The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(58)

The clouds began dissipating immediately.

Then Foster wasn’t shivering anymore as the air around them settled, softened, and warmed.

“That’s awesome!” Tate said. “But there’re still more clouds back there that need to clear up.” Tate lifted his arms higher, focusing on the bruise-colored cumulous mountains of water and dust particles that billowed ominously in the distance. “Hey, there’s no need to be so pissed off,” he told the clouds. “Be chill like the Rat Pack. Everything’s okay.” As those distant clouds began to flatten and fade away, Tate could hardly contain his joy. They were doing it! They were controlling this disaster! As his happy thought formed, Tate felt himself being cradled by air and, ever so gently, he lifted—going up, up, up like he might join the last of the clouds playing across the sunset sky.

He lifted higher, and then higher, until he was hovering just beneath the roofline of the barn-like store.

“Tate! Be careful!” Foster was looking up at him with a mixed expression of worry and delight.

“It’s fine! This is cool!” Tate wasn’t afraid, and he was shocked that he wasn’t because he’d thought about it, a lot actually, since the day air had dropped him on his butt. And his thought was that he was definitely not Superman, and any flying should be left to Superman.

Yet there he was, hovering a good twenty feet or more in the clearing air, and loving every moment of it. He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace the glistening strands of the air superhighway that was all around him, which is when it happened.

First, he felt it. It was a sensation he’d never had before, and it started in his hands—his widely outstretched hands. The only thing that came close to what was happening to them was how his foot felt if he sat on it too long and it went to sleep, but the sensation wasn’t an awful one. It wasn’t painful, though it was weirdly numbing. Not understanding what he was feeling, Tate glanced at his right hand.

It wasn’t there!

It was gone!

Tate fisted his fingers, squeezing hard. He could feel his hand responding—squeezing, but he saw nothing there but air and sky.

Tate’s gaze flew to this other hand. It, too, was missing—as well as a part of his left forearm.

A terrible foreboding skittered down Tate’s spine.

“Tate?”

He looked down at Foster and found his voice. “Something’s happening to me! I’m—I’m disappearing.”

He saw her eyes widen and her brows shoot up to her auburn hairline as she looked from one side of his body to the other … from one disappearing hand to the disappearing arm attached to it … to the other.

Tate’s breath was coming fast. His hands felt cold. Really, really cold. Need to get down … need to get down … need to get down … The words were a silent litany in his mind, but his body didn’t move. The air didn’t obey him, and his right forearm began to disappear.

“Tate.”

He heard her voice, but he couldn’t take his eyes from his disappearing arm. He was afraid if he looked down, the next time he glanced back at himself he’d have no arm … no arm at all.

“They’re not there, but I can feel them,” Tate shouted, hoping Foster could hear him. “They’re there—I promise! But I … but I…”

“Tate!” Her voice coming from directly beside him jolted Tate enough that he was able to tear his gaze from his disappearing limbs.

Foster floated in the air next him. Her hair was lifting gently around her, and he saw that she had to use one hand to hold her dress down. He almost smiled at that, but realized it was hard to make his voice work.

“Tate, pull it together! I’m right here!” Foster reached out, flailed through the air a little, and then her hand connected with Tate’s cold, invisible hand. “Hey, look in my eyes!”

Tate did as she said, and the cold, empty feeling in his hands changed. He could feel her pulse against his skin, and her warmth. He could also feel how tightly she was gripping his hand.

And he was able to draw a long, deep breath.

“Look,” Foster said softly, cutting her eyes to their joined hands.

Hesitantly, Tate peeked at them …

“It’s visible! I can see me again!”

“Yeah, Tate! We’re doing it!” Foster echoed his words.

They hung in the air while Tate breathed deeply and gripped Foster’s hand.

“Okay, wind, don’t play with my dress, please,” Foster spoke nonchalantly, like she was asking Sabine if she’d stop tapping her fingernails on the table.

Tate was wondering what she was up to when she lifted her hand from her dress and gracefully floated around so that she was facing him. Smiling a little shyly, Foster felt along his right arm until she found his invisible hand. She wove her fingers with his, and he breathed even easier as his right hand filled with warmth and became visible.

“Whew, that’s good. I can see both your hands now. How are you feeling?” she asked.

“Amazing. I think. Maybe a little light-headed, but better. A lot better with you up here, too.” Tate glanced down. “Uh, any idea what we should do now?”

“Well, maybe. It’s just a guess, but how about we think about drifting slowly, real slowly, back to the ground?” Foster said. “Like to the tempo of a lullaby, um…” she paused, thinking, then a quick grin turned up the corners of her lips. ‘Moon River’! Cora used to sing it to me at bedtime. Do you know it?”