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Michael glanced at the sky. “I’m going to walk the rest of the field.”
He walked, and she followed, stopping at points where lightning had scorched the earth. She wished she could do what he did, that the ground could whisper secrets to her and create a path for her to follow.
She swiped a hand across her forehead. Crazy hot for September. It had been sixty the day before.
Then she felt the heat trickle along her skin, as if the sunlight had fingers. The hair on her arms stood up. She held her forearm in front of her eyes. “Michael? Do you feel that?”
“Yeah.” He turned in a slow circle as if expecting to find someone. The field was empty. He frowned at her. “You do, too?”
Did she? She rubbed her arms to get rid of the sensation—but it didn’t help. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
That morning at her house when the brothers had fought with Hunter, she’d felt Nick’s power like the tail of a kite, a tangible thing she could grab hold of. This felt like nothing so substantial—it lacked direction and force.
“Can you follow it?” she asked.
Michael took a step forward, his hand held out. “It’s vague. Weak. It might not be anything.”
But he walked anyway, and she followed him. Sweat developed between Becca’s shoulder blades, running a line down the center of her back. Michael had been stopping at the scorch marks, but now he kept walking, moving more quickly as they neared the edge of the athletic field and the woods that led to the creek. It felt stronger here, a definite wash of power in the sunlight.
Michael didn’t hesitate, he strode into the underbrush as if a clear path was carved there. Becca saw nothing move, but she could swear that plants shifted out of the way of his boots, leaving her to scramble after him in the tangles of vines and thorns. The heat made her feel like they were fighting through the rain forest.
Just as she was about to snap at him to slow down or make the foliage move for her, too, he stopped short. So short, she nearly ran right into him.
Then she brought her gaze up from the solid line of his back, to see what had made him stop.
“Gabriel,” he said, his voice full of something like wonder—and relief.
Gabriel sat against a tree. His eyes had been closed, but they cracked open when Michael said his name. He still wore dark-colored slacks from Homecoming, but they were damp and filthy. He’d lost his dress shirt somewhere along the line, but he still had a white tee shirt, also wet and clinging to his chest. Water dripped out of his hair, tracing lines though the dirt on his face. He looked like he’d crawled through a pile of leaves soaking wet. He didn’t move.
All the heat in the air seemed to be pulling toward his body.
“Are you all right?” asked Michael.
Gabriel shook his head. “I lost them.” Then he put his hands against the ground to struggle to his feet.
Michael rushed forward to help him.
Gabriel shoved him away, a motion full of so much fury that he knocked himself back to the ground. “Get off me.”
The rage in his voice forced Becca back a step. The heat in the woods seemed to flare, singing her skin.
“Yeah, yeah.” Michael caught him under the arms and pulled him the rest of the way to a standing position. “You’re so tough.”
“Shut up.” Gabriel fought him, wrenching free of Michael’s grip to shove him away again. “Shut the f**k up.” He punched Michael in the chest with both fists. “I hate you.”
Michael fell back, but his arms were tight, his hands clenched at his sides.
Becca skittered back, out of the way. She could barely breathe. The heat in the woods was almost unbearable.
“I f**king hate you,” Gabriel said again, his voice fierce. “First Mom and Dad—now Nick—now Chris—” His voice broke, and he struck Michael in the chest again. “You killed that girl. We should have let them take you—we should have let them—”
God, Becca could feel his anguish through the heat, tightening her chest.
Michael was moving forward, reaching for his brother. “Gabriel—”
“Don’t touch me.” Gabriel hit him again, his voice thick.
Michael caught his wrists and held them.
