May 1978: Bayport MA to San Francisco CA

Thatcher had gone first.

Bound, cuffed, Joe hadn't been able to fight, hadn't been able to do anything but pray for death to come quick. Thatcher made sure that Joe faced the others, that he couldn't look away from what had been done.

From what was coming.

"Joe?"

Thatcher's hands were the soft wrinkled hands of an old professor who'd never done any hard work in his life. He kept them tangled in Joe's hair and yanked Joe's head back whenever Joe struggled.

Rope scraped Joe's face, wrapped around his neck, crushed in. Joe gagged, fighting for air, just one breath, something, anything…

Hands shook him. "Joe."

The rope released; the weight lifted off. Limp, convulsing, Joe retched, gulping air in gasping, heaving breaths. Humming tunelessly, Thatcher picked up the hacksaw, wiped it clean with a handkerchief. The cloth came away dark red, thickly clotted.

Claire stopped him. "I've changed my mind." Her gaze traveled Joe's body, and then she knelt over him.

Please, God…let me die…

"Joe!" The hands shoved him.

Joe jolted awake, caught himself before he fell, gripping the edge of the mattress and gasping some semblance of reality back. Home. He was home. Safe.

"Another one," Frank said.

Heavy, despairing weight crushed Joe down. He didn't want to face Dad again. He didn't want to face anything. It wasn't worth it. He didn't want to deal with it.

Frank's hand rested on Joe's shoulder. "C'mon. We have to be at the airport in a couple hours."

Curtains drawn back, windows open, the bedroom was flooded with sunlight. Too bright. Too cheery. Joe rolled back over, curled under the blankets. He was so tired. A couple hours meant he could put the potential confrontation off and sleep another hour, at least.

Suddenly Frank shoved.

Joe yelped, grabbed at the mattress, but thumped onto the floor, tangled in blankets.

"Get moving, or I'm shoving you on the plane in your pajamas," Frank said.

Frank would do it, too. Somehow Joe struggled to his knees. The aroma of bacon and eggs drifted up from downstairs, along with fresh-brewed coffee. The smell only sickened him.

"Sooner you get moving," Frank said, back to calm quiet, "the sooner we can get out of here."

"You boys all right?" Aunt Gertrude called up.

"We'll be right down," Frank called back. Quieter, to Joe, "You want me to tell her you're sick?"

"I want to know where my brother is," Joe snapped, "and who this monster is that's replaced him." With that, Joe grabbed his crutch, levered himself up, and headed to the bathroom.

Crutch, singular. Joe had thrown the other into the ocean last night. Two crutches meant a cripple. Two meant he couldn't walk. One — he had a chance.

He had to believe that. He had to.

"You're welcome," Frank said, behind him.

One shower, one bowl of Frosted Flakes (all Joe could manage, despite Aunt Gertrude's fussing), and one-and-a-half hours later, they were walking through Logan International, Aunt Gertrude and Dad mother-henning Joe in turns. Hands clenched on the crutch, Joe stayed silent, not wanting an argument. Not here, not in public. Not with all these people crowding the busy airport, staring at the pathetic scarred cripple and his family.

With a weary sigh, Joe settled into a plastic seat in terminal B: a wall seat in the back corner, so he could see the whole area. Thatcher had caught him because Joe hadn't been paying attention. It wouldn't happen again.

Frank settled next to him, between Joe and the rest of the airport. Joe was careful not to notice. Saying anything would only start another fight.

The depression had set in again, heavy gray fog; Joe kept his gaze on the floor. He didn't need Aunt Gertrude's forced cheerfulness right now. He definitely didn't need Dad's worried questions.

Dad finding out that his sons had been recruited as guardians for an organization of psychically-Gifted people — Joe could hear that imagined chat in his head, and had no desire to make it reality.

Especially since Joe had been forced to face the fact that he was one of those Gifted.

"You don't stop moping," Frank muttered, "I'll run kata on you right here. In front of them." He nodded at a giggly group of stewardesses near the attendant's stand.

"I'd like to see you try." Aware of Dad and Aunt Gertrude watching, Joe managed a weak smile as Frank gripped his shoulder, brother-to-brother.

