A/N: The Crew are dorks. I love Noah. 'Nuff said.
Though I do have one more thing. I DO jump around the years. Be sure to check the start of each chapter if you get a little confused. This chap, for example, takes place in September of '89. The last chap was Dean and Sam in '90. Basically, just know that the years don't exactly correspond between the two POVs. Okay? Any confusion, feel free to PM me. I honestly don't bite, won't get irritated, and would be happy to answer any questions so long as you're not trying to get me to spill the beans about the plot. ;)
Disclaimer: Own the OCs, my friends, and that's IT.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Return
Wyoming's pleasant summer weather was drawing to a close. The sweltering heat that had all but baked the state for the last month was abating at long last, replaced with hot days and cool nights, a period known as "Indian Summer". School would be starting again soon for the younger residents of Thunder Creek, a prospect nearly all of them looked forward too, as most young children do. One boy in particular was especially upset about this.
To avoid his father's questions and the knowing gaze of his grandfather, not to mention the annoying whining of his younger siblings Amanda and Cole, Noah Clayborne was flat on his back in the garden that belonged to his grandmother, wedged cleverly between a hedge and a currant bush on one side of the porch that stretched halfway around the expansive Newbern Ranch House. He had one arm folded behind his head as he mulled over the events of the best summer of his life, occasionally swatting away flies that buzzed near his face.
Tomorrow, school was starting, yet another painful reminder of how he'd been forcibly separated from his "sibs", a group of kids he'd grown to love like family in a very short period of time. Only the Knox boys were around to keep him company, and while he loved them as much as the rest, it just wasn't the same without Chris or Kyle around. He missed having them around, missed getting into mischief, missed arguing over who would take next guard duty (the girls were constantly almost killing themselves) and who would dare run to grandpa and tell him Connie had set the barn on fire again ("CONSTANCE ISABELLA ROSE, GET YOUR SKINNY LITTLE BEHIND BACK HERE RIGHT THIS INSTANT, MISSY! AND DROP THOSE MATCHES!").
Despite his general feeling of melancholy, Noah smiled. Even now, he had no idea how Connie had managed to set things on fire so often. She had the boys over at the Fire Station twitching profusely, muttering under their breaths, and diving compulsively for a bucket every time a blonde-haired girl entered their sights, which was endlessly amusing, as about half the girls in town were blonde.
The voice of John Newbern drew him out of his depressive thoughts.
" — what are you going to do with the boy, Bruce, chain him in a closet, I mean honestly — "
"What would you have me do, John? The boy won't talk to me! He snaps my head off!" Bruce Clayborne bit back, outraged.
Noah's ears perked up as the voices drew nearer. He heard the familiar creak of the porch swing, and rolled over slightly to peer through the smallest gap in the hedge. John Newbern ("grandpapa" to The Crew/Horde/whatever one wanted to call them) was seated on the porch swing with Noah's cross-looking father restlessly bouncing his leg beside him.
"Your son is — "
"Making me want to punch something!"
"— missing his family," said John in a much louder voice.
"I can't change that, John, I just can't. They're all back in California. Noah knows that."
"Knowing something and accepting something are two very different things, Bruce David," said John, a warning note in his voice now. Bruce opened his mouth to argue, but he said loudly, "Will you listen to me for just a second, please? This is a hard time for Noah, what with the anniversary of Holly's death coming up, piled on top of being lonely. Try to understand, won't you, that your boy is miserable."
Bruce groaned in pure frustration and let his head drop back, thunking it unceremoniously against the wall. "What should I do?" he said dejectedly after a long silence.
Shrugging, John leaned back into the swing and crossed his arm, pushing off the porch with his booted left foot. "I like to think that you are intelligent enough to figure that one out for yourself," he drawled, "please do not disappoint me now."
Snorting, Bruce lifted his head and shook it ruefully. "Do you know who you remind me of?"
"Someone important or fascinating, I hope," said John, eyes twinkling.
"Yoda. You remind me of Yoda."
"Ah," John sighed contentedly, "a fellow both important and fascinating."
Bruce gave up trying to argue his case, closing his eyes as he thought about what John — his sort of surrogate father — had said.
"John," he said slowly after a comfortable silence, "when will it happen?"
"Soon, I hope — "
"How soon?" Bruce cut him off.
