The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(79)

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.