Before the sun had a chance to rise, Chris abandoned his unsuccessful attempts to go back to sleep. The mat he was trying to sleep on was about one notch more comfortable than solid ground. Plus, he was sleeping next to Joe, not exactly Chris's idea, but until they made more grass mattresses and put an addition onto the hut, the sleeping arrangements would have to suffice.
If he could find the time and if their stay was longer than a few days, then he had big plans for the place. The homestead needed to be big enough for three generations of MacRaes . . . and the princess.
After spending a few minutes shifting and realigning his bones, he crawled over his dead-to-the-world brother, who just so happened to have all the blankets coiled around him.
Chris went to the kitchen area looking for something to eat. He peeked inside various sacks and canisters—flour, dried fruit, sugar, leftover bread, jam, and dried meat.
He was slicing himself a piece of bread when his father came through the hut door, letting in the first rays of sunlight. Scott looked like he had already been awake for hours. His heavy breathing, loose stride, and damp clothes suggested he was just returning from a workout.
"Good. You're already up," Scott said in a low voice. "Is your brother awake yet?" He stroked his beard and squinted over at the lifeless bundle in the corner of the room.
Chris raised both eyebrows in sheer disbelief that his father had just asked that. Surely, he remembered that Joe and morning didn't go well together. "I'm pretty sure he's still asleep."
"Well, wake him. We have to be there in less than an hour."
Scott strolled over to the kitchen shelves. He grabbed an inconspicuous sack and began munching on what looked like candied pineapple. His father always did have a strange obsession with the fruit. It was probably among his reasons for abandoning the North Atlantic. Fresh seafood just didn't compare.
"Where is 'there'?" Chris asked just before his father walked outside.
Scott turned around and rested his arm on the partially open door. "You're going to start training with the Kāne Army today."
"Oh," Chris replied, surprised.
"Are you all right with that?"
"Absolutely. This is just the first time I'm hearing about it. Do they train nearby?"
"Their basecamp is about a ten-minute walk. So, get ready, and meet me outside."
Once Scott left and reality set in, Chris developed a nervous pit in his stomach. Whenever physical activity was called for, he pushed himself to maximize his performance. Today would be no exception. He wanted to shine like never before.
Chris paced around itemizing and prioritizing everything he needed to accomplish before he left. He was about to sit down and eat his breakfast when his brother's snoring changed his course. Since rousing Joe would be arduous and time-consuming, Chris made it a priority and nudged his brother with the side of his foot.
Joe rolled away from the unwelcome assault and pulled the blankets over his bed-matted hair. Chris nudged him again, harder.
"Huh?" Joe grumbled in response.
"Get up. We have to leave soon," Chris said in a firm whisper.
Joe lifted his head from the pillow and squinted toward a glassless window. "It's still dark out. Go to hell," he replied like a grizzly bear. His head collapsed and he pulled the blanket back over it.
Chris squatted and shook his shoulder. "Come on. Get up, or Dad's gonna like me better for once."
"Never gonna happen," was Joe's retort, awake enough to set that record straight with an immediacy that was customary for him. "Ten more minutes," he tagged on. "Or better yet, how does an hour sound?"
Chris chuckled. "Do I look like an alarm clock?"
Joe didn't answer. Instead, he curled into a ball and rolled away from Chris's reach.
Chris simply went to the kitchen, returned with a bucket of water, and dumped it over Joe's head.
Joe sprang to life and conjured up the most disgruntled of faces. "You rat bastard! I hate you."
Chris considered Joe about as intimidating as a lapdog—noisy and feisty at times, but not exactly life-threatening. Chris squatted down and rumpled Joe's wet hair. "Yeah, but I wuv you."
He shot to his feet before Joe made an attempt to slug him.
"Don't talk to me!" Joe said with his unwelcoming palms up. He then stretched and rubbed his eyes. "Why on earth are you so chipper? It's really irritating this early in the morning."
