The Dysasters

by P. C. Cast

  As they continued to sing, Foster poured every bit of herself into the jazzy lyrics.

  Her story wouldn’t end like this.

  Music surged through the plane and pulsed past its aluminum shell to settle the softening spikes of air, lightening from violet to amethyst to lavender. It was magickal, and, for a split second, Foster wished everyone could see the true beauty of her element.

  The nose of the plane started to tip back up, up, up until they were level. Foster released her grip on the seat and flexed her aching, stiff fingers.

  “It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me”

  She reached her arms out by her sides. The shimmering, periwinkle currents rippled around her like a school of fish, each nestling against her palm in silent thanks before twirling around the tips of her fingers and joining the vast openness surrounding them. Foster’s hair swirled around her, and Tate spun her into his arms as the music swelled.

  “And I’m feelin’ … good.”

  From behind her, seat belts clicked open, shifting Foster’s focus from the elation in Tate’s blue eyes to the shaking flight attendant closing in on them.

  “Seats!” With a trembling hand, she pointed to their chairs. “Now!”

  Tate released Foster and, bowing awkwardly, he herded her back to their places. “Just figured that if we were going to die, we might as well go out with a little song and dance.”

  “Seat belts!” The flight attendant snapped less as she clutched the seat backs and continued her jittery walk toward the back of the plane.

  The captain’s heavy voice came back over the loudspeaker, announcing something about landing, but Foster couldn’t pay attention. If they hadn’t gotten yelled at, she’d still be in the aisle. Only this time, instead of wedging herself between the rows and hoping they wouldn’t all die, she’d be running up and down, kissing babies and doing cartwheels. Neither were things she’d ever do normally, but this wasn’t a normal situation. They had just saved a whole plane full of people!

  She turned in her seat, pressed her palms against Tate’s cheeks, and pulled his face to hers. She gave him a big, happy, hooray-we’re-not-dead smooch, only releasing him when she needed to breathe.

  Foster’s stomach flip-flopped as the plane touched down with a jolt.

  “Holy shit,” Tate said, unbuckling his seat belt and standing robotically. “Holy shit. Holy shit.”

  Foster avoided the flight attendant’s disapproving glare as she followed Tate through the Jetway and into the airport.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Is that all you’re going to say?” Foster looped her arm through his and whispered. “We just stopped a fucking plane from crashing.”

  “Yes!” he exclaimed a little too loudly. “Holy shit!”

  “And saw air currents through solid objects. Like, what the fuck was that all about?”

  “Magic,” this time, he joined Foster in whispering, “fucking superhero magic.”

  “Holy shit!” Foster said, realizing that it did indeed encompass her feelings.

  “You were amazing.” Shuffling out of the flow of traffic, Tate pulled her into his arms. “And Michael Buble,” his breath brushed against her lips. “Who knew he would help save us from dying.”

  Foster pulled back, shaking her head. “Try Nina Simone, the High Priestess of Soul. Cora used to say that her voice was the closest thing in this world to magic. That her songs could cast spells that would make everything else disappear. I figured we needed a little bit of that. So, thank you, Nina.” Foster tipped her chin toward the sky. “For all you went through. You completely saved us.”

  “Don’t forget about us. We had a little something to do with it, too. The Super Sauvies for the win!”

  “No,” Foster wrinkled her nose as she and Tate joined the rest of the bodies heading to the rental car desk. “I mean, Super Sauvies is horrible, and we also aren’t very super. That was almost a total disaster.”

  “Inside a disaster.” He waggled his eyebrows. “Is that meta?”

  Foster practically saw the lightbulb go off above her head. “We’re the Disasters, not the Super Sauvies.”

  “But it wasn’t a disaster,” Tate said with a sigh. “We’re on the ground.” He hopped up and down. “See? And we’re alive. Again, I say total win.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Foster walked on a few paces before realizing Tate wasn’t still next to her.

  “Holy shit!” Foster turned to face him along with almost everyone else rushing through the terminal. “We’re the Disasters!”

