“Aoife!” He caught her as if she weighed nothing and threw her into the air, both of them laughing.

Josh suddenly felt himself smiling at the image of this ferocious-looking man grinning as he tossed Aoife-who seemed like a child in his arms-into the air. He had a sudden vivid memory of his own father throwing him high just like that when he was younger. He’d loved that feeling of flying.

“My good girl.” Prometheus flung Aoife into the air again, even higher, and she squealed once more.

“Don’t let me fall,” she gasped, beginning to hiccup.

“Have I ever let you fall?” the Elder demanded, and Josh suddenly realized that he spoke English with a surprisingly strong Southern drawl.

“Never,” she said breathlessly.

“It’s been so long. Too long.” The big man caught Aoife, set her on the ground and stepped back, holding her at arm’s length as he took her in. “You’ve grown…”

“Not an inch since you last saw me,” she said quickly.

“And when was that?” he wondered aloud.

“Oh, not too long ago. Just over a hundred and twenty years, I think.” Aoife pushed her dark glasses onto her head and looked up into her uncle’s broad face.

Josh immediately realized that their eyes were an identical shade of green.

“The last time I saw you,” Aoife continued, “was when you and Niten came to my rescue when I got into trouble with the Nagas on Krakatoa.”

Prometheus nodded and laughed. “Yes, yes, I remember!”

“Krakatoa,” Josh breathed excitedly. “That’s where Mom and Dad were five years ago. That’s the island with the volcano…” He turned and looked into the back of the car, but no one was listening to him: Sophie, Nicholas and Perenelle were all staring at the Elder.

The twins’ parents had spent an entire summer on the island when the twins were ten, and Josh had used the island and the photographs his mom and dad had taken as the basis for a school project two years ago. He knew that one of the biggest volcanic explosions ever recorded on earth had taken place on Krakatoa in the late nineteenth century… which was, he realized with a start, about one hundred and twenty years ago.

“And how is your boyfriend, the Swordsman?” Prometheus boomed.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Aoife said quickly, bright spots of color appearing on her pale cheeks. “And he’s fine.”

“Have you seen him recently?”

“Very recently.” Aoife turned as the driver’s door opened and Niten stepped out. With his hands flat against his thighs, the Japanese immortal bowed to the huge red-haired Elder.

Prometheus matched his bow. “It is good to see you, old friend,” he said warmly.

“And you, Firelord.”