The Dysasters (The Dysasters #1)(94)

“Mark! Stop them!” Eve’s shout split the howling gusts.

Foster’s focus shattered, her hands tingling as air currents flickered to life around her. She had to do something. She wouldn’t be a spectator, not if it meant the Fucktastic Four would win.

A sharp blast of wind caught Eve and she turned, her features softening slightly as she closed her eyes and steadied herself. But there was something about the fullness of her cheeks; her wide-set, almond eyes; and the way she held her mouth that ghosted over Foster’s subconscious, haunting her with a familiarity that made her step forward, closer to Eve, closer to …

Cora?

Foster’s fists relaxed and the shimmering currents dissipated as she stared at a younger copy of the woman she called Mother.

Eve shifted, snapping her attention back to her brothers, and it was gone. Cora’s soft lines cracked like dry earth, exhuming Eve—hard and mean and ruthless.

“Mark, wake the fuck up and do something right!” Luke sneered.

With a commanding sweep of his arms, Mark directed the churning seas, “Bring them back!”

The water rippled and flexed, lifting tongue-like from the sand as it lapped toward Eve, cradling Bastien and Charlotte. He clutched her against him as he rode the wave and pointed at the shore, at Foster. “Take us there, you!” The wave seized a moment as if weighing its options before changing course and heading toward her, Tate, Bugsy, and G-pa.

The wave slid closer, and water rushed around Foster’s feet. “Merci, ami.” Bastien bowed slightly as he and Charlotte stepped from the swell that had rolled out to present them.

The girl tripped and almost fell into Foster. Righting herself quickly, she brushed back a soggy, blond strand of hair and held her hand out as if she was at a cotillion.

“Charmed to meet you. I’m Charlotte and this is Bast—”

“Look around, Scarlet O’Hara. This is not the time for Southern charm.”

“But we’re glad we found the two of you,” Tate added.

“Goddamnit. Bugsy found ’em. But Foster’s right. Southern charm later. Let’s get out of here now,” G-pa said.

“Seriously?” Eve faced their group, her brothers tightening the defensive line behind her. “I know the four of you are special, but Jesus you’re stupid. Or shall we all just have a tea party here and become, wait, how do you say it—BFFs?”

Foster swiped at the droplets clinging to her lashes. “Are we done yet with the tight-ass-bitch routine? I’m pretty fucking tired of standing in a hurricane.”

“And you’re crazy, you,” Bastien muttered.

“He’s right. You’re insane. And we’re going home. Now.” Foster started to back away, and the group moved with her.

“So, are you all children and Foster is your mommy who makes decisions for you?” Eve’s voice filled with sarcasm.

“You were going to tie Mr. Bowen up and drag him down the sand after you told that horrid fire person to burn up his dog. I don’t need a mama to decide for me that I’m not going anywhere with you,” Charlotte was the first to speak up.

“Foster and I are together on this. We want nothing to do with any of you,” Tate said.

“Leave these kids alone and crawl back under whatever rock someone was stupid enough to lift off you,” G-pa grumbled.

“Old man, I have had all I can take of your mouth!” Luke raised his hands and as they began to glow, he started forward.

Tate moved fast, shoving his grandpa and Bugsy behind him. The four kids stood side by side, blocking Luke.

Foster took half a step forward. Wind followed her, lifting her wild red hair ominously. “I will blow that little hand fire of yours up your ass if you try that shit with us.” The sky above Foster darkened as air rotated around them, blowing out Luke’s twin flames like candles on a birthday cake.

“Oooh, so angry! So passionate! Father’s going to love dealing with you,” Eve said.

“Too bad he won’t get the chance,” Foster replied.

“Oh, sister. That’s just one of the many things you’re wrong about.” Then Eve lifted her foot and stomped. Hard.

The earth beneath them shivered as if they were standing on a plate of Jell-O, knocking Foster to her knees. Tate was there in an instant, taking her arm and helping her regain her feet.

“Get off me!” Foster jerked free. “I can handle her myself.” Undiscovered rage coiled in her gut. Her father had sent the Four. He’d put her and Cora through the anguish of losing him and the panic of running from his sick creations, and for what? So he could send the children he deemed worthy of his love to capture the only one who truly knew him as father?

Foster understood how he saw her.

She wasn’t deserving.

Message received.

Now she’d send a message of her own.

It started with her hair—the air lifting her long, wet strands as if gravity had stitched itself between the clouds. Currents blazed to life around her, snapping snake-like at the unrelenting rain as her arms lifted and her heels rose weightless from the sand.

“Cyclone,” Bastien breathed, and Foster tilted her chin toward the heavens.

The clouds were cement, pouring a thick, gray funnel above her like ice cream. Foster’s spine frosted and her feet settled against the earth.