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Maybe jumping into the creek wasn’t about avoiding anyone’s abilities at all. Maybe this guy was a frigging Water Elemental.
Brackish water fought its way into Michael’s mouth. He tried to force it out, but the current was a living thing, prying open his lips, burning into his nostrils. His lungs begged for air and water surged down his throat. Instinct forced him to inhale, allowing more water to knife its way into his chest. He tried to cough but inhaled more liquid.
The water dragged at his body, pulling him deeper. The pressure on his chest increased. Bitterness clawed at the back of his tongue, more water trying to force its way into his lungs. His legs couldn’t kick. He’d been so worried about a bullet, and now he was drowning.
No, not drowning. Sleeping. He didn’t need to fight anymore. He could sleep, right here.
Sleep.
He’d never warned his brothers. They’d be asleep in their beds, easy victims.
His body touched the bottom, and the sand whispered to him, scraping his skin, offering power. Michael couldn’t make sense of it. He was too tired.
Something caught hold of his arm. Should he fight?
That struck him as funny, in a very distant way. He couldn’t even move.
Or was this Hunter? Was this a rescue? Maybe they’d be dragged to shore and then shot.
Maybe he imagined the grip on his arm. Maybe the current had him, and he’d float to the bay. Maybe he’d finally see the ocean.
He seemed to float forever.
His face broke the surface, but his lungs didn’t try to inhale. November air slapped his cheeks, but he didn’t care. A moment later, his back hit the sand. Then his head did.
Suddenly everything hurt. His lungs burned with cold. He wanted to fight but nothing would work. He couldn’t see stars or sky or anything.
Maybe he wasn’t really out of the water. Maybe this was true death.
Fear ripped through him, offering some clarity. He could feel everything. The cold bit down to his bones. His muscles could only offer aching pain. He was definitely on shore—the sand beneath his body pulsed with power. Michael’s fingers moved against his will, digging into the sand, feeling each grain drive under his fingernails.
Something heavy hit his chest. And again, this time using force to lift his shoulders and slam him back into the earth.
Then a third time. Michael jerked and coughed, and water poured out of his mouth. He choked and tried to breathe. More water. More coughing. His eyes still wouldn’t focus.
And then they did.
Chris crouched over him, barely recognizable in the darkness with water dripping through his hair and off his cheeks. His eyes were furious instead of worried. He punched Michael in the chest again, but this time it had nothing to do with revival. “You idiot, I could have killed you.”
“Chris—what—” Michael couldn’t get his voice to work. “Where—Hunter?”
“Right here,” his voice called from a short distance away, just as rough and broken as Michael’s. Fabric shifted through sand as he tried to stand. He must have found his footing, because bare feet slapped against the beach. Michael struggled to sit up.
Chris got out of his way, moving to sit closer to the water. He swiped sandy hands against his jeans and turned his glare on Hunter. “I guess you survived.”
“Yeah,” Hunter rasped. He dropped to his knees beside Chris, and Michael thought he was going to collapse there in the sand.
But he didn’t. Hunter raised his hand and put the barrel of his gun in Chris’s face. “I survived. So you’d better start talking.”
CHAPTER 2
Michael couldn’t wrap his head around this. His youngest brother had been in the woods? Had been running? They’d been standing behind the porch sensing Chris?
What do you feel?
Not danger.
It hadn’t been Chris every night. Michael was sure of it.