"Me? Chipper? You're obviously mistaken."
"You should be shaking with fear." Joe bobbed a scolding finger at him. "Payback is going to be a real bitch!"
"If I had boots, I'd be shaking in them."
"You just wait. It'll be messy and embarrassing."
Chris gave him the "whatever" eye flutter. "C'mon. Get changed. We begin fairy bootcamp in half an hour."
"Oh, joy. I can't wait. I knew there was a great reason why I should be awake."
Joe untangled himself from the damp blankets and changed his clothes. He then joined Chris for a quick breakfast.
They were about to head out when Joe pointed over his shoulder to the bedroom area, dark and curtained off. "Is she still asleep?"
"Yeah. She's still in there. I assume she's sleeping." Finally, Chris almost added.
"Should we wake her and let her know what's going on?"
"Let her sleep," Chris said. "She was up most of the night."
While Chris was tossing and turning, he was in good company. There were a few stretches of time where she was quiet, but they were interrupted with gasps, twitchy movement, and the occasional whimper. He had a feeling her quiet periods were because she was awake, not asleep.
"We should at least leave her a note." Joe found a sheet of paper and what appeared to be a handmade fairy pencil. He sat at the table and teetered it in his grip. And he waited, as if for inspiration. The pencil end went to his chin.
"It's not a freakin' love poem. Give me the pencil." Chris's hand shook impatiently. Joe didn't hand it over, so Chris snatched it and started writing. "Dearest C-a-s-s-i-o-p-i-a," he mockingly read out loud as he wrote.
"It's p-e-i-a," Joe corrected disdainfully.
Chris gave Joe a slanted glance but wedged in the e. "Went to train with the army. Be back later. Love, Joe." Chris then slapped the pencil down next to the paper.
Joe's mouth gaped open. "How dare you sign my name to that artless atrocity?"
Chris ignored him. "Let's go. We're late."
He left the hut and met up with Scott by his tent. "Where's Joe?"
Chris swiveled around and peered at the door he had left open on purpose. "I don't know. I thought he was right behind me."
Joe was probably rewriting the note to Cassie. Why else would he be taking so long? He was drafting the perfect prose. It would have to be witty as well as informative. But jeez! They didn't have all day!
At last, Joe came outside. The smug look on his face made Chris a little uneasy. Whenever Joe said something like "payback is a bitch," he meant it. But Chris didn't ask. He didn't want to know.
Joe's look turned serious and professional as soon as Scott acknowledged him. "Where to?"
Scott handed them swords and gestured for them to follow. "This way."
"Is this your sword?" Chris flipped the weapon back and forth in his palms and then slashed it through the air. It moved impressively fast, and the swooping sound was clean and crisp. He liked the feel of the sword as well. It had a practical silver hilt, fit perfectly in his grip, and was surprisingly lightweight for its length.
And with it came a strange sense of déjà vu. But he had never held his father's sword before. Deep down, did he know he was a fairy before this quest began? Yes, he believed, but the fine points didn't fortify into something sharp until he was face to face with the truth.
"Yes. I'm not using it much these days, though. It's yours now," Scott answered after the pause that had allowed Chris's mind to wander.
Joe struggled to match their stride. "What about this one?"
Scott glanced over. "That's mine, too."
Joe's sword was smaller, blunter, and didn't look nearly as lethal. "It might be yours, but it's not yours. Is that right?"
Scott didn't answer. And except for Joe's scowl, he didn't protest.
Soon, weapons clashed and clanged, the sound piercing through the humid jungle air and dense foliage. The terrain opened into a clearing.
Dozens of fairies in uniform—army-green knee-length pants and sleeveless tunics—were chatting, warming up, or fencing in the trimmed grass. The slight majority of them had wings; some were even sparring while in flight.
