The wind came up like a jet engine. He shrunk down as beams shrieked and split overhead.

“Storms are unpredictable,” he croaked into the mic just as the ceiling lifted away and the basement filled with the strobe of lightning. His live viewer count ticked down one by one, then all at once, before the house came back down on him.

***

Wind licked his face.

Faint light filtered pink through his eyelids. He peeled his eyes open. Thin ropes of white twisted around him like the bars of a cage. Behind each swirling veil was a face.

He struggled to sit. Wind pinned him on his back.

“This one would have all knowledge of storms,” a familiar voice cooed.

“Ahh,” they all sighed, their voices circling him, the long sigh blowing his wet hair.

“To save his people?” Another voice circled him, cycling around behind and back again.

“No.”

“Guilt.”

“Ego.”

“Power.”

He tried to track a single face, but his eyes rolled.

“Shall we?”

“Tell him?”

“Show him?”

“Make him?”

“Pin him to the sky on the end of a blade.”

“Turn his tempest inside out.”

“Make him into what he is.”

Faces leaned in through the vapor veils—all dusky and heavy with rain, eyes hot and static, charged with bright energy.

“But what is his blade? Which is his first kill?”

“So many died in the night, but which was first?”

The storm—his storm—paused her cycle to stare into his eyes. “His first kill was called Paula. Here is his blade.”

The long, silver studio key rose above him.

“Paula?” he croaked, his voice lost—pulled from his mouth into the vortex.

The key dagger fell into him. Impaled him, driven by a hammer of wind. He felt it twist, moving hot through him like a spear of lightning. His head spun. His gut swirled. He twisted in pain and rage, writhing, till he lifted against the wind and joined it—turning, roping, raging.

A storm. Full of thunder. Destruction.

The funnels peeled off, away in every direction, tracing scars across the earth. The storms were everywhere. Unpredictable.

Jacob twisted and twisted, a tight knot of air, digging a hole in the ground.

Renovation

RENOVATION

A blanket of spring snow surrounded the hulk of flaking wood, frosting broken windows, sagging the ancient roof. Wetness seeped into the seams of Laurel’s new boots and soaked her socks, numbed her toes. Ashley had disappeared around the side of the broad building. The whole place seemed to lean, though not in one uniform direction. It splayed, as if something inside was pushing its way out.

Ashley appeared around the far corner. Her smile was visible even at a distance. She had their mom’s smile, the one people called infectious. Laurel was immune.