by P. C. Cast
She breathed a long sigh before speaking, and when she did, Foster sounded utterly defeated. “No. I wasn’t right. You said your grandpa’s home, landline, car title, basically everything about him is buried under a trust that’s almost impossible to lead to him, right?”
“Well, yeah, that’s what G-pa said, but it can’t be true because the fucking Fucktastic Four found him.”
“Sure, but what are the chances that they found him by tracing a landline to a pay phone on Sauvie Island?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Well, I do. The chances are almost nonexistent, which means the Fucktastic Four didn’t find him by tracing a phone call. They dug up something about where he lives or another of a hundred different things they could’ve figured out, which also means if you hadn’t been calling him we wouldn’t know that they grabbed him. They’d just have your grandpa, who wouldn’t know anything about us at all. And then what would they have done with him?” Foster shook her head. “No, this isn’t only your fault, Tate. It’s mine, too. If I’d really thought this through—really been smart—I would have had you call your grandpa and tell him to get the hell out of there and come to us, where they wouldn’t have found him, and he would’ve been safe.” Foster folded her arms across her chest. “So, because of that I’m going to allow you the opportunity to earn my trust back. You know what that means?”
He reached over and pried one of her hands free, holding it gently in his. “That you like me and you’re extremely forgiving?”
“No. It means if you mess up and lie to me again I’ll never allow you another opportunity. This is a onetime thing. Got it?”
“Got it.”
She blew out a long breath and seemed to relax—and even though she’d pulled her hand from his, Foster’s voice was soft and more than a little sad. “And I’m sorry, too. I was being a bitch—telling you what to do and what not to do, and not listening or even thinking. I was just reacting. I—I really didn’t know what else to do after Cora died.” She looked down at her lap and curled in on herself like a wilted flower petal.
“Don’t do that.” Tate gently touched her chin, turning her face to him. “None of this would be happening if the Fucktastic Four weren’t after us. That isn’t our fault. We didn’t ask to be bonded to the elements. We didn’t ask to be orphaned.”
“But it happened anyway, and I feel like I’m pretty shitty at keeping us safe.”
“Are you kidding? You’re great at keeping us safe! You figured out how to use music to calm our element. You figured out how to stop me from fading away, and you figured out how to float us down from, like, twenty feet or more in the air. Foster, I would’ve smacked into the ground or faded away into nothingness without you. You told me once that you thought I was a superhero. You were wrong, Foster. You’re the superhero. I’m just your handsome sidekick.”
She almost smiled at that. “I thought the sidekicks were super weird or extremely dorky, not handsome. I mean, think about it—Rocket, a raccoon, is Peter Quill’s sidekick. Super weird. Robin is Batman’s sidekick, and he wears his underwear on the outside of his pants. Major dork. And—”
“We’re a new kind of superhero, so I’m making up new rules,” he interrupted. “But you’re talking to me again, which makes everything okay. So if you want to call me your dorky, weird sidekick, I’m cool with it.”
Foster’s almost smile went away. “But everything isn’t okay. I keep hearing him yelling your name. He sounded so upset—so scared. I’m sorry they have your grandpa.”
“I know. Me too. But we’re superheroes. We’re going to rescue him.”
“How?” she said miserably.
“By sticking to your brilliant plan,” he said.
“By my brilliant plan you mean the one Sabine mostly thought of?”
“Yep, that one.”
“I don’t like it. I don’t want you to go in there by yourself.”
“I won’t be. You’ll be there, too. Close by. Waiting for an opening,” Tate said. “Plus, Sabine and Finn and you all agreed that it’s perfect to say you and I have been living on the streets in Portland.”
“There are a lot of homeless people in Portland,” Foster agreed reluctantly. “It’d be real hard for the Fucktastic Four to prove that we were, or weren’t, there.”
“Exactly. I give myself up to them in exchange for letting G-pa go free. I’m going to tell them that you took off—saying something about heading down the coast and crossing over into Mexico with the stash of cash Cora left you.”