Joe and Frank were opposites in almost everything but curiosity, a love of detective work, and a knack for getting into deep trouble: Frank a year older, the calm prep-school jock, solid and normal; Joe slender, long-haired-casual and now, distinctly not normal. Even their clothing reflected that: Frank in a crisp ironed shirt and slacks and no other ornament save a wristwatch, Joe in jeans and soft red flannel buttoned close to hide the scars, a braided leather band around his left wrist.

The braid had a lumpy turquoise nugget threaded into it, a gift that Kris had sent after Joe and Frank had gotten home from New Orleans. Joe closed his hand around the nugget; it warmed under his touch. Kris's note had been her usual spooky-stuff that turquoise dispelled fear, and that she'd hoped it'd help: an oblique hint if Joe had ever heard one.

She'd sent one for Frank, too, but Frank never wore it. Joe felt something around the stone, something that settled comfortably against his skin. He didn't care. At this point, he needed all the help he could get, real or imagined.

Finally, boarding for their flight was announced. They put up with Aunt Gertrude's fussing, then…

"Boys," Dad said, but under it were all the lectures and arguments of the last two months.

Frank turned and walked onto the plane without a word. Joe accepted a rough hug, but couldn't manage anything beyond a forced smile and a muttered "bye", aware of Dad's gaze as Joe limped away on the crutch.

He caught up to Frank on the plane. Still silent, Frank took Joe's guitar case and stowed it in the overhead. Joe wasn't sure why he'd brought his guitar. He hadn't touched it since the casts had been removed. One try, one faltering stutter of strings under his shattered hand, and something inside Joe had twisted, died.

Something familiar to cling to, maybe. That was all it was. Futile hope, futile chance, a dead dream.

Joe eyed the passengers behind them — old women in shapeless polyester dresses and a cloud of baby powder — then settled into the window seat, as Frank took the aisle seat between Joe and the rest of the plane. Before, Frank had always claimed window seats as older-brother prerogative. But Joe said nothing. If it made Frank feel better, fine.

Ten hours of a boring flight later, Frank and Joe were landing at San Francisco International and walking into the terminal — and Mar Mountainhawk ambushed them, grabbing them into giant hugs before Joe knew what was happening.

"You look better," Mar said to Joe as they headed towards the baggage pickup. She hadn't changed: an older Navajo woman with grey-streaked black hair and dried-apple face, wiry-tough despite her age. "Tons better than you did in New Orleans." Her gaze picked him over. "A crutch?"

Joe's first reaction was to be flippant and blow it off, but this was Mar. It was a relief to be honest. "I didn't want a wheelchair."

"Good. Drake'll enjoy the challenge. Our self defense teacher." That, to Joe's look. "Former Israeli Security. Don't get on his bad side."

The hopelessness welled up again. "I can't even manage kata."

"That's karate. That's not what he teaches. You'll see."

"Kris isn't with you?" Frank said.

"There was a situation at the shelter. Wait 'til we get in the van. We can talk there. Hungry? Or you just want to sleep the jet-lag off?"

"Both," Frank said.

"At the same time," Joe said.

Mar laughed. "You two haven't changed. C'mon."

Despite the bright sun, the breeze was chilly enough that both brothers were shivering as they followed Mar through the echoey parking garage to an old microbus, spray-painted to within an inch of its life with rainbows and graffiti. Somewhere behind them, something clattered to the asphalt, and Joe stiffened, heart pounding.

metal clattered the concrete nearby, as Thatcher knelt over him…

Joe forced his hands to unclench. This wasn't that.

"Nice." Frank nodded at the van.

"Stress-relief for our folks," Mar said. "Run around the city a bit, you'll see tons of cars like this. If all they've done is paintit, you're lucky."

Despite his exhaustion, Joe couldn't stop looking around during the ride in; his body told him it was much later, but the sun was too high in the sky, too bright, too…just too. Huge terraced hills covered only in grass. Small trees, sparse and scrubby. Flat cubical houses painted in eye-watering colors. The sky and land were vast and open, compared to Bayport's claustrophobic feel.

"So let's hear the secret," Frank said. "What's 'the shelter'?"

"Runaway shelter. You'll hear it called 'Wings', short for some god-awful hippie name." Mar glanced at Joe through the rear-view mirror. "You know NOLA's hospital — all the Centers have something to keep us grounded. We live in the world, not apart from it."

"I'm going to hate myself for asking," Joe said, "but what kind of situation at a runaway shelter needed Kris to handle it?"

