Spirit. Brigid Kemmerer

      CHAPTER 2

      The gun clicked empty, and Hunter swore.

      A laugh in the darkness, somewhere ahead of him. “You thought I’d take a chance with it loaded?”

      Then his bedroom door slammed and footsteps were pounding up the steps to the main level.

      His mother was upstairs. His grandparents.

      Kerosene. Match. Whoosh.

      Hunter didn’t have the power to stop a fire by himself—and he’d done a pretty good job killing any sort of friendship with the one guy he knew who could.

      He flung the door wide and sprinted up the stairs.

      And there was Casper, his German shepherd, flopped out in the front hall, snoring loudly.

      Hunter couldn’t really blame him. He’d been fooled by Calla once, too.

      Glass was breaking in the kitchen, then something heavy crashed to the floor. Hunter darted through the foyer as more glass broke. What were they doing? Flinging dishes at the floor?

      Yes, that’s exactly what they were doing. Calla was sweeping her hand along the counter as she headed for the door, sending ceramic canisters and the glass cutting board onto the floor. A guy Hunter didn’t recognize shoved the baker’s rack away from the wall, sending pots crashing to the ground. The table was overturned already, and shattered glasses and plates littered the floor.

      Hunter wasn’t sure what to do. The gun was still downstairs—not like it mattered. It was empty, and besides, he couldn’t exactly shoot them for breaking dishes.

      At least she wasn’t starting a fire.

      Calla pulled a knife from the wooden block on the counter—then flung the block at the floor. Half the steak knives skittered free and landed among the rest of the mess. She dragged the blade along the wallpaper by the door. “Need more convincing?”

      God, his head hurt, and the whack to his skull downstairs was only part of it. “Get out of here, Calla.”

      “Or what? You can’t do anything to me, Hunter. I’m not working alone, you know. I’m not the only one who can start fires.”

      Hunter glanced at her friend by the door. Dark hair, pale skin, a little on the skinny side. Close to their age, if not a little younger. Totally not familiar, but Hunter had only been in school here for a few weeks, so that didn’t mean anything.

      The guy noticed Hunter’s scrutiny and grinned, though it looked a little crazed. He flipped hair out of his eyes. “Maybe we should start a little one, let you know we’re serious.” Then he shoved the microwave off the counter. It hung from its cord for a long moment, then jerked free and crashed to the floor.

      Hunter heard a muffled curse from upstairs, then the floorboards creaked.

      His grandfather.

      Hunter felt pretty sure an adult wouldn’t help this situation.

      He so didn’t want to deal with this. He sighed and picked up the cordless phone from the holder on the wall.

      “Who you calling?” said Calla. “You think the Merricks can help you?”

      The Merricks were probably the last people who would offer to help him, but Calla didn’t need to know that. “No,” Hunter said. “I’m doing what you’re supposed to do when people break into your house.” When she raised her eyebrows, he added, “I’m calling nine-one-one.”

      Her smile wilted around the edges. “Liar.”

      He spoke into the phone. “I’d like to report a break-in at one-eleven North Shore Road—”

      “Calla!” said the guy by the door.

      “Hang up that phone!” she hissed.

      “They’re still here,” Hunter said into the receiver. “They’re armed.”

      Calla dropped the knife. “I’ll kill you, Hunter,” she seethed. “You know I can—”

      “Please hurry,” said Hunter. “They’re threatening to kill me.”

      A siren started wailing somewhere in the distance. The dark-haired guy grabbed Calla’s wrist and yanked. They bolted through the door.

      Hunter set the phone back on the receiver. He’d never dialed at all.

      That siren had been sheer luck.

      What a mess. Hunter ran his hands through his hair. The length of it still shocked him every time. He hadn’t cut it in months.

      The floorboards in the hallway creaked, and Hunter swore under his breath. He had no idea how to explain this. If he said someone had broken in, his grandfather really would call the cops.

      After he’d been arrested for his involvement in the fire in the school library last week—a fire Calla had started—Hunter didn’t need any more interaction with cops.

      Thank god the gun was still downstairs.

      His grandfather stopped short when he saw the mess. It was too dark to make out his expression—not that Hunter wanted to try. The man was tall but lean and muscled from years of farm labor, with short gray hair and a permanent look of displeasure. He hit the switch on the wall, and the light made things look a hundred times worse. His eyes narrowed at his grandson. “You’d better have a good explanation.”

      Like Hunter had woken up in the middle of the night and started trashing the kitchen.

      But really, this was exactly how every conversation with his grandfather went.

      “I didn’t do this,” he said. His father had never had much tolerance for attitude, so Hunter was well practiced in keeping it out of his tone. It had just never been this much of a challenge with his dad.

      “Who did?”

      “Kids from school. A prank.” He paused. “I’ll clean it up.”

      “And you’ll pay for it.”

      Hunter set his jaw, but didn’t say anything.

      When he and his mother had first pulled up the driveway six weeks ago, his grandfather had watched Hunter climb out of the car, then said, “We’re not going to have any of your nonsense here, you understand me, boy?”

      Hunter had turned to his mother, looking for . . . something. Direction, maybe. A cue for how to respond.

      But his