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He saw nothing.
Lightning hit closer, about eight feet to their left.
He swore, yanking her with him as he backpedaled across the field.
“Do something!” she cried. “Can’t you build a wall of ice, or—”
“Are you kidding?” he said. “I’m not an X-Man! This is—”
Crack. Lightning bolt, right where they’d been standing. Becca screamed.
He needed Nick, so they could move the storm. Or Gabriel, to harness some of this lightning. The rain refused to listen to him, and by himself, he was at his weakest. Hell, he’d probably helped this guy by warming the rain, changing the air temperature enough to bring the storm this way.
He was going to die—and he’d be taking Becca down with him.
“Run,” he said, trying to pry her hands off his arm. “Run for the school.”
“Are you crazy—”
“Becca, run! He wants me, not you.” He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and thrust it into her hand. “Text Gabriel when you get to the school—tell him what’s—”
Thunder cut him off. Lightning struck. She ran. Chris watched her streak across the field until the darkness swallowed her up.
And here he was, standing in the middle of an acre of grass.
He couldn’t run to the school—this guy had already proven he wasn’t afraid to take out innocent bystanders. Chris didn’t want to think what would happen if a lightning strike of this magnitude hit the gym.
Then he realized he wasn’t thinking in the right direction. Curtis Creek ran along the back of the school property, a forty-foot-wide stretch of water that wasn’t much of a creek at all but more of a river.
He’d be safe in the water. If he could get to it.
Chris ran.
Ten seconds told him this was a bad idea. The grass grabbed his feet, tried to slow him down.
He begged the rain for strength, for power. Every step was a struggle.
Not to mention the lightning piercing the earth. He dodged hard, losing his footing more than once.
Was this field a mile long? God, he felt like he wore a target on his back.
The grass underfoot changed, becoming thicker, less manicured. He’d left the soccer fields, and soon he’d be crashing through a few dense copses of trees; then he’d find the creek beyond. He was running hard, despite his speed. If he wasn’t careful, his foot would find a root—
Chris went sprawling. His head hit a tree.
It hurt. For a minute, Chris scrabbled at underbrush, trying to figure out which way to run. He was barely sure which way was up.
But the water knew he was coming, and he felt it calling him. The trees must have been providing some kind of cover, because lightning hadn’t struck since he’d fallen. He stayed low.
There was a twenty-foot stretch of grass between the trees and the creek. He could run it. Would he be a live target for lightning again?
Lightning hit a tree to his left. It didn’t so much catch on fire as explode. Bark and limbs went flying into the air.
Yes. He’d be a target.
But now there were flaming bits of debris in the air, and smoke curled through the rain. This was probably the best cover he’d get.
He burst out of the trees, feeling flaming bark catch at his shirt and burn. It didn’t matter. He’d be in the water in ten seconds. Nine. Eight.