  26

  G-PA

  Bowen dressed carefully. He wasn’t going to let something stupid like a wardrobe malfunction screw up his well-laid plans.

  He pulled on his comfortable work jeans and covered a slick, form-fitting wetsuit shirt with an old University of Illinois sweatshirt. He chose his sand shoes, a worn pair of Vibram’s that he’d spent the season breaking in. From the top drawer of his dresser he grabbed a stash of cash, his identification, and a razor-sharp pocketknife that had belonged to his father. He stuffed all of that up under his shirt where it hid snugly against his waist.

  Bugsy came up to him, wagging her tail expectantly.

  “That’s right, old girl. Stick close to me. You heard ’em last night. They’re up to some nasty shenanigans and they’ve picked the wrong old man to mess with.”

  As he shaved, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair, Bowen thought back over the previous day. After Eve hung up on Foster, Bowen had been careful to make it clear that Matthew and Luke had hurt him badly when they’d wrestled him away from the phone.

  It was, of course, a big ol’ lie. They’d only bruised him a bit. He’d been hurt worse playing with Bugs-a-Million. But those two young assholes didn’t know that, and hadn’t cared at all that he limped around—that much was obvious. The man named Mark was different. Mark had made sure Bowen had an ice pack to put on the hip he’d pretended pained him, and kept dosing him with ibuprofen. Then Eve had started her interrogation.

  “Mr. Bowen, where’s Tate?” Eve had asked once Bowen was settled in his recliner with the ice pack and a short glass of whiskey.

  “On his way here, I expect.”

  “No, I mean where has he been these past several weeks?”

  “I have no goddamn idea.”

  “Right. Just like you had no goddamn idea your grandson was alive,” Luke said sarcastically.

  “I lied about that,” Bowen admitted easily. “Wouldn’t you? I don’t know what exactly is going on with that boy, but I do know you’re not family and I have no reason to trust you.”

  “That’s a good point,” Mark said, taking a seat across the coffee table from him on the couch. “We’re not family, but we do want to help Tate and Foster—and only we can help them.”

  “What exactly did Tate tell you about what’s happened to him and Foster?” Eve asked.

  Bowen shrugged. “Well, didn’t seem to be much to tell. He said he and Foster are somehow connected to tornadoes. Don’t know how—don’t know why. But they’re scared, I can tell you that.”

  “You’re telling us your scared grandson who you thought was dead has been calling you, and you couldn’t even get him to tell you where he is?” Luke scoffed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  Bowen frowned at the young man and shook his head. “You have mean eyes. Has anyone ever told you that, boy?”

  “I’m not a boy, old man. I’m thirty-six.”

  “I’m almost eighty, and from where I’m sitting you’re a boy. A mean little boy who doesn’t seem to have been raised right.”

  “He might be mean,” Mark interrupted, “but his question is valid. You’re not a mean man, Mr. Bowen. So it’s hard for me to believe Tate wouldn’t confide his whereabouts to you.”

  Bowen sighed and shifted in the chair, being sure to moan painfully before answering. “Yep, yep, yep that surprised me, too. But I didn’t take into account the girl.”


  “Foster?” Eve leaned forward from her seat on the couch beside Mark.

  “Yeah.” Bowen did his best grumpy old man impression, which was spot-on because sometimes he was truly a grumpy old man. “Girl’s got him whipped. Tate did call me without telling her, but I haven’t been able to convince the boy to tell me where they are. I’ve been trying to make him admit to that girl he and I are talking, and then bring her to the damn phone, but before today he’s refused. Said Foster would be mad. Seeing as he’s gone sweet on her, that’d be a bad thing.”

  “He’s right,” Mark said to Eve. “We didn’t take into account that Tate would fall for Foster.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Bowen said. “Why are you the only ones who can help my Tate?”

  Eve and Mark shared a long look before Mark turned to Bowen. “We’re connected to tornadoes, too. Or, rather, Matthew is, and it’s not just tornadoes. It’s the element air. I’m water. Eve is earth. Luke is fire.”