"The usual any big city shelter gets. Sometimes pimps don't get the message that a kid's no longer in their stable."

The brothers exchanged looks.

"So how starved are you? Restaurant-level or munch?" Mar grinned at Joe. "I've got bison in the fridge, if you want a cheeseburger."

The tension in Joe's shoulders had loosened — Mar's manner was casual, honest, and open, as always. No talking down. No hushed tones.

"You'll never live that down," Frank said to Joe. "Burgers are fine, Mar."

Mar nodded. "There — we're on that island. Yerba Buena."

The Center turned out to be an old rough-brick factory building put to pasture, sprawled over a cliff overlooking the Bay on the south side of the island. Mar parked the van right outside, snagged up some of their bags; as usual, Frank started to shove the rest at Joe, then stopped.

"I can help." Joe picked up his guitar case with his free hand.

With a dirty look, Frank hauled the rest of the luggage out himself and followed Mar up the walk.

Paved in brick, shaded with trees laden with red bottle-brush flowers and bordered with flowing water, the front walk ended at polished wooden doors carved with spiraled circles. Just inside those doors, Joe stopped. The first impression was space and color: a huge airy room dominated by bookshelves and stained-glass windows that lit the space in reds, blues and greens. Old sofas, overstuffed floor cushions in a riot of color and patterns. Battered wood coffee tables. A large-screen TV stood in the near corner; a gray tabby cat sprawled over the top, sleeping. A fountain of slate and river-stone gurgled next to the door, surrounded by plants.

Reading, talking, people sprawled on cushions; kids played a giggling, chaotic game of "lava-floor". Someone near the stairs was painting a large canvas, and flute music echoed from somewhere, practice runs and scales. Spiral stairs led up to a second floor landing, its wrought-iron railing running the back length.

"Not bad," Frank said. "Not bad at all."

But the room wasn't what made Joe stop. Something light and feathery had brushed over him, like a spider web.

He wasn't given a chance to check. "Can you manage stairs, Joe?" Mar said, leading them through the room; people nudged each other as the brothers passed. "We've got a cranky elevator, if you can't. Jamie, isn't it too dark for painting there?" That to a willowy paint-spattered blonde, who scowled at the large canvas.

"That's the point." The woman glanced, then turned and smiled. Her canvas was a painting of dark bricks in shadow. "These are Hawk's friends? The guys from Massachusetts?"

"Frank Hardy." Smiling back, Frank offered his hand, suddenly every inch the prep-school jock. "Good tonal study, there."

Joe sighed. Yet another woman snared by Smooth-Mover Older Brother before Joe even got a chance.

The woman raised an eyebrow, but shook the offered hand.

"I don't get introduced much." Joe reached out his own hand. His right hand: he was careful about that. No sense scaring her off. "I'm his brother, Joe. Hi."

Her smile widened. "Jamie Hollis." Her gaze stayed on Joe, her hand lingered. Her eyes were bright green, impish. "Hawk has friends like you guys? I'm taking numbers."

"I'm giving them," Joe said. It earned him another dazzling smile.

"Way too obvious," Frank murmured.

"She started it," Joe said.

Mar laughed. "They'll be here all year, Jamie. Be nice, and we'll draft you into guide duty. They're starting SFSU this fall."

"Even better," Jamie said. "I'll have them at my mercy. Muahahaha."

"C'mon, boys," Mar said, grinning. "Let's get you fed."

Picking his guitar case back up, Joe followed up the stairs, but kept glancing at Jamie. Scowling at her painting, Jamie didn't seem to notice…but when Joe hit the top of the stairs, she looked up and smiled.

Mar led them through the halls and through an archway to the living room for a warm, comfortable suite. More brick and hardwood, a sofa and over-stuffed armchairs in reds and golds, overloaded bookshelves, a large coffee table carved of driftwood, a thick area rug woven in geometric patterns and hues of gold and brown, a ten-speed leaning against the far wall. A half-wall blocked off the kitchen: granite counters, light wood cabinets and red glazed-tile floor. Sliding glass doors opened from the kitchen out to a deck.

Three doors carved with vines and spirals led off from the living room. Mar waved a hand towards the door nearest the kitchen.

"Back there — what happened to you?"

