Sacrifice. Brigid Kemmerer
gave him a look. “To spend the night?”
“No, she did not spend the night.”
Hunter shrugged and looked at the woods again. “Gabriel thought you were sneaking her in since we hadn’t seen her around lately.”
Typical Gabriel. “For god’s sake. She’s been busy. Would you just go back in the house?”
Hunter stayed right where he was. “Whatever. She’s your girlfriend.”
Yeah, and Michael had been avoiding her since the first night he’d sensed someone in the woods. Hannah was smart and fierce and had the uncanny ability to look right through him.
He wasn’t ready to share his secrets. Not yet. Not ever, if spilling the beans meant putting Hannah and her son in harm’s way.
She wasn’t stupid. She knew something was up.
She wasn’t happy either, considering she hadn’t responded to either of his texts earlier this evening.
A branch snapped, and Michael froze. Casper growled.
A shadow slid between the trees. Hunter shifted forward, his stance getting lower. He put a hand on Casper’s collar.
“Take it easy,” Michael said, his voice as low as he could make it. “Just wait.”
Hunter didn’t say anything, but metal clicked.
Michael looked down. A gun had appeared in Hunter’s hands.
Michael caught his wrist, keeping the weapon pointed at the ground. “What the hell do you think ‘take it easy’ means?”
The shadow in the trees stopped short.
“If it’s a Guide, they’ll be armed,” Hunter hissed. “Don’t be stupid.”
They stared at each other for a long moment. Michael wasn’t sure he wanted Hunter to put the gun away. He could feel his heart in his throat. Hunter’s breath was shaking, just a bit.
The woods hung still now, no sense of motion at all.
Then that shadow bolted. Casper barked and ran.
Hunter jerked his arm free and took off after them both.
Michael swore and followed.
This immediately felt wrong. He didn’t want to leave his brothers vulnerable—and that’s what sleep felt like now. Vulnerability.
Why the hell hadn’t he woken them up?
“Stop!” he yelled, hoping his brothers would somehow hear him. “Hunter, damn it, stop!”
Then he shut his mouth. He shouldn’t yell—not unless he wanted to wake the whole street. This war made everyone in the neighborhood a liability. A risk. A threat. The last thing he needed was some middle-aged dad stumbling into the line of fire in his boxer shorts.
Besides which, he was terrified Hunter was going to pull that trigger and shoot some moron hiding a few joints in his pocket.
But Hunter hadn’t fired, and Michael could see him slipping between the trees about twenty feet ahead. He hardly needed the visual: at this distance the earth could feed their path to him. They’d never lose him on foot. The underbrush helped, too. Rocks and branches shifted out of the way of his bare feet, letting him gain ground.
The earth couldn’t offer the nuances of emotion, but it knew enough to recognize a panicked run. Whoever they were chasing was terrified of getting caught.
Not a Guide, then.
Hunter’s breath echoed over the crunch of his feet through underbrush. Their quarry was quick—he’d gained ground—but this kind of desperate running would burn him out fast.
“Hunter! I said stop.” Michael was fast. He could almost grab the back of Hunter’s sweatshirt now, but he didn’t. “He didn’t attack us. We’re chasing him.”
That made Hunter draw up short, sliding to a stop in the dirt, breathing hard. “Casper! Hier!” The dog barked again, somewhere in the distance, but he returned to his master’s side.
Hunter pushed hair off his face and swore. The gun was still in his hand, pointed at the ground. “You don’t know this isn’t Calla.”
True, he didn’t know this wasn’t Calla. She was violent and unpredictable and refused to discuss anything that had to do with avoiding a war. Michael hadn’t heard from her since last week, since he’d told her his priority was to protect his family—not to start a war with the Guides.
Regardless, he wasn’t a big fan of shooting blindly into the woods. “What if this has nothing to do with us, and you shoot some unarmed kid?”
Hunter slid the gun into his waistband at the small of his back. He was scowling. “I’m not reckless.”
Branches snapped in the distance. Michael felt every step as the runner drew farther away.
“See?” he said, catching his breath. “A Guide would know we could follow him.”
Then they heard a splash, and Michael lost any sense of their target.
Hunter took off again. “Why would some unarmed kid jump into the creek in November?” he called.
Michael ran after him. “Maybe he fell.”
But he’d felt the instant the runner’s feet left the earth. Running to the water had been deliberate. Whoever this was had known Michael could follow him on land.
Maybe he didn’t know Hunter would be able to follow him in the water.
Stoney Creek wasn’t really a creek at all. It stretched half a mile across, the towns on either side connected by a drawbridge. Farther south, there was a stretch of beach, but here, at the edge of their neighborhood, the woods ended at a sheer drop into water. By the time they reached the bank, Hunter had lost his sweatshirt. He didn’t even pause: he leapt into the quickly moving current, jeans and all. Michael dove in beside him.
The sudden cold caught him in a vise grip. For an instant, he couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.
But then his body kicked into action, sending his heart pounding with adrenaline. Forget Nick. Michael should have woken Chris. His youngest brother wouldn’t need to chase this guy. Chris could probably convince the current to drag him back to shore.
Too late now. Icy water attacked with the sting of a thousand needles, protesting his presence. He fought to make his arms drive through the water, but the current churned thick with power, fighting his every stroke. Michael kicked and the water dragged him under. Those pinpricks of cold turned to full-size nails hammered into his skin.
Power.
Maybe jumping into the creek wasn’t about avoiding anyone’s abilities at all. Maybe this guy was a frigging Water Elemental.
Brackish water fought its way into Michael’s mouth. He tried to force it out, but the current was a living thing, prying open his lips, burning into his nostrils. His lungs begged for air and water surged down his throat. Instinct forced him to inhale, allowing more water to knife its way into his chest. He tried to cough but inhaled more liquid.
The water dragged at his body, pulling him deeper. The pressure on his chest increased. Bitterness clawed at the back of his tongue, more water trying to force its way into his lungs. His legs couldn’t kick. He’d been so worried about a bullet, and now he was drowning.
No, not drowning. Sleeping. He didn’t need to fight anymore. He could sleep, right here.
Sleep.
He’d never warned his brothers. They’d be asleep in their beds, easy victims.
His body touched the bottom, and the sand whispered to him, scraping his skin, offering power. Michael couldn’t make sense of it. He was too tired.
Something