"Difficult to say. By December, at least, depending on how long the courts drag it out, and whether or not Claire is put with Brad or Wendy — "
Noah's brain froze up right then, heart pounding at a frantic pace. Something was happening? Claire, Paige, and Chris were to be separated? Dread settled in his heart, and with a start, he realized he'd been tuning out his father and grandfather.
"— that's good, at least," John was saying, "they will be more comfortable."
"I certainly hope so," Bruce sighed. "Noah will be happy."
John nodded with a throaty noise of agreement.
"Are you sure? About moving the headquarters here, I mean?"
Headquarters? Noah wondered. To what? The Brotherhood? If the headquarters were moving here, then that would mean… it clicked in his brain, but before he could get his hopes up, he squashed that thought. At least he was safe in the knowledge they would be together, because grandpapa would never put "separated from each other" and "comfortable" in the same sentence.
After all, who knew what they were talking about. Kicking himself mentally for zoning out, he wiggled carefully out of his hiding place and didn't stand up until he was well out of sight.
"Master Newbern? Sir?"
Brad Newbern glanced up from his papers, blinking owlishly at the disruption, to find his butler Chauncey staring at him with the air of someone who had just been forced to repeat himself multiple times in growing volume.
"Chauncey," he said, rubbing his eyes as he sat up from his half-slouch against the desk, "what is it?"
"Call for you, sir, line one," the butler said, before bowing and disappearing out the parlor door.
Sparing a brief moment of amusement for his butler — the man honestly thought he was Alfred from the Batman series or something, what with his bowing and Master this and Master that — he glanced at the clock over the door and deduced only one person would dare call this late before jabbing the button and answering the phone.
"Fruit of your loins speaking, what can I do for you?" said Brad sarcastically.
"Can it, smart ass," sighed John. Brad could almost hear him rolling his eyes, even if they were three states apart. "Urgent Brotherhood business."
"Of course. You as Leader of the Conclave of course have me at your beck and call, we are your slaves after all," he sniped.
"Oh, do grow up and be serious, won't you?" John snapped.
Chuckling, Brad dropped his acting-like-a-moron attitude and decided to be serious. "What is the problem, signore?"
"I have decided to move the headquarters of the Brotherhood from Sioux Falls, South Dakota to Thunder Creek, Wyoming. Alert all those involved through the proper channels."
A sharp inhale was Brad's only reaction. His father prodded him for an answer after a long, tense silence. "Christ, dad, how'd you get ol' Bobby to agree to that one?"
"Well, he sure as hell wilna be jumping for joy anytime soon, but recognizes the severity and necessity of the situation of the children who are receiving demon blood."
"I see," said Brad, dryly. "So this is an attempt to spy on Connie and Cole, then."
"Well…that, too. They are my grandchildren. I'd rather have them under my nose than being hunted by some crackpot old fool who decides they're the antichrist."
Brad laughed at that and rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "Are you insinuating what I think you are, father?"
"Oh, for God's sake, Brad — finish your goddamn divorce, and get your ass over to Wyoming so I don't have to look at Noah moping about like I killed his puppy. It's damned irritating."
Having grown up with a gruff but caring father such as this, Brad did not take offense to the waspish tone. Instead, he smiled gently as if he could relay his appreciation to his father that way.
"Okay, dad," he said warmly, "I love you too, and I would be more than happy to move in with you, if only so that I can stop watching my children moping about like I killed their puppy. It is, as you so aptly put it, damned irritating."
John's rich chuckle floated through the phone. "Caught on, have you?" he said rhetorically. "Thought you might."
"Well… I am your son, after all."
On the morning of September the fifth, Paige Newbern hefted her backpack higher onto her shoulders and struggled to fight her internal bad mood. Christopher was gone, off to the older classrooms, as was Ally, to the younger. This left her alone in a class of twenty-four kids, all of whom she'd known pretty much since birth, and none of whom she particularly liked very much.
She wished Jared was here. He was the only one of all her sibs who was the same age. At least then, she'd be having fun, because he'd be throwing paper balls at the back of Tristan Armstrong's head, or shooting spitballs at rat-faced Angie Dower, who'd bullied pretty much everyone since kindergarten. (Paige didn't like her much, and usually expressed her dislike by putting a tack on her chair or punching her on the nose when the sow wouldn't leave her alone).
The rest of the class was already present when she walked in just as the bell rang.
The teacher, Mr. Amos, frowned at her over his spectacles. "Miss Newbern, I presume?"
