots us, and Rook waves before they return the gesture and resume their work.

Rook leads me down a row of tall green stalks. “Corn,” he says to me, and I think I knew that, but I wouldn’t have been able to say for sure. We pass lettuce and beets. Strawberries and blueberries. Apple trees and even some grape vines. He points them all out, naming everything, saving me from having to ask.

We stop at a plot bursting with carrots, their lacy green tops waving slightly in the breeze. Rook bends down and yanks one from the earth, rubbing away the dirt before he hands it to me. “Try it.”

I frown at the offering. “Really?”