“Be sure you tell them that you and I are supposed to meet up in Mexico after you get G-pa free,” Foster said.
“Yeah, so they’ll be searching everywhere but the Portland area,” Foster said.
“Which is exactly where G-pa is going to head once he’s free,” Tate said.
“And you. You’re going with him, Tate. Promise me,” Foster said urgently.
“Hey, don’t worry. Of course I’m going, too. I’m going to pretend to be the perfect kidnap victim. When you look up Stockholm syndrome, my face is going to be the definition.”
“Don’t let them take you to their island. I can’t believe they’re driving all over the U.S., not with the kind of money Stewart soaked up from his patrons. They have to be flying, which is great for us. You’ll be safe in the airport. As soon as you get there tell airport security you heard them talking about a bomb. That should do it.”
“Then I’ll take off and call your burner and you’ll know I’m on my way back to our Fortress of Sauvietude,” Tate said.
“Or get away before they do something like drug you so that you can’t tell on them at the airport. That’s even safer,” Foster said.
“Foster, that would be fine, but there’s one more little thing. Well, actually, two more little things.”
“Those water kids.” Foster looked like she’d bitten a lemon.
“Hey, don’t be like that. Right now those two are just like we used to be—clueless and getting ready to have their worlds torn apart on their birthdays, which are tomorrow. When we land.”
“Tate, save your grandpa. Let the water kids worry about themselves. We figured it out. So will they.”
“We figured it out after we lost our parents and got a lot of help from Cora’s Batcave. Not to mention Finn and Sabine. We need to help them, Foster. You know that.”
Foster deflated. “Yeah, I do. I’m just scared it’s going to be them or us.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means either we hang around and save them, or we grab your grandpa, retreat to Sauvie, and save ourselves,” Foster said.
“It’s not going to be like that. Foster, think about this—they’re bonded to water.”
“Uh, yeah. I know.”
He shook his head. “You’re not thinking. We join with them and the four of us are stronger together than the two of us alone. With them we have air and water!”
“If they really are bonded to water, and if they really will join with us.”
“You’re a cynic,” Tate said.
“I am a realist,” Foster countered. Then she yawned.
Tate dug into the flap in the seat in front of him and pulled out a plastic-wrapped pillow. He made a grand show of fluffing it, then he reached across Foster and pressed the button to recline first her seat, then his. He placed the pillow on his shoulder, patted it, and smiled invitingly at her.
“How about you sleep for the next four hours?”
She gave him a grateful look and began to curl up, attempting the closest thing to comfort modern air travel could provide. She had almost settled her head on his shoulder when she looked up at him.
“Aren’t you going to sleep?”
“Oh, probably. But first I’m going to read. I always read before I go to sleep.” He reached into his backpack and brought out a Dean Koontz paperback, Saint Odd. “I found this at that little shop where we got those bottles of water. It’s the last Odd Thomas book. I can’t w
ait to find out how he ends up with Stormy Llewellyn.”
Foster’s lips turned up just a little. “You’re a strange one, Tate.”
“Thanks, Foster.” He bent, meaning to kiss the top of her head, but she caught his lips with hers, kissing him back before she lifted the armrest barrier between them and snuggled warmly against him.
And at that moment Tate felt as if everything would truly turn out okay.
25
TATE
Tate jolted awake as the plane seemed to fall out from underneath them. He shot upright in his seat as passengers around him gasped and carry-ons that had been semi-shoved under seats spewed into the aisles. His gaze shot to Foster. Unbelievably, she was curled up with the little pillow on top of her backpack, snoring softly.
The intercom beeped and the captain’s voice blasted through the cabin—this time he spoke coherently and quickly—and Tate hated the underlying somberness in his voice.