Numbly, Paige nodded and dropped into the seat at the very front of the class, right next to James Knight, the shiest boy in school. She dropped her backpack beside her chair and scooted in, folding her arms over the desk. James smiled at her, and only half-heartedly did she return it.
James Knight was from a long of hunters just as long as her family tree. He, too, had spent the summer in Thunder Creek with his grandparents, but Paige had barely seen him. Tall and lanky for his age, his black hair was a messy mishmash on his head, but his eyes were a bright hazel that lit up with his shy smiles. If James was being honest, he'd never had the chance to talk to her because he was too afraid of Noah Clayborne, who had practically been glued to her hip after she'd almost drowned.
"Hi," he whispered.
"Hey," she whispered back, twirling a pencil around her fingers as Mr. Amos started to drone first-day-of-school nonsense. "Good summer?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah."
James' lips flashed into a second smile, a record for him. Paige actually looked at him and realized he wasn't as shy as he'd seemed before. "Bet you miss your sibs, huh?"
"A bit, yeah."
"Good job in the rodeo. Grandpa said you kicked ass barrel racing."
Paige grinned. "I did," she admitted. "But so did you, in cutting."
"MISS NEWBERN!"
She jumped and looked guiltily up at the front desk. Mr. Amos was glaring at her as if hoping her hair would catch on fire, a thought she quickly shoved away as fire made her think of Connie.
"Yes, Mr. Amos?" she said sweetly, blinking to accentuate the picture of perfect innocence.
Amos looked livid as he slammed the phone back down. She hadn't even heard it ring. "The Headmaster wishes to see you."
"But I haven't done anything yet," said Paige automatically. The class stifled giggles.
"Now," Amos barked.
"Fine," she muttered, pulling her backpack on. "See ya, James."
James nodded and gave a little half-wave as Paige trudged out of the classroom and down the corridor, taking the extremely familiar path to the headmaster's office. Without looking up, she entered the office and mumbled a greeting to the secretary.
"You too, huh?"
Paige's head snapped up to find none other than Chris seated calmly on the couch. "Chris?" she squeaked, before launching herself at him for a quick hug. "Why are you here?"
"Dunno," Chris replied, patting the top of her head.
Both children looked up when the door to the headmaster's office opened, and their father and the headmaster walked out.
"There you two are," Brad said cheerfully, bending down slightly to accept their enthusiastic hugs. "Come on, we're leaving."
"Leaving where?"
"You two have officially been transferred to Thunder Creek Elementary," said Brad, slinging both his children's backpacks over his shoulders. He grinned at their stunned expressions. "So come on. Let's go. All your stuff is already packed. The plane is waiting."
Chris and Paige exchanged excited glances, and then with a joyful whoop of "We're going home!", the children raced out of the office hand in hand, their laughing father trailing in their wake.
Noah Clayborne walked around in a slight daze, still in denial. The other kids avoided him, but he didn't mind. He just kept an eye on Cole and Amanda, and went about his business. Good thing the other kids had heard of his stunts over the summer and did not dare approach him, even as the bell for lunch rang.
Surrounded as he was by other hunters' children, it was difficult to be discreet. There were, of course, non-hunting families that lived in Thunder Creek, as well as kids from outside counties who drove all the way to the fine scholarly institution. It had uniforms and everything. Education was deemed important to further the cause of the Brotherhood and hunting itself worldwide.
All the kids made an effort to speak in code. Demons were "ugly friends", spirits were "silvers", hunters were exactly that as it could be passed off as hunting animals, etcetera etcetera. All the same, the "normal" kids were of the opinion that the hunters' kids were freaks of nature. And, quite frankly, Noah was proud of that. He'd like to see them take on a demon or a spirit — they'd probably pee their pants and flee.
The image would have been funny…it was just that without Chris and Kyle, things weren't the same. Sighing, he stuffed his things in his backpack and headed down the hall for the cafeteria.
"Noah, dear, may I have a moment?"
Noah looked up to find Principal Rawlings staring down at him with concern in her soft brown eyes. "Miss Annette," he said numbly, inclining his head. Other kids were starting to stare now. A "freak" was getting himself in trouble.
"Come along, dear," she sniffed, resting one small fine-boned hand on his shoulder.
"What did I do?"
"Nothing," said the principal, surprised. "I have a surprise for you."
