As Kimo knocked on the door, Joe jogged down the hill. Chris urged Cassie to go next with a nod. After a deep breath, he was the last to plod toward the hut.

"Do you think he's here?" Joe tossed over his shoulder once they all assembled by the door.

Chris shrugged, and then Kimo knocked again. His first knock had been loud enough to scare off some impressively large gnats and mosquitoes, so Chris couldn't figure out why no one had answered yet.

Maybe Scott wasn't "home." Was he out for a pleasant stroll, whistling that tinny fisherman's whistle, still pretending his family didn't exist?

At long last, Scott MacRae eased the door open a crack, as if expecting the boogeyman. "Hello, Kimo," he said. Then his one visible eye widened and the door flew open. "Well, boys, this is a surprise!"

He sounded exceedingly happy, and not all that surprised, as if they were nothing more than holiday visitors who had been delayed. Chris wasn't convinced the sentiment was genuine. His dad had been detached even during the best of times, so his glib vibrancy was more than just out of character.

Scott glanced at each of them while sporting a close-lipped smile. "Welcome back, Kimo, and thanks for bringing my boys and. . ." He narrowed his eyes at Cassie as if he recognized her but was unable to piece the entire tale together.

"Dad, we found you . . . finally," Joe said, interrupting Scott's moment of uncertainty and Cassie's chance to offer the information he lacked.

Though Joe's sarcasm was unmistakable, Scott didn't seem to notice. "I'm glad you did. It's been a long time!" He grasped Joe in a quick hug. They released each other, and then Chris begrudgingly made eye contact with his father. "Chris!" said Scott MacRae.

"Dad," Chris replied flatly.

There was an awkward moment in which Scott held his arms out and Chris had to decide whether to accept his father's embrace. But Chris's eyes dropped and the moment was over, the decision made. When Chris looked back up, Scott's hand was on Joe's shoulder, and they were walking into the hut together, side by side, father and son.

Kimo stepped inside next, and Chris expected Cassie to follow suit, but she remained by his side. She was looking up at him expectantly, as if waiting for his go-ahead. He was about to give it to her with a smile, half real and half forced. Then he accepted that it would look too similar to the one his father just faked. Chris put an end to before it truly began and gave her another nod instead.

Her responding grin was subtle, amused, but thankfully understanding.

"Welcome to Kāne territory," Scott exclaimed proudly as they entered.

The hut was extremely primitive inside—dirt floors, scantly furnished eating and living areas, and nonexistent embellishment. Other than a fireplace, a rack of weapons by the door, and a couple of alcoves without doors, there wasn't much else to see.

"Did you enjoy the wormhole?" Scott went on, turning to Joe.

"You mean the LSD-inspired tunnel that brought us here?"

Scott chuckled. "I designed it myself so I could travel between worlds at flying speed."

"That's awesome," Joe gushed. "And you can totally tell you peaked in the 1970s."

Chris's hands started shaking, even when he balled them into fists. So much for that verbal lashing. . .

While Scott made small talk with Joe and Kimo, Chris was distracted by his father's physical appearance. He seemed well, tan and fit. Chris would have preferred he look worse. He had barely aged a day, whereas his mother had aged a lifetime in her last year. It was hard to believe he was technically older than she was.

Scott's hair was much different, too. It used to be similar to Chris's shade of dark blond. Now it was lighter, longer, and he sported a full beard, not trimmed or shaped whatsoever. Chris found the beard the most irritating. His mother would have never let him get away with wearing one in such a state.

He zoned back into the conversation just in time to hear Scott say, "I'm sorry I couldn't make it to your mother's funeral. I was—"

"Sorry. You're sorry?" Chris interrupted. He pointed at his father and looked to Joe. "Did he just say he was sorry?"

Joe's eyes bulged out and he shook his head, as if to say, Don't do this.

"Yes, that's what I said," Scott answered in Joe's place.

Chris shoved past Joe's outstretched arm and pushed his father in the chest. Chris had the advantage—strength, speed, motivation—and Scott stumbled backward. One more push and Scott could have easily been toppled. But Kimo grabbed Chris's body from behind.

Chris wasn't prepared for or knowledgeable enough to counter Kimo's precise and effective martial arts maneuver. So his cheek hit the ground with a flesh-smashing thud.

His hands were pinned, his body immobilized. "Get off me, you son of a bitch!"

Chris thrashed around. His former father-in-law applied even more tension to his overextended shoulders. He started hyperventilating, and the pain was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

Just as he feared he would never be able to use his arms again, Chris heard, "Stop! You're hurting him!" The voice was distinctly feminine, though very frightening. "Hasn't he endured enough violence for one lifetime? And now it's so bountifully bestowed by his own family."

Chris strained to see his unexpected defender, the tiny fairy princess, beautiful as always, but potentially lethal, like a poisonous flower.

Scott called off Kimo with his hand. Then he backed away from Cassie, cautiously, with his hands up in surrender. "Calm down, Cassiopeia." He had figured out her name, no formal introduction required. Her anger must have brought out something in her face that he recognized . . . and feared. "No one is going to hurt him."

"He should show his father some respect," Kimo grunted as he released Chris's arms.

"His father will have to earn some." There was enough ice in Cassie's voice to chill a room that was otherwise hot as hell.

She crouched down and offered Chris her hand. Illuminated by a halo of light, she helped him to his feet. No one had ever defended his rash behavior before with such poignancy and grace. He had no idea what he'd done to deserve her allegiance.

His eyes locked onto hers. He had never really looked into her eyes before. They were a deep, rich brown, but there were also tiny flecks of purple in their depths. Strange. Otherworldly. She wasn't human—but then again, neither was he, not really. There was something about her stare, though. Her focus was just. . .

Can you hear me? he wondered . . . he said to her internally, as if she could actually hear him. Somehow, she was passing on a reason to wonder.

Her eyelids contracted inquisitively.

Chris couldn't make himself look away; he forgot there were others in the room. Then an exaggerated, interruptive cough pierced his concentration. Chris didn't know who it was—didn't care—but Cassie's eyes flicked to Joe, breaking whatever it was that had Chris trapped in that ethereal void.

"I think what Chris is trying to say, in his not-so-subtle way," Joe cut in, "is that your wife died last March. Chris had to watch her die a slow painful death without you. Not to mention that Alana was murdered almost right before his eyes. And he and his kids were dragged from their home, and we were all put in a cage in a place we didn't know could actually exist on this planet." Joe's lilting voice belied his anger. Clearly, his apparent acceptance of their father's conduct had been an act. "So thanks for the heads-up about that psycho ex-wife of yours. I'm sorry, but sorry doesn't quite get the job done."

"I can and will explain everything soon," Scott replied. "For now, settle in and make yourselves comfortable. And know that you're safe here and among friends."

Comfortable . . . safe . . . friends. . .

The words should have provided Chris with some relief, but he was dizzy, drained to the point of emptiness, and had an overwhelming urge to flee.

Too much heat, too much family, too little space. . . . 

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