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He’d been standing in water. Was that it? He’d been standing in water that night he called the wave on Sillery Bay, at Drew’s party.
No, but the bridge power was even stronger. He’d been so desperate to get her out of that car, he’d punched right through her window. Blood had gone everywhere, diluted from the rain.
That night Becca saved him, his face had been a mess. She’d poured water down the side of his face, over the cuts on his temple.
Blood. He needed blood. His blood, mixed with the water.
If he thought about this too long, he’d chicken out.
He put his teeth against his wrist. And bit down.
Goddamn, it hurt. He hadn’t even broken the skin, and he was already sweating.
“Nick,” he said. “I think I’m going to need you to bite my arm.”
“I think I’m going to need you to run that by me again.”
“Shut up! I need to bleed. I think if I can get blood in the crack, it will make a difference.”
Nick was silent for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat. “You can’t just stab yourself with the prong on your belt buckle?”
“That’s better?”
“From my angle, yes. It’s better.” He paused. “Scrape it against the concrete for a few minutes. You can probably get a pretty sharp point.”
It worked. Too well. Chris barely felt the prong slice across his wrist before blood was running down his hand and across his fingers.
But the blood found the crack. It went all the way through. Chris could feel it.
And then his blood found the earth.
Becca couldn’t make it add up in her head. This had to be a mistake. Her dad had to have some raw meat in his bag, or Casper must have picked up on something else, or maybe the Guide had parked here yesterday.
At least Casper had him distracted. Her father hadn’t even noticed her.
Hunter had hold of her wrist, and he was trying to drag her back, away, around the front of the truck.
“Wait,” she said, struggling, still trying to piece this all together. “That’s—that’s my—”
“Becca?” Her father sounded confused—and he sure didn’t look like some terrifying Elemental Guide, the way he was backed up against his truck. He glanced between her and the dog growling at his knees.
“Dad,” she said, choking on the word.
Well, that made Hunter stop pulling at her arm. “Holy crap,” he said. “It’s your father?”
Her dad seemed to notice him. “Is this your dog?” He glanced back at Becca. “What are you doing here?”
“Dad,” she said, feeling her heart pound. Like on the soccer field, the air felt alive with sunshine. She could reach out and touch it. “This is a mistake. We’re just—this is a mistake.”
“It’s not,” said Hunter, his voice low. “Becca—it’s not a mistake.”
Her father still looked confused. “What’s not a mistake?”
She’d been so ready to find a James Bond type, someone sleek and muscled, someone with terrifying charisma and the type of power that could cause car accidents and destroy bridges. Someone with the will to kill teenagers. Her father had showed her how to set the wing of a baby bird. He protected wild animals. He’d comforted her after the car crash.
How could he be the same person who had attacked them at the bridge?
How could he have terrorized the brothers to such an extent that Gabriel would spend the night hiding in the creek?
