Elf [Book One of The Elf Chronicles]

Yeah.
 Centred on that one room? Isn't that a little weird?
 Not one room - two, Ben retorted ruefully, holding up his bandaged hands. Keep it low-key. Freak of nature. We're just lucky it wasn't worse.
 Can you describe it?
 Ben had thought about this one. He'd known they'd be asking. Like those pictures you see of a waterspout, he replied seriously. Black. Swirling. And in that moment, he could see it again.
 Ready to suck a man down.
 Dr. Lowry, are you okay?
 Sure, he said. He leaned against the car and tried to fight down the black swirling in his vision. He'd seen people pass out, but it had never happened to him. He had a terrible feeling this was what it felt like.
 Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people - reporters, for God's sake...
 The swirling was getting worse and he couldn't even hear them now. He buried his face in his arm. Please, he whispered. Just go -
 They never heard where he wanted them to go. The next moment, he was passed out on the paving.

***

 Where's Lowry? Mac asked the nurse abruptly. It was the first time one of his dreams had included a near-stranger. Usually, it was only family, or close friends.
 But he owed the man. He'd saved Zander's life, the night before. Refused to give up when Zander'd been nearly bled out. Covered up queries about the tornado, and stopped Quist from rambling in delirium. He'd covered for Zander, for Quist, for them all.
 For himself?
 Probably, but that wasn't the gist of it. The man was only human, after all.
 But you're not. The thought crept in, and Mac banished it, at once. I'm as human as the next man...
 Did the next man have veins that bled shimmery liquid, pointy ears, or a metabolism that wouldn' t quit?
 Don't think about it.
 Zander wasn't the only one who' d been remembering Brian Craigen's death. It hadn't been far from Mac's thoughts, either. He'd never really taken his dad's warning that seriously. Quist and Zander were grown men - had been grown men for years. His father's terrible end had been a singular event - he'd thought. He hadn't wanted the responsibility for guardianship.
 For guardship over a man who was grown and independent and didn't need it.
 But the incident with the hounds had hit him hard. Brought back his father's cruel death and his own doubts. There'd been a scent to that scene, a feeling, a sound, which was more than a little familiar. And something inside him had quickened in reaction.
 Last night's attack was like a nail in his coffin. Mac had a terrible feeling he'd never be his own man again.
 He was only three years older than Quist; two years older than Zander. He wanted a life, a destiny, of his own. He didn't want servitude or solitude. He wanted to leave his father's coffin behind and move on. Instead, the coffin nails were being driven into his feet, to pin him down. To tether him - and Quist - to Zander forever.
 He'd tried to save Quist from it. He'd shouldered the burden and endured his brother's cries of fool and dumbass. He hadn't wanted Quist' s freedom squelched. Mac knew how irksome it could be. He wasn't built for quiet or complacency. The thought of being trapped for life was anathema to him.
 But it was too late. His father was here, standing beside him, the warning on his lips. Mac could see it - could still recall how his insides had rejected it. How his father had looked at him sadly, because he could understand the spurning of duty.