It would have made sense if there were two separate groups, winged or wingless, but they were all intermingled and seemed equally skilled and socially compatible. They did stop what they were doing, however, and gawk at them, not for their lack of wings but likely for more human reasons—unfamiliarity, ethnic dissimilarity, and who they were with—the legendary Scott MacRae.
And just like everywhere else in the fairy realm, Chris and Joe were the odd ones out. It wasn't said, but it was surely felt.
Chris watched Joe give everyone a slight grin and a nod of acknowledgment. Chris tried to do the same, but he didn't think he had pulled it off as well. He was only making the effort because he was among "friends." Yet the word seemed foreign to him. Maybe it had been too long since he had bothered making any.
Whatever the reason—or the excuse—he felt like the new kid on the first day of school. And there was little hope he would ever blend in.
Without any instruction to do otherwise, Joe and Chris started warming up together with some light swordplay. As the day progressed, most fairies went about their business with only occasional glances in their direction. But throughout the sparring, an outdoor lunch, a brief free time, and then more sparring, an imposing figure on the opposite side of the field kept glowering at them.
Chris pretended not to notice.
But Joe kept peeking at him when he could get away with it. "Hey, Chris," he said as the large fairy stopped his workout to speak with Kimo Jokura. "Isn't that Kale, Alana's older brother?"
"Yeah, that's him all right," Chris replied with undisguised contempt.
Joe jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow. "Aren't you going to say hello?"
Chris pulled his head back and raised his eyebrows as if to say, What? Are you nuts?
"So that's a no, then?"
"More like a 'no way in hell.' Are you going to say hello?"
"He's not my brother-in-law!" Joe said, his tone ringing with both fear and awe.
It was no surprise to Chris that Joe was eying him warily. Kale had the wingspan of a hawk and outweighed him by a Cassie-sized fairy, maybe more, and it was all muscle.
"If he knows about Simona. . ." Chris chided as he squeezed Joe's bony shoulder, "you are in deep shit!"
"Yeah, I was young, but I do vaguely recall what you went through with Alana."
"Hmmm," was Chris's only reply.
Kale wrapped up his conversation with his father and stared in their direction as if he knew they were talking about him.
Chris, tired of yielding, let his glare cross paths with Kale's. If he didn't stand his ground early on, he might forever be perceived as a subordinate. He was all for paying his respects to those with higher rank and more experience, but this was Kale and the etiquette did not apply.
"I wonder why he's here?" Joe asked. "He's obviously been here a long time. And his sisters didn't even know they were fairies."
"I've been wondering the same damn thing." Chris had taken Kale's presence as a slap in the face. He had known where Scott was. He was probably aware of the danger they were all in for some time, and yet he told no one. But this was not the time or place to make a scene, Chris decided. "Come on," he said to Joe. "I want to forget about him by kicking your ass some more."
Joe sprang into his "ready" position and pointed the tip of his sword at Chris's abdomen. "You will do no such thing! En garde!"
Chris ducked out of the way of his lousy swing. "Watch it, Joe! You could take someone's guts out with your aim." Chris easily found his rhythm and Joe had to stumble backward to keep up.
They practiced for a while longer, but the day was growing warmer and Joe was losing his ability to take anything seriously.
Chris made the most of his complacence and knocked the sword out of Joe's hand. "Is that the best you can do, rookie?"
"You haven't seen anything yet!" Joe retrieved the sword and started swinging it over his head like an inebriated ninja. "Waaaa . . . waaaa. Who's the rookie now? Yeah, that's what I thought! You're terrified of me!"
Chris tried to keep a straight face, but he couldn't take things seriously either with his substandard partner acting like a clown.
"Joe, can you come here for a second?" They both turned toward their father's voice. Scott tossed a red ball into the air, about the size of a baseball, and caught it on its descent.
Joe shrugged and went to see what he wanted.
"Should I come too?" Chris shouted after them.
"I'll work with you later," Scott replied.
They disappeared into the jungle, leaving Chris in the open field, alone and confused.
