Sacrifice

True, he didn’t know this wasn’t Calla. She was violent and unpredictable and refused to discuss anything that had to do with avoiding a war. Michael hadn’t heard from her since last week, since he’d told her his priority was to protect his family—not to start a war with the Guides.

Regardless, he wasn’t a big fan of shooting blindly into the woods. “What if this has nothing to do with us, and you shoot some unarmed kid?”

Hunter slid the gun into his waistband at the small of his back. He was scowling. “I’m not reckless.”

Branches snapped in the distance. Michael felt every step as the runner drew farther away.

“See?” he said, catching his breath. “A Guide would know we could follow him.”

Then they heard a splash, and Michael lost any sense of their target.

Hunter took off again. “Why would some unarmed kid jump into the creek in November?” he called.

Michael ran after him. “Maybe he fell.”

But he’d felt the instant the runner’s feet left the earth. Running to the water had been deliberate. Whoever this was had known Michael could follow him on land.

Maybe he didn’t know Hunter would be able to follow him in the water.

Stoney Creek wasn’t really a creek at all. It stretched half a mile across, the towns on either side connected by a drawbridge. Farther south, there was a stretch of beach, but here, at the edge of their neighborhood, the woods ended at a sheer drop into water. By the time they reached the bank, Hunter had lost his sweatshirt. He didn’t even pause: he leapt into the quickly moving current, jeans and all. Michael dove in beside him.

The sudden cold caught him in a vise grip. For an instant, he couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe.

But then his body kicked into action, sending his heart pounding with adrenaline. Forget Nick. Michael should have woken Chris. His youngest brother wouldn’t need to chase this guy. Chris could probably convince the current to drag him back to shore.

Too late now. Icy water attacked with the sting of a thousand needles, protesting his presence. He fought to make his arms drive through the water, but the current churned thick with power, fighting his every stroke. Michael kicked and the water dragged him under. Those pinpricks of cold turned to full-size nails hammered into his skin.

Power.

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.”

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