“This is your captain. We have begun our descent into Houston, and have hit some very rough air. The ‘fasten seat belt’ light will be on for the rest of the flight. Flight attendants, return to your seats immediately and remain there until we have landed.”
The plane was still bouncing around, but not as badly as whatever had happened that woke Tate. He watched the flight attendants rush up the aisle, studying their faces as they strapped themselves into the jump seats. He was just thinking that they didn’t look too worried when the bottom dropped out of the plane again. For the first time in his life, Tate understood why flight attendants constantly harped on wearing seat belts all the time, because his was all that kept him from flying up and cracking his head against the luggage compartment.
The guy in the seat across the aisle from him wasn’t so lucky. He flew out of his seat, slamming against the low ceiling before falling down, half in the aisle, half in his seat. He clutched his head and moaned. Tate saw blood well between his fingers.
“Ohmygod, what’s happening?” Foster was wide awake. Her backpack had landed in the seat in front of them, smacking against a woman who was sobbing loudly.
“Do you still have that pillow?” Tate asked quickly.
“Yeah.” She held it up, looking scared and confused.
“Thanks.” Tate grabbed it and turned to the guy across the aisle. “Hey, sir. Here. Press this against the cut.” He handed him the little pillow. Hands shaking, the guy took it and pressed it against his head just as the plane felt like it suddenly stopped in the air before beginning to shake side-to-side, like they were riding waves on an ocean, and not currents in the air.
“Ohgod. Ohgod. No no no. I don’t want to die like this,” Foster spoke in panicked spurts between chattering teeth.
Tate grabbed her hand. “Look at me! We’re not dying. It’s just turbulence because of the storm. We’re almost in Houston.”
Foster opened her mouth to reply and the plane dropped again like the hand of a god had smacked them from above.
Foster screamed and Tate put his arm around her, pulling her against him, trying to keep her safe.
“It’s going to be okay!” He had to shout over the screams and sobs of the terrorized passengers. He glanced at the flight attendants and his heart dropped like the plane. They looked scared. Really scared. One of them even had his eyes closed as tears leaked down his cheeks.
“No!” Foster screamed. The plane lurched to the left and yellow plastic oxygen masks released from above them. Foster’s huge green eyes found Tate’s. “We’re going to die,” she said through lips blue with fear. “We’re going down.”
Tate didn’t have time to answer. Over the loudspeaker came another voice. “This is your co-captain. Our landing is going to be rough. All passengers need to brace for impact!”
Tate watched a flight attendant with trembling hands reach up and switch on the intercom. “Passengers, the brace-for-impact position is when you bend over, put your hands behind your head and your face between your knees. Do it! Now!”
The plane bucked and tilted as the passengers screamed and cried, and took the brace-for-impact position. All of the passengers except for Tate. He smelled vomit and blood. The plane’s nose plunged downward, thrusting him back against his seat and making his stomach roll and pitch as the jet’s huge engines whined dangerously.
We’re going down. We’re really going to crash!
For a moment Tate’s mind was numb with panic. He almost buried his face in Foster’s hair and just gave in to the end.
But at that moment Foster lost it. She undid her seat belt and tried to stand. “I’m getting the hell out of here!” She fell against Tate as the plane took a dive to the right. Her body shook and her breath came in big, panicked gasps. “Open the fucking door! I want out of here!”
“Foster! We’re in the air! You have to sit down and buckle up!” Tate had ahold of her, forcing her to stay in her seat.
She struggled against him. “No! I have to get out! I have to get out! I can fucking fly, and I’m not going to die in this metal coffin!”
And just like that, the panic cleared from his mind and Tate could really think again. Instantly, he knew what he needed to do. No, what they needed to do.
“You’re right! This isn’t happening. Not to us. Not today.” Foster didn’t seem to hear him, and she kept struggling to get away—to get into the aisle while her shoulders heaved with her hysterical sobs. “Foster! We are not going to crash. Not while air is on board!” When she still didn’t seem to hear him, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. Hard. “Foster! Listen to me. We can fix this. Air can fix this!”