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Joe and Scott found a secluded spot in the shade. While Scott continued to toss the ball to himself, Joe stood there waiting for an explanation. When he didn't immediately receive one, he said, "Dad, if you want to play pitch and catch, I think you have the wrong son."
"Humor me for a few minutes."
"Sure," Joe replied tentatively.
"I have a feeling that learning to fight with a sword is a waste of your time."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
"That's not what I meant. I just know how your mind works. Stay right there," Scott instructed, and he walked away.
Joe knew he was going to throw the ball, but before he could figure out why, Scott chucked it at him, seemingly as hard as he could.
Joe brought his hands up for protection. The ball bounced off his right hand and hit the ground.
It looked like a baseball and felt like one, too. Essentially, it was as hard as a rock.
"Ow!" Joe shook his hand and lifted his stinging fingers up for inspection. He wriggled them to make sure they weren't broken. "You could have waited until I was ready!"
"The point is to be ready before something hits you."
"Okay." Joe picked up the ball and tossed it back to his father. "Now I am ready. Where does that leave us?"
"Try to block the ball," Scott explained.
"I did that already and I have the jammed finger to prove it." Joe lifted his hand for demonstration.
"Only don't use your hands," his father added.
"What? How would I. . . ? This is a Magical Mechanics thing, isn't it?"
Scott didn't answer, but his amused expression answered the question. He threw the ball again, equally hard, and Joe resisted blocking the ball with his hands. But it hit him in the stomach instead.
Joe hunched over. "This is really fun and all, but I don't think this is working."
"Yes, it is. You just need to focus."
The pain was making Joe testy. "Focus on what?"
"Blocking."
"Could you be a little more specific?"
"It's hard to explain but, here. Let me demonstrate."
Scott tossed the ball straight up in the air. It peaked, fell, and just before it hit the ground, it hovered there, motionless. When Scott's eyes dropped from the ball, it continued its descent to the ground.
Wow.
He just broke a law of physics. And it was a law for a reason. Gravity was allegedly unbreakable.
Once Joe realized that he might be able to use magic too, his mood brightened. The pain that had been unbearable just moments ago suddenly dissipated. "Can I try that—the pop-fly approach and not the Joe-is-bleeding-internally method?"
"Deterring pain should be your biggest motivating factor," Scott replied matter-of-factly as he tossed Joe the ball with a lax arm. "And by the way, I already know you can do it. Things used to mysteriously break when you were angry. Your mother used to joke that the ghosts in the house were sympathetic to your plight."
Joe was reminded of a more recent possible occurrence—the Christmas party at Walt Burbank's house in California, when the light bulb had burst in the room he was in. Something similar had happened later that night in the hallway of his apartment building just before he was captured.
So, I've performed magic before without knowing or trying? he marveled.
Anger had brought it out of him. And so did fear. But what would happen if he could suppress the emotion and give the mind the control? And did he have to choose? Could the brain, heart, and gut all work together?
Joe observed the ball, now in his possession—color, size, weight—and considered the environment—wind, humidity, air friction, and gravity. Once he committed everything to memory as best he could, he threw the ball up.
Along its drop, the ball twitched to a stop, above the ground, for just a split second, but still, magic had a presence. When the ball slipped through his mental grip and rolled to a stop, Joe looked up at his father. Did he just see what I saw?
"Very good!" Scott gushed. "I'm impressed."
Joe could no longer control his smile and felt giddy, like a child. "Can you teach me more?"
"I will," Scott said along his stroll closer. "But first, as your father, I should warn you: this is some powerful stuff. My advice is to treat it like an animal. Be careful what you feed it, keep it contained, treat it well, or—"
"Dad," Joe interrupted. "I get it. Be responsible. But hey, if you think about it, magic can't be any more dangerous than me with a sword."
Scott chuckled. "That's for damn sure."
Joe laughed too, and he tossed the ball back to his father, eager for more instruction and practice.
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