Storm

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “You idiot,” said Nick, his voice amused. “You did save us.”

  “No,” said Gabriel. “Before. And I provoked them into calling the Guides—”

  “This wasn’t your fault,” said Nick. His eyes opened to look at his twin. “Not even a little.”

  “I’m glad you provoked them,” said Chris, feeling heat in his voice. “I’d do it again.”

  “Hey.” Michael appeared in the doorway and leaned in. “This started way before that mess with the truck and the fertilizer, okay? None of you started it. None of you. If anyone did, it was Mom and Dad, when they made the deal in the first place.”

  The sudden silence smacked Chris in the face. He just stared at Michael standing there in the doorway. So did his brothers.

  It must have taken Michael by surprise, too. He looked slightly abashed. His hands dropped from the molding and he drew back. “Not too late, okay? You all need to get some sleep.”

  Gabriel inhaled quickly, and Chris braced himself for words with an edge, some comment that would ramp up the tension in the house again.

  But Gabriel just nodded. “All right.”

  Then Michael glanced at each of them, and without another word, started to move down the hallway. Chris met Gabriel’s eyes across the room and held them.

  “Hey,” called Chris. “Michael.”

  Michael came back to the doorway, his expression wary, as if he thought their acquiescence a moment ago had been too good to be true. “Yeah?”

  Chris straightened in the chair, surprised to find himself uncertain now. “We’re just talking about stuff. Want to come in?”

  “Yeah, come in,” agreed Gabriel. He looked up at their oldest brother, not an ounce of mockery or derision in his expression now. “Join us.”

  By Sunday, Becca still hadn’t heard from her father.

  But late in the afternoon, Chris came to see her.

  Remembering the last time he’d come for a visit, she peered around him at her driveway, finding nothing but weakening sunlight sliding across the pavement. The SUV sat there, but it looked empty.

  “No brothers?” she said.

  He smiled, but it was cautious. “No brothers.”

  “Want to sit on the porch?” she said. “My mom’s sleeping, so ... if you want to talk ...”

  “Sure.”

  So they sat on the porch swing, barely rocking at all.

  “How’s Nick?” she asked. “I bet he’s bummed about the cast.”

  Chris shrugged as if pleased she’d introduced a safe topic. “Actually, no cast. He just has to wear one of those Velcro things. Even that, probably only a week.”

  “I thought you said he had a compound fracture!”

  He grinned. “Yeah, well, air is everywhere, Becca. He’ll heal pretty quick now that we’re out of that room.” Then he lost the smile. “How are you?”

  Her turn to shrug. “I haven’t heard from my father, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “It’s not.” He leaned close, his voice low, intense. “You, Becca. How are you?”

  She shifted on the bench and looked out at the yard. “Confused.”

  “Yeah?” Chris reached out a hand and brushed a piece of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear.

  His touch was gentle but electric, and it made her breath catch. But that was all he did before settling against the backrest. Maybe it was a casual thing. She shouldn’t read meaning into it, the way she had with Hunter.

  “I don’t know why my father would keep this from me,” she said.

  “From what Hunter told me, he had his reasons.”

  She sat up straight. “You talked to Hunter?”

  He nodded.

  “Did anyone throw a punch?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Not the way you mean. But Gabriel asked him about that self-defense stuff.”

  “So you’re all friends now?”

  “Not by a long shot.” He shook his head. “Michael says Hunter’s lonely. I actually think he feels bad for the kid.”

  “You know Hunter held a gun to his head. He came here to kill him.”

  Chris shrugged. “Guys bond over weird stuff, I guess.” He leaned in again and sighed. “Jesus, Becca, it’s impossible to get you to talk about yourself. I didn’t even mean the Elemental stuff. Are you okay?”

  She stared across into his blue eyes, just now wide with emotion.

  And then she realized he was talking about what had happened at Homecoming.

  “Yeah,” she said, and she hated that her voice was rough. “I wasn’t going to say anything. It was—you stopped them.” Her shoulders felt tight, braced against the wood of the swing. “I didn’t think it would do any good. I figured everyone would be talking about me again, and I just—I didn’t want to go through that.” She gave a little laugh, and was surprised when a tear rolled off her cheek to land on her finger.

  “Becca,” Chris whispered. “You can’t—”

  “No, I changed my mind.” She looked up at him through her lashes. “I will now. I kept wondering what good it would do for me to report them, for me to tell people what they’d done. Why put myself through it? But then I started thinking about your parents, about Tyler and Seth and all those other dickheads. I thought of all the deals, and the secrets, and the lies people told in the name of protection.”

  He was staring at her, and she had to take a breath. “What if your parents had just stood up to Tyler and Seth’s folks from the start, and said, ‘Call the Guides, our kids have done nothing wrong. Can you say the same?’ ”

  He flinched a little, and she immediately regretted her words.

  But then he nodded. “You’re right.” He paused, and his voice was thick. “I wish they had.”

  She stared at him, remembering the potency of Gabriel’s emotion in the woods. She’d wanted to hug Gabriel then, but she wasn’t sure how he’d take it.

