by P. C. Cast
“Kidnap you?” Foster’s nails dug into her palms as she tightened her fists. “No one would ever kidnap you. You’re a dick! You keep saying that your parents died like this is a competition—like Cora isn’t important to me, like I didn’t just leave her body back there on a field. You don’t have to be spewed from someone’s vagina or be the result of one lucky sperm to call the people who love you your parents. Cora is a better mom than a lot of bio moms out there, and she’s dead. My mom died today, too! And thirteen years ago my birth mom and dad died in a car accident. Five years ago my adoptive dad, Cora’s husband, died when his boat capsized. So guess what? If this is a competition I win big time because apparently everyone around me dies!” Her skin felt hot and tight, like it had suddenly stretched too thin to contain her. Tears stinging her eyes, Foster’s anger fueled her as she shoved her open palms hard against his chest. “And stop calling me a bitch!”
Tate stumbled backward, landing flat on his butt in a cloud of dust. She shielded her eyes against the stinging rain. Something was … different. Tate sat on the ground looking dumbfounded as water dripped off of him, staining the parched clay brickred. Foster glanced down at her feet as the wailing wind lifted her dank, red hair. Muddy earth bubbled around her Vans as heavy rain pummeled the inch of standing water. But dust had plumed where Tate landed. His hair wasn’t flying around in the wind. There wasn’t any wind where he was, and the earth was dry and …
“Tate!”
He blinked up at her, his chin bobbing as if words would come if he only continued to move his mouth.
No, he wasn’t staring at her. He was staring at the rain-wrapped windstorm she stood in the center of.
Foster took a hesitant step toward him. Beneath her feet, the fresh section of cracked, dry earth swallowed the steadily falling rain.
“I think I know what’s happening!” She rushed to Tate, shrouding him in her cloak of rain and wind. Taking his hands in hers, she guided him to his feet.
“I’m glad one of us does.” Tate squinted, looking up at their patch of swirling gray sky.
“Breathe with me,” Foster said, releasing some of her anger with a long exhale.
“I’m always breathing.” Black hair flopped in wet clumps against his forehead as he shook his head. “If not, I’d be dead.”
“Can you, just for a second, try not to be so—” Foster caught herself before releasing another insult.
“Confused? Freaked? Worried? Pissed?” Water slid down Tate’s face like errant tears.
“Douchey,” she corrected.
Tate stiffened, recoiling slightly as if she’d pushed him … again.
“Relax. Don’t be so, I don’t know, squishy. Just listen to me. Now, inhale,” silently, Foster counted to five before instructing them to exhale. The raindrops slowed, turning from dive-bombing water warriors to a gentle, caressing mist. “It’s working!” Excitement lifted Foster to her tiptoes. So far, she was three for three. “Inhale again.”
Tate’s compression top stretched across his broad chest with another slow inhale.
“And exhale.” Foster tilted her chin to the sky. The wind and rain ceased, the sky clearing to its dusky orange glow. “It’s gone.”
“Whoa,” he paused, surveying the dissipating clouds. “That was amazing and we did it. We made it stop.” The corner of Tate’s lip quirked up in a half smile as he squeezed her hands.
Foster nodded her head and, realizing he still held her hands in his, yanked them away and stuffed them into her pockets. “Yep. We sure did.”
“Damn,” Tate groaned. “This means that this—all of this—has something to do with us.”
Foster couldn’t roll her eyes hard enough. “Jesus, god! Yes! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you this entire time.”
“Ah, ah, ah. You can’t get mad at me.” He waggled his finger before pointing up at the sky. “’Cause, well, you know what’ll happen.”
With yet another deep inhale, Foster retied her matted, wet hair on top of her head and trudged back to the truck. “By the time this is all over, I’ll deserve some kind of deep-breathing award.”
“Yeah, well, what exactly is all of this?” Tate opened the door and, with a painful groan, slid onto the upholstered bench seat that they’d officially ruined. “I mean, whatever’s going on with us, the rain, the storms, the tornadoes. You have answers, right?”
