“Vermont,” Foster whispered as she read the headline. “That can’t be right. Five tornadoes don’t just touch down in Vermont on a Sunday afternoon.” She clicked the refresh button, and the page reloaded. “Have five tornadoes ever touched down in Vermont?” she asked rhetorically.
White letters glared at her from the empty black rectangle where the video had been only moments before. This station is no longer streaming live. Check back soon for more from WCAX.
“Jesus, Foster! It’s happening there, too. Just like it did back home. But it’s not supposed to. Not outside of Tornado Alley. Not usually even in Tornado Alley. Not until recently.” Tate sagged down onto the stack of boxes next to the desk. “Those poor people. They didn’t see it coming. Someone needs to help them.”
Foster snorted. “Someone? Tate, we are that someone.”
“But how? We suck as superheroes.”
“Oh, so you’re already giving up? Seriously?” Hands on hips, she pinned him with her narrowed gaze.
Then it happened. Again. A warm, comforting breeze swirled around her, caressing her heated face, before it swooped down to lift the papers they’d left haphazardly scattered on the desk, allowing all of them to fall back into place except for one—the one with the strange dates written on it. Tate’s defeated eyes found that one piece of paper the same time hers did and they reached for it as they spoke together.
“There’s something about this,” Foster said.
“Hey, I think I get this!” Tate said.
Tate lurched up from his seat on the boxes, grabbing the still fluttering paper as Foster stared at it.
“Check this out. Eighteen twenty-one is the year Missouri became a state! And that’s where I was born,” Tate said.
“How do you know that?”
Tate’s handsome face broke into a wide grin, making him look boyish again. “Public education, Strawberry.”
Foster frowned at him and sucked in air. Strawberry? No one calls me that but Cora!
“Where were you born?”
“Huh?”
He jutted out his chin and released an exasperated puff of air. “Where. Were. You. Born? As in, what state?”
“California.”
“And what year did that become a state?”
She wasn’t sure. And why was that so harped on in school that even Tate remembered it? Wasn’t it more important to know how to grow your own food or file taxes or change a tire?
Tate pointed at the open laptop on Cora’s desk.
“Fine,” she grunted. “I’ll Google it.” Her fingers flew across the keys and, sure enough, eighteen fifty popped up after the question: When did CA become a state? “Shit! You’re right.”
“Google the rest of the dates!” Tate craned his neck to look over her shoulder. “I think we’re on to something Foster, but we need to find the others, and we need to find them now.”
“Of course we are. Cora left the breadcrumbs and we’re birding them. We can help,” Foster said, her voice holding a lot more confidence than she felt. “We will help. We have to. No one else can. After all,” she gave him a sassy sideways smile. “We are the Planeteers.”
12
EVE
Eve smiled as she approached Mark, who was sitting on the sunlit beach, his loose linen pants rolled up and his feet submerged in water and sand. He was bare chested and his long, dark hair floated free around his broad shoulders. Mark was a grown man, but what Eve saw when she looked at him, especially when he was on this beach, was the sweet, sensitive boy he used to be.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
He didn’t even look up at her, but patted the sand next to him as if offering a seat. “It’s pretty easy to find any of us on this island, which is no accident—as we all know.”
Eve sat beside him, delicately crossing her legs under her so that not even her feet touched the salty water.
“You still don’t like the ocean?” His tone was light and teasing. It was a family joke between them. If they were in the middle of the country—as they just had been—Mark continually asked, “Are we there yet?” Meaning, are they back on the coast yet, echoing the whining he used to do as a child whenever Father took them off island. Eve had, of course, been the opposite, and only felt truly at peace when miles and miles and miles of ocean-free land surrounded her.
“Never have. Never will,” Eve said firmly. “You are the only water I like.”
As if in petulant response to her statement, an errant wave washed too close to her feet. With a quick, slight motion of his hand, Mark directed his element to stay back.
“Better?” he asked.
“Of course. And thanks.”
“Of course. And you’re welcome.” Mark sighed, his gaze resting on the turquoise waves. “Where is he?”
“In his laboratory staring at nothing, as usual. Did Matthew have any luck picking up credit card usage for either of the kids?” Eve asked, even though she knew the answer. Had her brothers found even a hint of anything she would have been the first to know.
“Nothing. The boy’s parents were killed at the stadium. He’s listed as missing and presumed dead, with a couple dozen or so other teenagers. A bunch of them were stupid enough to run to their cars instead of into the school, which was a designated disaster shelter. One of the funnels sucked up the cars and after it spit them out they exploded, making it tough to identify the remains.” Mark shook his head. “Idiot teenagers.”
“But you’re sure it was him with Foster in that truck, right?”
“I’m positive.” Mark picked up a broken shell and heaved it into the ocean. “I’m so pissed that none of us got the license plate number on that damn truck.”
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up. You would’ve caught them if they hadn’t invoked another tornado. And there’s no way any of us—not even Father—would have believed they could have shown that much control over air that soon.”
“How bad is he today?”
Eve worried her bottom lip between her teeth before answering in one clipped word. “Bad.”
“Damn, I’m sorry, Eve. Is there anything I can do?”
“Find those kids. He’s as obsessed with them as he is with my crystals. I’ll handle Father.”