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Chapter one

The Storm

T he first raindrop landed on Poppy’s nose as she pushed the button for the crosswalk, followed by more in rapid succession.

She clutched her grocery bags tight and hurried as fast as she could across Grant Road’s six lanes of traffic, but by the time she reached the far side of the street, she was already soaked by the monsoon downpour and could barely see where she was going.

It was well after sunset, because of course she’d started her walk to the store when the day’s heat had been fading, and the orange illumination from the streetlights and the nearby park was barely enough to make the sidewalk visible.

Fifteen percent chance of rain, my happy ass!

She hurried from the uncertain shelter of one mesquite to the next, bitterly aware of the violent gusts of wind lashing at the small trees.

During the last storm, half a dozen trees in the neighborhood had been torn up, their roots dragged from the unstable desert soil.

An ancient mesquite across the street from her mother’s house had been wrenched literally in half, leaving a six-foot jagged stump of its trunk sticking up like a big ol’ middle finger, while the severed canopy had crashed on top of the unfortunate cars parked there.

She’d taken a video of the carnage through the front window and posted it to her Instagram.

Gotta love the Tucson monsoon! (Unless that’s your car…) #MonsoonMagic

It felt a hell of a lot less magical when she was right in the middle of the storm trying not to get flattened.

Poppy’s mother’s house was still a mile away, but the rec center was close, so she aimed in that direction, taking as long of steps as the wet, uneven pavement would allow.

She assessed each possible shelter as she passed.

Trees were absolutely out. The picnic ramada seemed tempting but when she got closer, she realized the roof had already lost some boards, and the open sides meant the blowing rain would get in no matter what angle it came from.

Hard pass. And there was no way in hell she was standing under the canvas canopy that normally provided shade to the playground, not the way the wind was whipping it around.

Her only option was to hurry to the rec center itself, which had a concrete roof extending six feet over its veranda.

Not that concrete was necessarily a match for the monsoon, but on the bright side, if it fell and squashed her, her death would be too quick to hurt. She hoped.

She ducked under its meager protection and flattened herself against the rec center wall, gasping, just as the hail started.

Holy fuck. She was never going to trust that fucking weather app again.

It had clearly been designed by someone from the Midwest who didn’t understand how southern Arizona weather patterns worked.

Though to be fair, she’d been the one to convince herself that a nice brisk walk to the store would be a good idea, mostly because she’d been desperate.

She just didn’t want to be fair, not when her clothes were plastered to her body and one-inch hailstones were pelting the sidewalk where she had been walking just seconds before.

They could have been landing on her head.

The rec center was locked up, of course—the downside of an evening walk—but the veranda was wide enough the rain could only reach her from the north, and the wind was thankfully coming from the south, at least for now, so other than an occasional hailstone bounce, Poppy was about as safe as the circumstances would allow.

She sank to sit cross-legged on the ground—which was wet, but so were her leggings, so fuck it—and assessed the damage to her purchases in the weak artificial light from the adjacent park.

Fuck. Fuckety fuckety fuck. And the hell with it—she was alone under this scrap of shelter, so she might as well sing it loud, sing it strong. She rose to her feet, clenched her fists, and shouted, “Fuck you!” at the storm .

It didn’t reply, of course. Not that she had expected an answer.

Anyhow, it wasn’t like the storm had deliberately aimed for her, trying to ruin the supplies she’d spent her last fifty dollars on, the supplies she and her mother needed, the supplies she’d already been stressing over stretching out until Friday.

It was just a random storm, the kind that sprouted like mushrooms all over the city this time of year.

But the yelling did make her feel a little better.

At least until the wind changed direction and blew the driving rain right into her face.

Rai rode the surge of the stormcloud, laughing.

Lightning burst and thunder boomed, lighting the cumulus cloudscape around him while the stars shone down overhead and the rain and hail pelted below.

He spurred the rain on, diving deeper into the shadowed clouds, wings beating hard to both harness and enrage the wind for his ride, relishing the way the storm’s might flowed into and through him, charging him full of life.

His skin crackled with electricity, and he gazed upon the city below—the people scurrying indoors like ants, the upturned trees, debris flying madly before the storm’s wrath, the rivers of muddy water carving new paths in the sunken washes—and felt the rush of energy in every inch of his body.

The monsoon was power and glory and destruction, and he loved every moment of it.

He’d mounted this storm cell miles to the south, just as it had started building.

This region was too dry for him to visit most of the year, its heat and arid climate like poison to his water fae nature, but this year when the spring rains of Brazil had slowed, some of the storm-riding companions he’d met there had mentioned the North American monsoon, and he had been intrigued and made his way north.

His memories of North America were of the stolid Great Lakes, the slow, deep Mississippi, the constant drizzle of Seattle’s rains.

There were storms, of course, but they belonged to slow-moving, inexorable weather patterns that traveled across the continent like glaciers.

Boring, in other words. And the tropical storms of the Gulf of Mexico hadn’t appealed to him, either—they were powerful, absolutely, but rare, and he wasn’t about to wait in the monotonous middle of the ocean for one to form, so he wouldn’t even know to join the chaos until a storm had made landfall and was already starting to spend itself .