Foster blinked at him. Her eyes were glassy and her face was so white she looked transparent. “We’re going to die.” The words trembled from her lips.
“No! Like you said, you can fly! We can fly! Snap the hell out of it! You have to help me!” He shook her shoulders again, making her head bob around and her hair fly crazily.
She frowned at him and the glassy look in her eyes cleared. Then the frown changed to a relieved grin. “Air! We can control air! And we can fly!”
Foster
“Stand up!” Foster gripped Tate’s forearms, stumbling over him as she pulled him into the aisle behind her. “Do what I do.” She spread her feet until the sides of her legs braced her between the rows of seats, and watched as Tate followed her lead.
“Sit down!” Foster barely recognized the female flight attendant’s voice through her strangled sobs. “And seat belts on!”
Foster’s vision blurred with tears as she craned her neck to look back at the woman who clutched tightly to her co-worker’s hand.
“Please, God! Please!”
Those last cries weren’t meant for her, but Foster felt them bore into her chest and hatch sixty-eight reasons to succeed. That’s what she’d seen on the screen as they entered the Jetway. Sixty-eight seats taken. Sixty-eight souls aboard, including her own.
The plane dropped again, and Foster squeezed Tate’s arms to keep from falling. This was when her life was supposed to flash before her eyes, but Foster didn’t see her end. She saw sixty-seven others. But she could change that. She was powerful. And no one had to die today.
Taking a deep breath, she slid her hands up Tate’s shoulders and clasped her fingers around the back of his neck. She blinked the tears from her eyes and forced herself not to cry again as the plane shook and bounced like it was nothing but a toy and they were just made-up people in a child’s playtime.
“Hey,” she whispered, lifting herself on her tiptoes to press her forehead against Tate’s. Her stomach clenched and the muscles in her legs tightened as she struggled to hold herself steady. “How do you feel about saving some people?”
Tate’s hands combed through her hair before resting on her lower back. “I think it’s what we were born to do.”
Shrieks and sobs tumbled through the cabin, bouncing off the walls, deepening the pit in Foster’s stomach.
“We have to be calm,” Tate whispered, pulling her cl
oser until his breath seeped between her lips. “Be calm.”
Foster swallowed the scream clawing at the back of her throat and closed her eyes, focusing on Tate’s pulse steadily, calmly beating against her palms. It set the slow, sleepy pace of the melody as Foster began humming the first few lines of the strong, soulful lyrics.
Foster felt Tate’s forehead lift with a smile as he sang aloud where she’d left off, his baritone vibrating against her hands.
“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me, ooooooh,”
Foster took a deep breath, the burbles of panic settling as she swallowed.
“And I’m feelin’ good.”
“Foster, look!” Foster’s eyelids snapped open.
Her breath caught in her throat as she followed Tate’s gaze around them, beneath them at the shimmering air currents. But these weren’t the panicked, wavy bursts coming from the mouths of the passengers, these were the currents outside of the rapidly descending aircraft.
“We can see them through the plane.”
Clutching on to Tate’s seat, Foster knelt down, extending her hand toward one of the twisted, spiked, plum-colored currents. Pain slapped her fingers and she recoiled, blood welling from small cuts on her fingertips. “They’re mad. Rageful, even.”
Tate’s knuckles whitened as he flattened his hands against the overhead compartments and used them as braces as the plane jerkily barreled toward the earth. “Together! And no stopping this time. Foster, we can do this.”
Foster held his gaze, those blue eyes anchoring her as they sang together.
“Yeah, it’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me, ooooooh …
And I’m feelin’ good.”
Thunder crashed around them, echoing the boom of trombones Foster heard so clearly in her mind as wind whistled around the plane in time with the molasses drawl of the violins. Hesitantly, Foster reached toward the purple currents beneath her. They bristled and she snapped her hand back before they struck out.