Kris was sprawled on the sofa, her left foot propped and taped up, deep bruising along the outer edge. "Dumb bad luck, that's what, Shimá. Hey, big brothers." Kris limp-hopped over to give Frank and Joe emphatic, rough hugs. "I was gonna pull a top secret kidnap mission if you two chickened out."

"No chance of that," Frank said.

"Don't change the subject," Mar said to her.

"Rammed my foot into a door," Kris said sourly. "Little toe's broke, that's all. Trevor taped it up and told me to stay off it for a couple days."

"This," Mar said to Frank and Joe, "is one of Drake's worst students. Squirrel, I think you're trying to avoid his lessons."

Squirrel. Joe exchanged a quick grin with Frank; he'd forgotten that particular nickname. They were not going to let Kris live it down.

"He's already told me I'm not exempt." Kris limp-hopped back to the sofa. "Oh, and Josh apologized. Godzilla called with some emergency, so he had to go. He'll catch you tomorrow."

"I can't wait to meet this Godzilla," Frank murmured.

"Careful what you wish for," Kris said. "He's threatening to come out and make sushi."

"Back there's your rooms," Mar said to Frank and Joe. "That hall's yours as long as you're here. If you want to redecorate, no paint and don't break the structural integrity."

Joe didn't move. "What's sushi?"

Kris only looked at him.

"You're playing spooky, Tag," Frank said.

"She's waiting for us to beg," Joe rasped. "Which we won't." It was a long-time game between him and Frank to get her to smile; she was usually so serious, it hurt. It was always worth the effort.

Right now, he needed it.

"You two need a mystery, otherwise you'll turn the place upside down looking for one." Kris had cocked her head when Joe had spoken. "Still?"

Not wanting to talk about it, Joe only followed Frank back through the door to a short hallway, and stopped again as the same spider-web feel brushed over him, stronger this time.

"You all right?" Frank said.

Joe shook his head to clear it. "Just got dizzy there."

First door to the right, bathroom. Then Joe opened the opposite door to his left.

Sunlight, windows, brick. Hardwood floor glowing in the sun. The windows took up half the wall, showing San Francisco stretched out across the sun-glittery Bay. "I'll fight you for this one," Joe said.

"No need. Look at this."

Frank had opened the last door at the end. A smaller, cozy rounded room, windows spanning the curve. Same rough brick and hardwood. Same view of the Bay.

Frank ran his hand over the bed's footboard. The post was sculpted into a dragon curling up and around the finial. "It's hand-carved."

Joe limped back to his room; his bed was carved in patterns of ivy-leaves and knot-work. He wrestled his bags in, laid the guitar case on the bed, then checked out the remaining door — an interior room, no furniture, no windows, same hardwood and brick. No lights either, for the moment.

"Good space for the lab," Frank said, behind him.

Joe nodded. He'd packed his fingerprint kit, and Frank had gotten one of the microscopes in his bags, but the photography equipment had been too heavy to bring along, save for Joe's camera and tripod, and the chemistry kit deemed too dangerous. Maybe someone here knew where they could get second-hand gear.

Still thinking, he started to follow Frank back out, but the feathery web brushed over Joe again. This time, he stopped. He'd been working a little with his Gift when he'd been alone, small things Kris had shown him in the New Orleans hospital. Breathe, settle, relax his eyes…

The walls glowed.

Joe startled; the sight vanished. What…?

Frank was holding the door open, waiting. "You could wait until after they start the spooky stuff before you start acting weird." When Joe only stood there, Frank closed the door, cutting off sound and light from the main room. "What's wrong?"

Breathe, breathe. "There's magic on the walls."

"You sure?"

Everything-has-to-make-sense Frank: Joe still wasn't sure how much Frank actually believed. Joe looked down. "I don't know."

Frank gripped Joe's shoulder again, firm, calming. "Okay. Probably just wards. That'd make sense."

That was the last thing Joe had ever expected to hear from Frank about any spooky stuff. "Wards?"

"Like what Thatcher had…" Frank stopped.

a hard shock of electricity burnt through Joe's chest…

"Joe." The grip turned into a shake. "They don't need a hole in the wall."

Just the hallway. Just Frank. Shivering, Joe breathed out. He had to stay in control. These people wouldn't want someone who kept freaking over nothing.

"C'mon, I'm starved," Frank said, the calm, in-charge Older Brother. "We'll ask Tag about it."

"Rooms okay?" Mar said from the kitchen, as they came out. Kris was at the table, slicing tomatoes. "If you need more blankets, speak up. It gets chilly out here in summer."