Foster chewed the inside of her cheek. “Well, kind of. I mean, I have some, but I need help to figure the rest out.”
Tate fished the dry T-shirt out of the bag and wiped his face. “If we figure out how this is happening and stop it from happening to anyone else’s family, I’m in. Totally.”
“Okay,” Foster wrung out the bottom of her shirt one last time before joining him in the cab. “But that means no more freaking out on me or trying to jump out of the car.”
“Truck.” He winked. “Got it. And, hey”—Tate sobered—“I’m really sorry about your mom. I shouldn’t have acted like she wasn’t important to you. And, um, about your other parents and your adoptive dad, too. That really sucks.”
“Yeah,” Foster’s chest tightened. “Thanks. And I’m sure you’re sorry about calling me a bitch as well.”
“Actually,” Tate stuck a wad of beef jerky in his mouth and flopped back against the seat. “I still stand by that one.”
Clenching her teeth, Foster took yet another deep inhale. “And Douchehawk strikes again.”
7
EVE
“Let me get this straight. Not one. Not two. But three—three adults—grown men who have the ability to control wind, water, and fire somehow couldn’t manage to control two teenagers? Do I have that right, Eve?”
Holding to calmness and serenity, Eve had hung back when they entered the beach home on Sunset Key, just a short boat ride from the private airport on Key West where their jet lived, always ready to take them to the mainland. She continued to keep her thoughts to herself, as she had on the quick trip from Missouri to the research island. Eve didn’t respond to the question, but remained very still in the shadows watching the man who was the center of her world pace back and forth in front of the three men she called brothers. Just let him talk, Eve prayed silently, hoping her brothers would’ve learned by now. Let him vent his anger and be rid of it—then we can try to reason with him.
“Father, there was more to it than that.”
Mark spoke up immediately, proving to Eve once again that prayers were never answered. There was nobody “up there” listening. The only religion in the room was science, and Doctor Rick Stewart was their only god.
Stewart rounded on Mark, focusing the full weight of his sharp-eyed glare on him—tall, handsome, broken Mark. Her water brother. Out of the three of them, he was the one she counted on the most. Which is why she’d put him in charge—insisted he go to the motel when she couldn’t because … because … because she was broken, too, and had been fighting her demons, unable to help her brothers.
“Really?” Stewart spoke sarcastically. “More to it than that? You mean more like the fact that because of you Foster and Tate are together out there somewhere causing unimaginable harm—maybe to themselves, maybe to others?” Stewart had stopped in front of Mark; with each question the doctor fired, he moved closer and closer until he stood almost nose to nose with the younger man.
“Father, it wasn’t his fault.”
Slowly, with a grace that belied his age and always reminded Eve of one of his pet snakes stalking a feeder mouse, Stewart turned from Mark to approach Matthew.
“Wasn’t his fault? Then whose fault was it? You and your brothers—men who are thirty-six years old—failed to do the one thing I asked of you? Failed to bring me two teenagers. Explain it to me. I want to know.”
Eve closed her eyes. No, Matthew! Just stay silent!
“I … I called the tornado like Eve said I should. But then we had to wait, like you told us to, and see how the kids would react. Father, if, uh, if we’d, um
, grabbed them before the game—or at least one of them—things would’ve been different.” Matthew seemed to shrink as he fidgeted. He couldn’t meet Stewart’s eyes, and instead sent his father apologetic, nervous glances.
Stewart’s voice was deceptively soft. “Are you blaming your sister for your shortcomings?”
Matthew’s throat swallowed convulsively. “No,” he corrected hastily. “I’m not blaming Eve.”
“Then you must be blaming me.”
Eve held her breath, wondering which Rick Stewart they were dealing with: the one she worshipped or the one she feared. Unconsciously Eve rubbed the place on her forearm hidden by the long sleeves of her shirt. The instant she realized what she was doing she dropped her arms to her side, fisting her hands so they would not be tempted to stray again.