  “Figures,” Bowen said, sending Luke a dark look. “So, this does have something to do with Foster’s adopted father—Rick Stewart, the geneticist.”

  “It does,” Mark said.

  “And that’s all we’re going to say about that,” Eve added. “But we are the only people who truly understand what your grandson and Foster are going through, and because of that, we’re the only people who can help them control it.”

  “Then why don’t you just do that? Help ’em. Instead of trapping and kidnapping ’em.”

  “We’re not kidnapping anyone,” Mark said.

  “Sure, boy,” Bowen said. “Just like you’re not holding me here against my will.” He shook his head in disgust. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, but if you stay with this lot you’re going to be forced to do things bad people do.”

  “Hey, old man,” Luke sneered. “If we were really bad guys we’d gag you so that we wouldn’t have to listen to your crap.”

  “Ya see, young pup, the thing is, I believe that’s the least of what you’d do to me if Mark wasn’t here to stop you.”

  Luke stood and started to approach Bowen. Waves of heat began to lift from his skin and Bowen could feel the fire that simmered too close to Luke’s surface.

  “Enough!” Eve snapped. “Luke, go outside in the rain and cool yourself down.” She turned to Bowen. “First, stop baiting them. Next, you need to understand that I’m in charge—not Luke, not Matthew, and not Mark. So if you want to be saved, you better look to me for that.”

  Bowen tilted his head and studied Eve. “Well, young lady, instead I think I’ll stick with a motto that has served me well for almost eighty years.”

  “And what’s that?” she asked.

  “The only person I can truly count on is myself. If I need savin’, I’ll manage it, like I’ve managed for almost a century.”

  “Must suck to be so fucking old,” halfway out the door, Luke called back nastily over his shoulder.

  “No, boy. It’s the alternative that sucks. That and having to deal with jackasses like you for such a long damn time.”

  Matthew’s sarcastic laughter filled the room. “The old dude’s funny!” he said.

  “Matthew, shut up. Luke! Get outside,” Eve shouted, eyes flashing. “Bowen, you need to shut your mouth, too.”

  “Fine with me. Like my dad used to say, there’s no sense in arguing with drunks, fools, or mules.” Bowen settled back in his recliner and lifted his empty whiskey glass. “Mark, would you help an old man out and refresh this? And hand me the remote. I’m sure there’s a game on somewhere.”

  Bowen had sipped whiskey and watched football into the evening, pretending to get drunk and pass out so that Eve let down her guard. Her whispers to the three men she called brothers, but who obviously were not blood relations, made his stomach clench with fear for Tate and Foster—and the six other kids these four were determined to capture.

  Not if I have any say about it, you won’t.

  A little after dark, Mark “woke” him and helped him up the stairs to his bedroom, where Bowen settled in to get a good night’s sleep. He’d need his rest. He’d decided to get the hell out of there first thing in the morning.

  * * *

  Slowly, quietly, carefully, Bowen made his way down the stairs. Bugs-a-Million, as always, was by his side, but the big dog was surprisingly graceful and truly intelligent. She crept with him, making no noise at all. Not far from the bottom of the stairway, the voices that were just susurrus became intelligible, lifting with the tantalizing scents of breakfast and the distant drone of the TV. Bowen and the big dog froze, listening carefully.

  “You’re cooking? You haven’t cooked in years.” Bowen recognized the deep voice as that of Mark, the only one of the four of them with troubled eyes.

  “I thought it would make the old man feel better. We were pretty rough with him yesterday. I don’t want him hurt. Hell, Mark, I don’t want him at all. Just the kids, and we’re not even going to hurt them.” Eve’s voice carried easily to Bowen, making him suppress a sarcastic snort.

  “Nah, we’re not going to hurt them. We’re just going to completely uproot them from their families and disrupt their lives forever,” Mark said.

  Bowen nodded in silent agreement with Mark.

  “Come on. They’ll be fine. Better than fine. They’ll have money and their own space on the island, and they’ll learn to control their powers without hurting people,” Eve said.

  “Gilded cage.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she said.