  Now she threw her arms around Chris’s neck, pressing her face to his shoulder. “Chris. I’m sorry.”

  He held her, his arms secure around her back. She felt his breath against her hair, quick for a moment, then easing.

  They were rocking gently now, and it felt nice. She didn’t let him go.

  Chris stroked the hair away from her face again, lightly, gently, his fingers a bare touch on her cheekbone. “You turned the conversation away from yourself again.”

  “I don’t want to talk about those guys. I’ve wasted enough time on them, and I’ll spend enough time talking about them tomorrow.”

  He nodded, and she relaxed into his shoulder.

  Then she lifted her head, finding his face close, his eyes shadowed and intent.

  “What?” he said.

  “Will you still go with me?”

  “Yes.” He placed a hand against her cheek. “I promise.”

  “Thanks, Chris.” She paused. “You’re a good friend.”

  They almost-rocked for a little while, and she enjoyed the late September wind tickling across her cheeks.

  Then Chris shifted her a little. “What about you and Hunter?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. He lied to me about so much—he won’t even tell me what was real—”

  “So you’re not dating anymore?”

  “No.” She lifted her head again, hearing disgust in her voice. “I don’t even know if we were dating to begin with. I mean, he—”

  But she couldn’t finish that sentence.

  Because Chris had her face in his hands, and he’d brought his lips to hers.

  BEYOND THE STORY

  Many crystals and stones are known for their mystical properties. As a Fifth, Hunter has a special connection to certain ones, and he wears the following stones at all times.

  Loaned to Becca

  Amethyst—Purple. Contains healing properties for mind and body; also provides a calming influence. Strong connection to Spirit.

  Citrine—Yellow. Banishes negative energy and enhances natural courage. Promotes open-minded acceptance.
Strong connection to Air.

  Garnet—Red. Enhances confidence, also provides a certain degree of protection from outside influences and negative Elemental power. Strong connection to Fire.

  Hematite—Black. Improves clarity of thought and reduces anxiety. Strong connection to Water.

  Quartz—White. Amplifies the effects of other stones; also used for tracking. Helps focus Elemental power. Strong connection to Spirit.

  Kept by Hunter

  Jade—Green. Repels enemies and negativity; also symbolizes serenity. Strong connection to Earth.

  Lapis—Blue. Enhances charisma and confidence, strengthening relations with others. Strong connection to Air.

  Tiger’s Eye—Multicolored browns. Enhances inner strength. Strong connection to Fire.

  Turquoise—Blue-green. Protection from negative forces and enemies. Strong connection to Earth.

  Bloodstone—Green with red flecks. Feeds stamina and strength. Strong connection to Fire.

  Coral—White. Inspires prudence and wisdom. Strong connection to Water.

  Opal—Bluish white. Enhances emotion, both negative and positive. Strong connection to Spirit.

  ELEMENTAL:

  Where it all begins ...

  CHAPTER 1

  The thrill of having a summer job wore off about fifteen minutes after Emily Morgan started working. She’d had two customers all day. The sports complex was such a joke. No wonder she hadn’t had any competition for this job.

  It wasn’t even a sports complex, not really. Mini-golf that no one wanted to play when it was a hundred degrees outside. Batting cages that no one would use until school started up in the fall. She probably wouldn’t see another soul until after five, when the white-collar dads showed up to use the driving range in a last-ditch effort to avoid going home to screaming kids.

  Even then, in this heat, she’d be lucky if there were many.

  Ugh, her hair was already plastered to her neck. Days like these, she wished she had enough power to do more than stir up a gentle breeze.

  Then she choked off that thought.

  She knew what happened to kids with power.

  Besides, sitting here wasn’t so bad. She worked the shop alone, so she could blast the entire sound tracks to Rent and Les Mis and sing along, and no one would give a crap. She didn’t have to watch her brother Tyler light insects on fire with a magnifying glass and a sunbeam, like he’d done last summer. She didn’t have to listen to her parents argue.

  She could count the days until she turned eighteen.

  Until she could get away from her family.

  The shop door creaked and rattled, sticking in the humidity. Emily straightened, excited for a customer, for someone—anyone —to break up this cruel monotony.

  Anyone but Michael Merrick.

  For a second, she entertained the thought of diving behind the counter.

  Real mature, Em.

  But her hands were slick against the glass casing.

  It wasn’t that he looked all that intimidating. He’d be starting his senior year this fall, just like she would, but sometime over the last six months he’d grown to the tall side of average. He worked for his parents’ landscaping company, she knew, and it couldn’t have been light work—his arms showed some clear definition, his shoulders stretching the green tee shirt he wore.

  He was filthy, too. Dirt streaked across his chest and clung to the sweat on his neck. His jeans had seen better days, and his work boots would probably track dirt across the floor. Even his hair, dark and wild and a length somewhere between sexy and I-don’t-give-a-crap, was more unkempt than usual.

  Emily didn’t care about any of that.

  She had her eyes on the baseball bat in his hands.

