Then Hi mock-squealed, his cheeks reddening. “Oh! And he’s got a bunny friend now, too!”
We stood near the northern edge of Turtle Beach, on the west coast of Loggerhead Island. The interior forest loomed to my right. To my left stretched the Atlantic Ocean, unbroken all the way to Africa.
I focused on the spot Hi had indicated, a rough patch of cattails and salt myrtle at the wood’s edge. My gaze zeroed. Locked.
The scene leaped forward with awesome clarity, beyond anything a human eye should be able to see. I could make out every leaf, every twig. Sure enough, two snuffling rabbits were tucked inside the foliage.
Half a football field away.
“Your flare vision is fantastic,” I said. “Better than mine. I can’t make out their whiskers from this distance.”
Hi shrugged. “Then I’ve got you beat with one sense, at least. I don’t hear as well as Shelton, or have your schnozzaroo.”
Beside me, Ben grunted. Growled. Shook. He still couldn’t light the lamp. His eyes remained closed, but his mutters had shifted to four-letter words. Unpleasant ones.
Observing Ben’s struggle, Hi scratched his chin. Glanced at me. Shrugged. Then he quietly slipped around behind Ben.
And, without ceremony, kicked him in the ass. Hard.
Ben toppled forward into the sand.
“What the hell!?!” Ben surged to his feet and advanced on Hi with clenched fists. His eyes now blazed with yellow fire.
“Take it easy, slugger!” Hi backpedaled, both hands in the air. “I was only getting you mad enough! Had to be done.”
So far, Ben could only tap his power when enraged. Like now. He looked ready to remove Hi’s head.
“Stop!” I yelled, anxious to prevent a homicide. “Ben, you’re flaring now. It worked.”
Ben paused and flexed his hands, noticing the change. Scowling, he nodded at Hi. Hi gave a big thumbs-up, grinning from ear to ear.
“We’ve got to figure out a better way,” Ben muttered, “or I’m going to end up thrashing one of you guys. I may pound Thick Burger here anyway,” he said, gesturing toward Hi.
Hi chucked Ben’s shoulder. “Hey, you’re welcome pal. Anytime.”
Faster than thought, Ben grabbed Hi and wrapped him in a vicious bear hug. “Smart-ass.”
Hi sputtered, gasped for air. “Back off! I don’t like you that way!”
Ben laughed. Then he lifted Hi over his shoulders. Effortlessly.
My jaw dropped.
Ben spun Hi overhead like a chopper blade. Once. Twice. Hi turned a pale shade of green. Lime? Teal? Shamrock?
“I’m gonna puke!” Hi warned. “DEFCON One!”
Ben bounded to the waterline. Heaved.
Hi flew like a ragdoll, landed face-first in two feet of surf, sputtering and cursing.
Ben grinned wickedly. “I think I’ve got it now. Thanks.”
“Ungrateful.” Hi blew water from his nose while surveying his sopping clothes. “But I’ll admit, that was kind of awesome. You get strong.”
Hi tried splashing his attacker, but Ben danced away, hooting. Then Ben sprinted down Turtle Beach, leaped the sand dunes, and disappeared from sight.
“Wow,” I said. “He’s fast, too. Much faster than me, even flaring.”
Hi slogged back onto the beach. “I let him win. He needs the self-confidence.”
“Right.”
“Hey, I’m a giver.”
“A saint.”
It was good to see Ben laugh again. Smiles had been rare since the Heaton case. The media firestorm had burned out quickly, but our parents were not so easily distracted. We’d each been grounded for most of the summer.
And I mean grounded. The adults had been savvy enough to hit where it hurt. No visitors, TV, or phone. Not even Internet access. It was brutal, like living in a cave.
With no chances to meet or even discuss our abilities, I’d begun to quietly freak the flip out.
The virus was a wildcard rampaging through our bodies. Anything was possible.
Was the sickness gone for good? Had our powers stabilized? Did anyone else know about Karsten’s secret experiment? About Coop? About us?
I’d been trapped with these questions for weeks. Alone.
The isolation hadn’t been good for my nerves.
Ben escaped first. The senior Blues never paid much attention to discipline. My parole came August first, after nearly two months served.
Good behavior? More like constant moping. I just wore Kit down.
Hi had finally talked his way out last week. That surprised me. Knowing his mother, Ruth Stolowitski, I thought he’d be last for sure. Not so. As far as I knew, Shelton was still on lockdown. Apparently the Devers had zero tolerance for criminal behavior, regardless of justification.
Make no mistake, I was still on probation. Strict. Kit was watching me like a hawk. At least, he thought he was.
Once Hi shook free, the three of us began trekking out to Loggerhead every week. We needed to practice, safe from prying eyes. The isolation was ideal. And, right under my father’s nose, I could visit the island without suspicion.
Loggerhead is held in trust by Charleston University. Very few have permission to visit. Luckily, dear old dad works here. So do the other Virals’ parents.
Kit Howard is a marine biologist working at LIRI, the university’s on-site scientific station. One of the most advanced veterinary facilities on the planet, LIRI consists of a three-acre walled compound nestled on the islet’s southern half.
That’s not all. Loggerhead Island is a full-fledged primate research center, with troops of rhesus monkeys roaming free in the woods. No permanent buildings exist outside the main complex.
The habitat is as close to undisturbed as possible for a prime hunk of real estate lying just off Charleston Harbor.
A perfect place to fly your freak flag.
This was our third practice session, and we’d begun to notice slight differences in our abilities. Strengths. Weaknesses. Variations in style and finesse.
But the powers were complex, our grasp of them far from complete. What I didn’t understand would fill the ocean. Deep down, I suspected we’d barely scraped our full potential.
An explosion of sand reclaimed my attention.
My gaze fastened on a bouncing shape, moving wicked fast. Zoomed. Tracked. Unconsciously, my muscles tensed, ready to spring.
Then, recognition.
Ben, flying across the sandbank, a wild look on his face.
A second later, I knew why.
He was being chased.
COOPER EXPLODED FROM the dunes, fur sticking out in soggy spikes.
The wolfdog puppy chased Ben down the beach, yapping like mad.
“Not so quick, are you Coop?” Ben shouted over his shoulder as he cut left, racing for the surf.
Coop skidded to a halt when Ben dove into the ocean. Thwarted, he barked and raced back and forth.
“Here boy!” I called.
Coop tossed one last yip at Ben before trotting to my side. Then he shook furiously, spraying seawater everywhere.
“Blech!” I wiped salty droplets from my face. “Thanks for nothing, mongrel.”
Coop looked pleased. I think. Hard to tell with dogs.
Hi, already doused, was nonchalant. “Did the bad Indian throw you in the water, boy?” Taking a knee, he ruffled Coop’s ears. “Been there.”
Hi was referring to Ben’s claim of ties to the Sewee, a North American clan folded into the Catawba tribe centuries ago. He’d even named his boat Sewee.
“I feel your pain,” Hi continued. “Thanksgiving was a huge mistake.”
Coop licked Hi’s face.
“Not nice,” I joked. “You’ll sour Jewish-Sewee relations.”