  “You know what it means. You’ve been living in one your entire life, and now you want to be someone else’s jailor? It’s not right, Eve.”

  “I’m not going to be anyone’s jailor. I’m going to have my freedom. Just like you will,” Eve said.

  “Oh, that’s right. The ‘we’ll be free and rich but out of Father’s reach’ pipe dream.” Mark’s voice was heavy with sarcasm.

  “It’s not a pipe dream. It’s going to be our reality once we get all eight of those kids to Father.”

  “You sound like you really believe that.”

  “I don’t just believe it, I’m going to make it happen. For all four of us. Now, we need to talk about the hurricane.”

  Bowen moved a little closer, wanting to be sure he caught every word.

  “Nothing to talk about. I’ve changed its trajectory. It’s heading directly for us.”

  “Oh, well. That’s good. That’s exactly what I wanted you to do.” Even from where Bowen crouched he could hear the surprise in Eve’s voice.

  “I thought the change was smart. Bolivar Peninsula is less inhabited than Galveston Island.”

  “Good point, well done,” Eve said. But Bowen could tell by her tone that she really didn’t give a damn.

  “I also made another change. It’s not a hurricane. It’s a tropical storm.”

  “Uh-uh, that’s not what we agreed to.”

  “Well, when it’s earth’s turn you do what you think is best. It’s water’s turn, and I think it’s irresponsible to create a hurricane and then send it to smash into lowlands like this peninsula or Galveston Island. It’s already bad out there. And besides that, if there’s much more than a tropical storm warning they’re going to start evacuating, and then we’ll never find Charlotte and Bastien.”

  “Okay, you’re right about that. Actually, you’re very right.” Eve’s voice sounded sly and pleased. Very pleased. “You said the eye of the storm is headed directly for us here?”

  “Yes. It’s about eight-thirty right now. It should come to shore in the next hour.”

  “Perfect. It’ll draw the water kids here. The old man said he owns the two hundred acres surrounding the house, and no one else lives on it. He has a beach that stretches for hundreds of yards—a private beach. Those two kids will be simple to grab.”

  “Then we sit here and wait for Tate and Foster and, eventually, Charlotte and Bastien?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you
think they’re really just going to walk into this trap?” Mark asked.

  “I know they will, or at least Tate will. We have the only person left in Tate’s family. He’ll be here. Once we have him it’ll just be a matter of time before he gives up his girlfriend,” Eve said.

  Bowen had heard enough. He signaled for Bugsy to follow him back up the stairs. He grabbed the walking stick he’d carved himself and turned to the big dog. Looking her in her bright, intelligent eyes, he said, “All right Ms. Bugsy, we’re ready for our close-up,” he misquoted Sunset Boulevard as the dog’s tail wagged enthusiastically. “Let’s do this.”

  When Linus Bowen started down the stairs the second time, it seemed a different man inhabited his skin—an older, sicker, frailer man who could barely hobble without leaning on the cane and the big dog. He was halfway down the stairs when Mark’s head appeared. The man was frowning and looking pale and miserable.

  “Mr. Bowen, here, let me help you.” Mark started up the stairs, but Bugsy’s warning growl had him hesitating.

  “Nope, nope nope. Can make it down just fine,” Bowen said between exaggerated pants and his very best old man moans. “We’re used to doing things by ourselves. Don’t like people much.” He made sure to glare at Mark as the man retreated so that he and Bugsy could limp past him.

  “Good morning, Mr. Bowen! I have fresh coffee brewed and I’m making your favorite, steak and eggs with all the fixings,” Eve smiled prettily over her shoulder as she stirred what Bowen thought smelled like grits.

  “See you made yourself at home,” Bowen grumbled. “Even though no one gave you permission to.”

  “Well, I thought since you couldn’t make it to your Corner Café this morning—I’d make the Corner Café come to you. I’ll even pour your coffee.”

  She was doing just that when Bowen caught her gaze with his. “How long have you been following me?”

  She laughed. “Oh, not long at all. But you were a hard man to find. Why is that, Mr. Bowen? Hey, may I call you Linus?”