Kel threw the postcard onto the desk. “Funny how she always asks me to write back, but never leaves a return address.”
The letter landed writing side down, a picturesque view of Ascira’s bustling coastline facing her. Blue sprites—hazy little creatures the size of a thumb—speckled the air like sunlight catching on rain. As Salta’s northwest island, closest to the larger continent, Ascira’s coast was always crowded with tourists eager to witness Salta’s vibrant, lesser magic. Visitors rarely ventured further. The magic of Salta’s other islands wasn’t quite as benign as the colorful creatures that littered Ascira’s skies.
Kel wasn’t worried for her mother’s safety. All Saltans had heardtales of the Fume, the extremist offshoot of Ebrait’s religion that worshipped Salta’s serpents, sprites, phoenixes and sea monsters. They’d grown out of AB, which they saw as nature’s way of fighting back against humans domesticating Salta. Her mother was right. They’d never try anything extreme on Ascira, of all the isles.
The office’s trash can was full of similar postcards. Photographs of Ascira’s glittering sprites and romantic architecture. Watercolors of Ebrait’s revered sea monsters and gilled critters, weaving around the four isles. Paintings of Dresva’s serpents and emerald forests. All sights that Kel had never seen, and never cared to. She had everything she needed in Cendor.
“When was the last time you saw your mom?” Dira pried.
“When was the last time you saw yours?” Kel retaliated.
Dira turned back to the tablet. “Well played.”
An apology danced around Kel’s tongue. Dira rarely talked about her mother, or her father, who she’d left behind on Dresva when she’d snuck into Cendor as a child. But Kel saw the hard lines around her friend’s eyes, creases that grew deeper every day. Though for different reasons, they both needed racing to survive.
They’d met when they were both twelve, sneaking into a CAPR race as underage kids without guardians. Both had burned their hands on a lower booth’s metal railings, giggling and clapping as phoenixes blazed past, and wailing when CAPR officials escorted them out of the stands. The shared tantrum had been enough to glue them together, and when Kel had invited Dira to her farm, her father had soon made sure Dira rarely left.
Dira had snuck into Cendor on an airship. The Dresvan girl claimed to have always dreamed of Cendor’s wild, fiery magic. She’d written to her parents in Dresva over the years, trying to convincethem to visit Cendor and the Varra Farm, with no luck. Kel knew there was more to Dira’s story, more to why she’d fled from Dresva’s quiet forestry to Cendor’s deadly blazes. But Dira had never shared, and so Kel had stopped asking.
After Kel’s father died, they’d grieved together, and had searched for a new orbit, side by side, until they had formed the Crimson Howlers.
Dira’s tele-comm buzzed, forcing Kel from her mind. The winger glanced at the device and lowered the tablet to the desk.
“Let’s go commiserate at The Ferret. Rube will meet us there,” Dira said. She stood from the creaking desk chair and cracked her back.
Kel’s stomach knotted at the thought, so different from the usual warmth she reserved for The Ferret, her and Dira’s usual post-race hideout. Sheknewshe should apologize to Rube for Savita’s outburst, and her post-race ritual at The Ferret Inn with Dira was too familiar, too cozy, to turn down.
“That sounds perfect.” She forced a smile. “We’ll toast to her.”
Dira mirrored Kel’s pitiful expression. “Good. There’s something else I need to talk to you about, and it requires alcohol.” Dira paused, sucking her lower lip. “Lots of it.”
Kel raised a brow. “Sounds ominous. You’re buying.”
Dira merely waved a hand and sauntered to the office entrance. She stopped at the doorframe and leaned back over the desk, spotting what Kel had crammed against the wall. Her fingers glided over the first row of crumpled envelopes, covered in bold red letters and “overdue” stamps. She plucked one free.
For a heavy minute, the only sound echoing through the building was Savita’s wild shrieking, rattling the thin walls.
Dira’s eyebrows knitted in a tight line. “Kelyn—”
“Let’s go,” Kel said softly, turning to leave the office.
FOUR
Dira thumped her hand against their disturbingly sticky table. She yelled up at the screens broadcasting today’s race. Dozens of voices joined hers.
The Ferret was overcrowded and smelled like a public aviary. Its mob stirred a small headache in Kel, but the food was hot and the drinks were sweet. Pressed beside her best friend, perched on a barstool, she tried to focus on her surroundings—not what might come after tonight.
Finn—the pub’s owner—brought over their first round of drinks, and they raised the tall glasses to Oska. Theclinkof the cups sent shivers down Kel’s spine, the sound far too similar to Oska’s own sharp screams.
They’d barely lowered their glasses when Rube appeared through The Ferret’s front doors.
Kel and Dira shouted a welcome, though Rube remained purse-lipped. Dira clapped him on the back. “You’re late! Here—we saved you a seat.”
Rube shook his head. He remained standing. Smothering herpride, Kel leaned across the clammy table. “Rube, about earlier today, I’m—”
“There’s no need, Kelyn.” Rube’s gaze lowered to the table. “I can’t stay. I just came to—”
The pub exploded as an old race began to play across the screens. Rube’s words were lost to the crowd.
