Tell the Wind and Fire by Sarah Rees Brennan Page A

When I looked at Carwyn, he was looking away, neck bent and eyes fixed on the wall. He didn’t plead.
    “Screw it,” I said, and tore the band of light off his wrist.
    He grinned at me, danced one step back, and then made a running jump at the toilet, launching himself up off it with one foot and out the window with the force of a rocket. I hesitated for a second, cursing my own stupidity, as the strip of light in my hand grew thinner and thinner and then died out, leaving a trail of sparks across my palm.
    From outside the window came Carwyn’s voice, sounding both reluctant and annoyed. “Lucie,” he grated, as if he had a particular grievance against my name, “come on.”
    I clambered onto the toilet and out the window, banging my elbow on the window frame, clumsy with sheer surprise. It was a much bigger drop from the window than I had hoped, but there were no other choices, so I leaped feet first. Landing hard and off balance, I would have fallen onto elbows and knees if not for Carwyn grabbing my arm and holding me steady. Almost as soon as he grabbed me he was pulling at me, his voice fraying with impatience as he repeated, “Come on—come on! ” and we both ran.
    We ran past the guards’ cars in the street, so fast that my eyes were stinging and the car lights looked like blurred streaks of red and blue painted on the black night. We ran down dark alleyways and fiercely bright city streets and through a park where there were cool shadows and fireflies and where I had to stop, head hanging between my legs, and suck air in desperately. We ran so fast that my legs were aching to the bones and my rings were actual weights on my hands, dragging them down to the earth.
    And then we were standing on the Brooklyn Bridge, wind dealing my face a series of night-cold slaps, the granite and limestone towers starkly white. For a moment I felt as if we could run back into the Dark: for a moment the bridge looked like a way home.
    Beyond the towers and the glittering cable lines that hung from them, web-like, as though the whole bridge were a giant spider’s castle, were the walls of the Dark city. Every Dark city had a wall built around it, even ours, which was separated from the Light city by a river. The walls were built with Light magic, and they would boil the blood of whoever tried to get over them. I remembered hearing the faint crackle of the bright walls near my home in the Dark, like the leaves of deadly trees in the wind.
    I scarcely ever ventured this close to the edge of the Light.
    It was a night of firsts.
    “We made it,” I said, forcing the words out in a series of gasps.
    “Yeah,” said Carwyn, still standing. He wasn’t winded: his voice sounded normal. It sounded pleasant and distant, like he was thinking of something else.
    I straightened up, wobbly but unbelievably relieved to be safe, to have both of us safe. The water whispered soothing promises, and even though it looked deep and black, the ripples caught edges of silver. Carwyn’s face was serious until he saw me looking, when he showed me that ugly smile again.
    “Thanks,” I said unsteadily, ignoring the smile.
    “Oh, Lucie, you shouldn’t thank me yet,” said Carwyn. “You had no idea what you were getting into, did you?”
    It was dark and cold, and I was tired, and I didn’t want to have to fight him to get the collar back on. But I would have to—that much was clear. I turned my face to look at the water one more time, to take a breath and grit my teeth. I felt the warmth of Carwyn’s body as he stepped in, but he didn’t grab me. He whispered to me instead, each word a puff of heat against my jaw.
    “Someone should have warned you about me. Oh, wait,” said Carwyn. “I did.”
    He didn’t grab me at all. He didn’t use Dark magic, which could cause pain even though it was not as strong as the Light. He just shoved me clear off Brooklyn Bridge.
    I used the silver moonlight on the water, absorbing it into my rings, even