Noah's brow furrowed in confusion. Why would the principal have a surprise for him, Noah Clayborne, resident hell-raiser, Prankster-In-Chief, and He Who Causes All Sorts of Mischief No Matter What We Punish Him With. (Chris was good at thinking of names for things.) Before he could open his mouth to argue, however, the door down the hall that led to the Principal's office flew open, banging against the wall.
He felt his jaw drop as he recognized Christopher, white teeth flashing as he grinned and jogged up the hall.
"NOAH!"
Blonde hair flying out behind her, Paige sprinted into the hall, veered directly for him, and did not slow down. Noah braced himself just in time to receive her, the impact of her collision nearly knocking him flat on his ass.
"Paige?" he grunted in surprise, pulling her into a tight hug. He started to laugh and spun her around in circles, making her laugh and cling to him all the harder. "What are you doing here?"
Noah stopped spinning, holding Paige by her shoulders and pushing her out to where he could look into her face. Chris made it there by then and clapped him on the back with a happy grin.
"We moved to Thunder Creek! We're gonna live with grandpa!" beamed Paige as she fisted her hands in Noah's shirt.
"Really?" said Noah, hands clenching reflexively on her shoulders.
"Really," Chris promised solemnly.
Forgotten by the children, Principal Rawlings shook her head in mock dismay. She'd known Bruce Clayborne and Brad Newbern from her own childhood. Somehow, she doubted that their sons would cause any less chaos than their fathers had.
Suddenly, the woman was afraid. Very, very afraid.
Instead of one devil, she now had to deal with two.
God help her.
December '89
Summer faded into fall and fall into winter. Thanksgiving had been fun-filled and hectic, with the Crew reuniting, albeit briefly, before they left again, not to return until Christmas. The Clayborne kids, along with the Knox boys and Chris and Paige (Claire was to visit at Christmas and over summers; the rest of the year she lived with Wendie) made up the half of the Crew who lived in Thunder Creek year round.
Brad did not envy Principal Rawlings her job of single-handedly attempting to keep the boys from burning down her school. Since September, he and Bruce had received no less than three dozen calls of various complaints, pranks, and general mayhem-inducing schemes that landed the boys in serious amounts of trouble, even though the pranks themselves weren't dangerous or anything. Just irritating. And often rude.
Like, for example, when they purposefully turned the taps of all the bathrooms on the second floor of the school, flooding the entire hall for a week. Or when they infused all the hand towels with itching power. Or Brad's personal favorite, when they'd let loose an entire sack of garden snakes (harmless, of course) into the Lunch Hall, terrifying the children into a frenzy.
To say the least, the past three months had been hectic for the Newbern family.
Paige shifted in her seat to pass the peas to her brother, covertly glancing at her grandpa from under her brows every other minute. "Grandpapa?" said Paige, finally plucking up the courage. "Where's papa?"
"On a date, dear," replied John as he passed the rolls. Mary had finally gotten sick of Brad locking himself in the study for Brotherhood business from dawn till dusk and had set him up with a divorced mother of three who also happened to be the daughter of her best friend Julie.
Chris and Paige exchanged glances as their folded their hands to pray. It was unusually quiet without their dad at the table; they'd grown very used to listening to the patriarchs of the family discussing Brotherhood business, their most recent golf fame, or debating the uses of serrated versus un-serrated knives over dinner.
"Date?" mouthed Chris when the prayer was finished and their grandparents were occupied in picking up their utensils and folding their napkins in their laps.
Paige shrugged and picked up her knife.
"Napkin, dear," Mary chided, reaching over to fold it in her granddaughters lap.
Smiling her thanks, Paige took a bite of Mary's famous pork roast. Outside, the snow was falling in a steady flurry, pushed about by the angry wind. Hopefully they'd have lots of snow on Christmas so they could build snowmen like Noah had promised.
"Damn, it's quiet without the rest of you youngsters about," said John into the silence.
"John, dear, watch your language," scolded Mary, smiling across the table at her grandchildren, who were hiding giggles in their hands. "Besides, you know perfectly well they will be back for two weeks at Christmas, another week in April, and the entire summer."
John just rolled his eyes as she continued to blab, winking at Chris and Paige, who grinned and tucked into their food with gusto.
All the same, Paige missed all her sibs being there with them, and judging by Chris' melancholy expression, his thoughts were much the same.
E/N: Hmm. Not sure if I like where I ended this one. Oh, well.