"We're fine," Frank said, with a quick look at Joe.

Mar set them to work slicing onions and cheese. She and Kris chatted about small things, Frank joining in with a million questions, enough that Kris limp-hopped back to her room and returned with a green paperback, Real Magic.

"Bonewits has an ego the size of the planet," Kris handed the book to Frank, "but he nails it down. You'll like it. Half folklore, half science, and half pure BS."

"That's three halves," Frank said, paging through it.

"Um…a wizard wrote it." Kris ducked the thrown onion-slice.

Focused on the cutting board, Joe stayed quiet. Magic on their rooms. No matter what Frank thought, it made no sense. Wards implied protection, but from what?

"Big brother?" Kris nudged him with her foot. "You okay?"

"Give him a break, shiché'é." Mar set the burgers onto the table. "They're jet-lagged. That wears anyone out."

Joe was grateful for the out, but he couldn't repay Mar's generosity like that. But asking straight out about the magic…? He didn't want to sound accusing, or worse, paranoid.

He settled on something he thought they'd answer. Something safe. "It feels like a cheat. You're giving us all this…" It felt like an attempt to buy his and Frank's cooperation. If it hadn't been Mar…

in case you start wondering who you work for…

"You know how many bodies they found in that warehouse?" Kris said.

So much for safe. Joe had stayed away from TV, especially the news. Somehow these people had kept his and Frank's names out of the media, but any mention of the story tended to trigger nightmares…and not only when Joe was asleep.

"Thirty two," Frank said.

"Yeah," Kris said. Quiet, but not calm. "Some had been missing over two years."

figures moved at the edge of the circle, eyes obscured in shadow…

Joe's hand clenched. Not here. Not now.

"You two stopped that,"Mar said. "You got involved with a couple Blades and the insanity they were claiming. You chose. You followed through. You call it a cheat? I call it poor payback for the price you've paid. Both of you."

"Not both," Frank said.

"Yes, both. Joe got the brunt, but Frank, dear, you were hit just as hard. Or are you telling me everything's normal at home?"

Blunt, honest, open. Joe bowed his head.

"I'll lay it straight," Mar said. "It's not a gift. But it's not an obligation, either. If you don't want to be Blades, that's fine. We'll still pay your way through school, no matter what you choose to do. You're ours, whether you acknowledge it or not."

"So that's where you learned to make speeches," Frank murmured to Joe. "Though I don't like the idea of being anyone's."

"My son," Mar said warmly, "you and Joe became mine when you took a little abused runaway under your wing and let her tag along behind you. I don't forget."

My son. Mar had become foster-mother to both brothers in the years she'd lived next-door, in the wake of Mom's death from cancer. Joe looked away; Mar's words were sincere, their warmth a sorely-needed embrace.

"Not like I gave 'em much choice," Kris said.

"We had to," Frank said, grinning. "It was the only way I could get at your books, Mar."

"You haven't seen her library, yet," Mar said. "Give Frank a pass through your wards now, squirrel, otherwise you'll never get any sleep."

"Wards?" Joe said. They were going to admit it openly?

Frank gave him a swift glance. "Joe saw magic on our rooms. Is that what it is?"

Kris opened her mouth. "Of course," Mar said, before Kris could say anything. "On the whole building. This madhouse has all levels of control and training. They keep us from intruding on each other accidentally."

The whole building? Curious, Joe let his eyes relax again, staring towards Kris's door — strong, hard-edged hues of indigo and some odd purplish-black that vibrated in and out of his vision, much stronger than what was on his and Frank's area…

Kris was watching him. Joe looked away. He wasn't going to ask. Not yet.

"The next couple weeks, you're on your own," Mar said. "Slack off, get used to the area, have fun. Two exceptions. Drake insisted on you both starting with him right away. Morning after, so you get over the jet-lag. And you, Joe, are going to start full training in your Gift."

"San Francisco's a hot-spot." Kris hadn't dropped that gaze; it was too much like how Claire had stared at Joe in the New Orleans hotel. "There's too many ways to get suckered in, even for normals."

"Remember that." Frank nudged Joe. "I'm the normal."

"You won't let me forget," Joe muttered.

"You'll have plenty of free time," Mar said, "even after we put you to real work. Enjoy it while it lasts."