Also, saltwater fae were egotistical assholes.

They weren’t riding the storms to have a good time—they had agendas, strategies, probably fucking charts explaining their grand plans for maximum coastal destruction.

What was the fun of that? Rai had no wish to categorize and count the trees he was encouraging the torrent to rip up.

He just wanted to do the ripping.

Below, a lone woman was struggling through the downpour; the storm had stranded her far from shelter, laden with heavy bags.

He watched with glee as she hurried through the pounding rain.

It was rare to have such a perfect victim caught unawares—most humans were dull as earth fae, staying indoors or hiding in vehicles.

He teased at his new playmate with the wind and the rain, then sent hail that just barely missed her as she finally found shelter and sat to wait out the storm.

Pity. He’d already passed over much of the city; from here on it was either the mountains or dwindling suburbs, then more desert, and then of course the storm would fade, and he’d have to make his way back south if he wanted to ride another.

He was unlikely to find another toy tonight.

He cast a wistful glance upon the woman, watching as she fumbled at her bags, then rose to her feet.

And then she shouted a curse into the storm, all defiance and rage, as if she were addressing Rai directly.

Ah, he liked her!

He made a swift decision. Tormenting this human would be ten times as fun as whatever the storm might bring him on the rest of its northward course.

He gave a powerful beat of his wings, directing a final burst of rain straight at the woman, then descended quickly to the ground, alighting just out of her range of vision.

He caught up a handful of the rain, letting it pool in his hand long enough to focus the glamour needed to walk in the human world unidentified.

It didn’t take much—just a layer of warmer color obscuring his skin, a twist to tuck his wings away into faerie, a suggestion that his clothing was of human make.

Everyone knew humans were fools. They saw what they wanted to see, despite all their technology, which of course was what the faerie world counted on for their continued existence.

Blind, mundane humanity, always rationalizing what they could not understand with logical explanations.

So he had been told, at least; he had not met any humans himself.

Rai wrapped his arms around his head, pretending to be protecting his head from the rain, and ran toward his playmate’s hiding place .

He pelted into her shelter, pulling up just before he crashed into her. Her eyes went wide, and she let out a little shriek. She was backed against the wall of the building, dripping from his last onslaught of rain.

“Oh!” he said, feigning surprise. “I did not know there was anybody here.”

She blinked, then smiled. “No, come on in. The water’s fine.” She rolled her eyes, indicating the rain still surrounding them. “Maybe a little extra wet.”

Rai laughed, half performance and half genuine enjoyment. “My thanks.”

“Nice to know I’m not the only one crazy enough to be out in this apocalypse.” She wrapped her arms around herself, looking away.

Rai took the opportunity to study her. Up close, she was more interesting than he’d expected.

Her hair was short and dark, parts of it sticking crazily into the air while other bits were plastered to her skull and forehead.

While he watched, she ran a hand impatiently through that wet hair, sending drops of water flying and rearranging the sticking-up clumps.

She had a slightly pointy chin and a very pointy nose, but the rest of her face was round and pale, shaped almost like a heart, and her eyes were a greenish brown that reminded him of tree roots or moss.

She was wearing skin-tight pants with pockets and a simple shirt with short sleeves that had an arcane symbol on the front, an eagle clutching a cudgel and a sprig of leaves surrounded by a circle of runes.

Rai frowned, trying to decipher the words, but it had been too long since he’d read anything in English, and then her arms suddenly crossed, and he flashed a glance at her face.

“Sorry, I’m a mess,” she said awkwardly.

“No, of course.” Rai found his own spot of wall to lean against, pondering what might be most entertaining.

He could get the rain to let up a little, coax her into walking on, then bring down another cloudburst. Or perhaps just encourage the rain to keep on as long as he could, trapping her here for hours.

Maybe drag in wind bursts to splash her in the face regularly—he’d enjoy a close-up view of her dismay.

Honestly, the possibilities were endless.

He eyed her sidelong, trying to gauge her mood and intentions.

She suddenly started to laugh, hunching over. “This is awkward,” she managed, then burst out laughing again.

“Is it?” Rai grinned at her. She had an interesting laugh—lower than her speaking voice, rich and warm.

“What’s your name?”

“It’s…” He could not think of a good fake human name, not for this part of the world. “Rai,” he said. “It’s Rai. ”

She wrinkled her nose. “Rye like bread? Or is it short for Ryan?”

“No, just Rai.”

“Well, Rai, I’m pleased to meet you.” She held out her hand. “I’m Poppy, and I’ll be your companion for this hellstorm.”

“Poppy.” He reached out, took her hand, and shook it ceremoniously.

Her fingers were warm, and her grip was tight, and a pleasant shock went through him, like he’d just touched lightning.

Which was odd; without his influence, the storm had settled into pattering rain, no thunder except in the distance.

But even as he thought it, there was another flash of lightning, followed almost immediately by a loud rumble that seemed to come from his own chest. That must be what he’d felt.

Poppy started at the crash, but then she laughed again, gesturing at the rain. “May the rain god have mercy on our souls.”

Rai laughed, too, reaching his magic into the clouds and calling more hail. Trapping her here longer was definitely the ideal plan.

He truly was not much for mercy.