“Nobody blames you, Father,” Luke spoke up.
Stewart’s gaze went from Matthew to Luke, and then rested on Mark. He blew out a long breath and put his hand on Mark’s shoulder, causing the man to flinch.
“Of course you don’t blame me. You’re my sons. You have more loyalty than that, don’t you, Mark?”
“Yes, Father.”
Along with the three brothers, Eve released the breath she’d been holding as she moved from the shadows at the side of the room to Rick Stewart. She slid her hand in his and looked up into his intelligent brown eyes.
“It was my fault, Father. I let things get out of control. At first I only saw Cora, and when Foster finally joined her, the wall cloud was forming the tornado. I thought they’d react more normally—run for the school like almost everyone else. By the time I realized I was wrong it was too late. Foster and Tate had joined and fully manifested air, and caused a major splintering of the tornado. It was like a war zone, Father. I’m so, so sorry.”
Stewart pulled her into the circle of his arm, his gaze fond—his touch gentle and fatherly.
“Sweet Eve, you are not to blame, though I do not understand why you weren’t at the motel with your brothers.”
“I would have been. I meant to be with them, but I lost control.” Her eyes beseeched him to understand.
“We’ve talked about this. Over and over. Until I find the cure for your hallucinations … and for the symptoms of your manifested elements,” Stewart paused and included the brothers in his gaze. “You must keep reminding yourselves that what you see is simply not of this reality and learn to push through the discomfort your elements cause.”
“Father, I tried. I was handling it. But … but then I found Cora. She was dead and I lost control.” Eve blurted the last part and then froze, waiting for Stewart’s reaction.
Slowly, he took his arm from around her shoulders. He moved several steps away from the four of them and leaned against the sleek glass desk that sat before the wall of state-of-the-art laboratory equipment that dominated the room. Stewart ignored the brothers and spoke only to Eve.
“Tell me.”
“It was her heart. You read the report we found last year when Luke hacked the clinic’s records—right before it sold and she and Foster went off the grid. The cardiologist advised surgery and a total lifestyle change to try to repair the damage to her heart, but she disappeared instead. You said it then—Cora Stewart has a time bomb ticking inside her chest. Father, you were right. You are always right.”
“Mark, Matthew, Luke … leave us,” Stewart said. But before the brothers could hastily exit, Stewart’s deep voice bellowed, “Mark—a moment, please.”
Mark paused as his brothers threw relieved looks over their shoulders as they bolted from the room.
“I know you, Mark. I see you, truly see you.”
“Yes, Father. I know you do. And I am sorry I disappointed you today.”
Stewart made a sharp, dismissive gesture. “That is a mistake you will correct—I have no doubt. Tell me, Son, what would happen to you if you left us and went out on your own?”
“Father, I wouldn’t think of—”
“Do not lie to me!” Stewart’s voice had Eve cringing, and she was glad his back was to her and he didn’t notice. “I said I see you. Do you think I don’t know you better than you know yourself? I created you. I raised you. I am your family. And still you dream of walking away from me—from your brothers—from your sister—from your family.” Stewart shook his head in disgust. “Answer my question. What would happen to you if you went out on your own?”
Eve watched emotions flicker over Mark’s handsome, expressive face. She saw anger and fear, guilt and love battle just behind his eyes. Then his broad shoulders slumped and his gaze dropped to the floor.
“I would lose control. People would see what I can do—that I can control water, which means I can control the rain, the tides, lakes, rivers, and all the rest. When they realized what I could do, they would take me. Capture me. Treat me like a science experiment.” Mark’s voice was filled with resignation.
“They would dissect you.” Stewart spoke the words in a calm, rational voice that made them all the more horrible. “But you probably wouldn’t even be aware of what they were doing because the Frill would have devoured your mind by then.”
“I—I know.”