  He’d gotten into it with Tyler last weekend, had sent her brother home with a black eye and a bloody nose, leaving their parents to argue for an hour about how they were going to handle the Merrick problem.

  Emily slid her hand along the counter, toward where they kept the putt-putt clubs for little kids.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” she said, her voice solid but too quick. Her fingers wrapped around the handle of a club.

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t either.”

  Then she realized he hadn’t moved from the doorway, that he was still standing there staring at her, his hand on the knob.

  He glanced past her, at the corners of the shop, as if reassuring himself that they were alone. She had no idea what that meant. She watched him take in her stance, the way she’d half pulled the putt-putt club free.

  He followed her gaze to the bat resting against his shoulder.

  His expression hardened, and he shoved the door closed. He was halfway across the floor before she realized he’d moved, and she yanked the club free, ready to swing if he gave her an excuse.

  Then he was within reach, and she registered the bat leaving his shoulder, and, god, her parents were right—

  He was going to swing—

  He was going to kill her—

  His hand shot out and caught the steel bar.

  Emily stood there gasping. She’d done it—she’d swung for his head. The end of the putter hung about five inches from his face.

  And his bat was leaning against the counter.

  Harmless.

  She couldn’t move. He didn’t let go of the club, either, using his free hand to dig into the pocket of his jeans. A five-dollar bill dropped onto the glass counter between them.

  “So can I get five tokens or what?”

  Tokens. For the batting cages.

  Of course.

  Emily couldn’t catch her breath—and that never happened. Her panic had kicked the air into a flurry of little whirlwinds in the space between them, teasing her cheeks and lifting his hair.

  She could catch his scent, though, sweet and summery, mulch and potting soil, honeysuckle and cut grass. A warm fragrance, not something that belonged on someone she was supposed to hate.

  He was staring at her, and he had a death grip on the club. She could feel his strength through the slim bar. “Well?”

  “Yeah.” She coughed and cleared her throat, using her own free hand to punch at the cash register. “Sure.”

  It took effort to look away from the dark brown of his eyes. Wasn’t there some kind of rule about not looking away from an enemy? She fished the tokens out of the drawer, almost dropping them all over the floor. Somehow, she got them onto the glass counter and slid them toward him.

  Then they stood there comically, connected by the slim rod of the club.

  She wanted to let go—but she didn’t.

  Especially now that she’d tried to hit him, when he’d never made a move to lay a hand on her.

  She swallowed, thinking of Tyler’s bruised face after he’d gone a few rounds with Michael Merrick.

  He leaned in. “I come here every Wednesday and Friday.” Emily nodded.

  “You going to try to kill me every time?”

  She shook her head quickly.

  He let go of the club. She sheepishly lowered it, but didn’t put it back in the bucket with the others.

  Michael swiped the tokens from the counter and jammed them into his pocket. He swung the bat onto his shoulder again.

  Emily opened her mouth—for what, she wasn’t sure.

  But then he was through the door, pulling it shut behind him without a glance back.

  The ball came flying out of the machine, and Michael swung the bat hard, feeling it all the way through his shoulders.

  Crack. The ball went sailing into the net.

  One place. That’s all he wanted—one place where he wouldn’t get hassled.

  And now he was screwed.

  What the hell was Tyler’s sister doing here, anyway? She wasn’t a jock chick. From what he knew of her, she should probably be flirting over the counter at Starbucks or something, not babysitting a half-dead sports center.

  Summer should have meant a break from this crap. Ever since the
y’d moved here in sixth grade, school had been a prison he got to escape at three o’clock every day.

  Only to be hauled back in the next morning.

  Just like a real prison, not everyone sucked. There were the people who didn’t know he existed. The people who knew but didn’t care. The latter made up the bulk of the student body.

  But then there was the group that knew everything about him. The group that wanted him dead.

  The Elementals.

  Like he’d picked this. Like he’d woken up one morning and said, I’d love to be tied to an element. I’d love to have so much power it scares me.

  I’d love to be marked for death because of something I can’t control.

  Another ball.

  Crack.

  This wasn’t the only place with batting cages, but it was the cheapest. One sat closer to home, with fake turf in the cages and everything, but here his feet were in the dirt, pulling strength from the ground below.

  If he took his shoes off and swung barefoot, he could draw enough power from the earth to blow the ball straight through the net.

  Oh, who was he kidding? He could practically do that now, steel-toed work boots and all.

  That was part of the problem. He was a pure Elemental. Power spoke to him straight from the earth. The others in town had power, sure, but nothing like his. He could theoretically level half the town if he lost his temper.

  Which was why they wanted him dead.

  Another ball.

  Crack.

  At least his parents had worked out a deal: He’d stay out of trouble, and the other families wouldn’t report his existence.

  There’d been money involved, sure. He had no idea how much. But sometimes he couldn’t believe his entire being rested on a signed check and a frigging handshake.

  It didn’t help that the other kids in town—the kids who knew—seemed determined to make him reveal himself.

  The hair on the back of his neck pricked, and Michael punched the button to stop the pitches, whirling with bat in hand.

  He wouldn’t put it past Emily to call her brother and his friends.