“Then you also know why it is so important that we find Foster and Tate now that their eighteenth birthday has passed and their powers have manifested, don’t you?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Say it!” Stewart demanded.
“We have to find them so that people don’t discover what they can do—that they can control air. Because if we don’t find them what would happen to me will happen to them. They’ll be studied and dissected and driven mad.”
“Yes. And the rest of it? Perhaps the most important part?” Stewart prodded.
Mark deflated even more. “You can use the new kids to figure out how to save us from the madness that comes with our hallucinations.”
Mark wiped a trembling hand across his face. Eve couldn’t stand it for one more moment. Pushing aside her own fear, she went to him and slid her arm around his waist, putting on a brave smile, which she beamed at Stewart.
“But no one is going to go mad because we are going to find the teenagers and bring them here and protect them. That’s why Father created them in pairs—so that they can share the element—share the power—and avoid the madness that threatens the four of us. And while we’re teaching them to understand their connections to the elements, Father is going to study them and find a way to save us as well.” She tiptoed and kissed the man she called brother on the cheek. “Don’t worry. Father has it all figured out, and we’ll bring Foster and Tate here—just like we’ll bring the other three pairs here.”
“But only if they manifest their element. You see, Son, why we must wait until each pair turns eighteen and is drawn together, don’t you? No matter what you and your brothers think, I am no monster. I wouldn’t tear children from their families and their lives unless it was completely necessary. So, perhaps you were right after all. What happened at the stadium was my fault.”
“The boys would never call you monster, Father!” Eve exclaimed. “And they do understand. We all understand.”
She unwrapped her arm from around Mark and gave him an almost imperceptible push toward the half-opened door, speaking under her breath quickly as she turned her body so that Stewart would have a hard time overhearing.
“Open the files on Cora and Foster. Go over everywhere they were before they disappeared last year. Get our P.I.s in those regions on the phone. Tell them whoever finds the kids will get a one-hundred-thousand-dollar bonus. Make Luke activate that program he created to track credit card uses. Cora’s dead. Foster might slip and use a card. We need to find them before the water kids turn eighteen next month.”
“Yes, Eve,” Mark murmured.
As her brother slipped from the room, Eve went to Stewart. She held her head high, knowing how much he appreciated her strength. Don’t let him guess. Don’t let him see how tired I am—how I wish we could rewind the clo
ck eighteen years and be a real family again.
“I know Cora’s death hurts you. It hurts me, too. Let me grieve with you.” She stopped before him and gently touched his arm.
His hand covered hers. “My little Nubian princess. You know me so much better than your brothers do.”
“Well, as you’ve been saying for years—one woman is worth three men.”
“Actually, Cora said that,” her father corrected.
His smile made his lined face look much younger than his seventy-two years, and Eve was hit by a wave of nostalgia as Cora’s big, happy voice lifted from the deep memories of her past. Rick Stewart, I do declare you are taller and more handsome than Laurence Fishburne.
“I know. I remember,” Eve said softly. “Even though she didn’t know it, I loved her. Even though she didn’t know it, she was my mother.”
Stewart’s dark eyes flashed dangerously. “I told you never to speak of that!”
Eve recoiled. “I-I’m sorry, Father. It’s just the two of us.”
Stewart sighed and patted her shoulder gently. “No, I’m sorry. It’s just that the truth of your parentage must be our secret. Think of how wounded your brothers would be if they discovered you are my biological child—the only true child of my love with Cora. I believe it would wound them. They already claim that you are my favorite.”
“Yes, you’re right of course, Father,” was what Eve said, but her thoughts were much darker: It also would be very bad for anyone to know that you stole your wife’s eggs, fertilized them yourself, then mutated and grew a child. But Eve couldn’t say that. Eve could never say that. Instead she smiled sadly at her father. “Would you like to walk on the beach? The ocean always makes you feel better, and it’s after sunset. No one from the mainland will see you.”
