Wet (Elemental 1)

by Rose Wulf

  “Blake,” she said softly, her eyes faded and distant with thought. “You’ll let me know when we figure this out, right?”

  Frowning at the strange tone in her voice, Blake shifted so that he could turn slightly to face her. “Of course.”

  Angela dragged her eyes to his. “And … we’ll be okay, won’t we? All of us?”

  “What are you worried about, Angie?” Blake returned, concern welling up inside of him.

  She swallowed and her eyes flicked to the house through the windshield before she looked back at him. “Mom … lost two of her brothers, remember? And she barely hears from the others now that Grandma and Grandpa are gone. I … don’t want that to be us, that’s all.”

  Blake offered his sister a soft, reassuring smile and reached over to pull one of her smaller hands into his. Giving it a light squeeze, he said, “That won’t be us, Angie. I promise.”

  Releasing a heavy breath, Angela returned his smile and squeezed his hand briefly before pulling away and saying, “So are you letting me out of this car or not?”

  ****

  Brooke was relaxed on her couch later that night, enjoying the couple of hours she had to herself before the guilt would send her to bed. It had been a fairly slow night at the diner, and so Paula had sent her home over an hour before the end of her shift. With a contented sigh, Brooke shifted, tucking her feet closer to her body as she curled up in the corner of her couch beside the window wall.

  For once, she reflected as the next set of commercials finally ended and she quickly hit the ‘play’ button on her remote, I might actually get to watch my Tuesday-night shows on Tuesday night. It was a strange concept, considering that she was usually too tired from work or too swamped with homework.

  As the show resumed, Brooke registered the faint howl of wind on the other side of her window, but she thought nothing of it. Soon enough she was once more wrapped up in the mystery of the episode.

  A sudden flash of light on the other side of her closed blinds pulled Brooke’s attention back to reality, and she turned her head reflexively toward the window at the same time as an echoing crash sounded from somewhere outside. What the— The thought had barely formed when, without warning, her living room window exploded inward.

  Brooke leapt to her feet in shock, stumbling to get away as glass sprayed everywhere. She cried out and threw her arms up over her face, even as she tried to see what was happening. And then pain was radiating through her, so immediately intense that it took her a long moment to realize what had happened.

  She had backed nearly into her kitchen table, and the glass had stopped flying. Her blinds were hanging in a mangled mess from one still-fraying cord on the far side. And a rather large, rather thick, still-crackling tree limb was now resting in the hole where her window was supposed to be. It protruded at least two feet into her living room, and the end that had once been attached to the tree (which was the end on the outside of her apartment) was literally smoking.

  Lightning … some part of her mind whispered.

  “Oh my … God …” Brooke breathed as her eyes swept over the mess that had once been her living room. For a moment, the shock overrode the pain, and she forgot she was hurt. But it was a fleeting moment, and then she dragged in a deep breath and looked down at herself.

  Blood droplets littered the dark carpeting from somewhere in the center of her living room to where she was still standing. And blood was still trickling at a fairly steady pace down her arm. Her arm was definitely where she hurt the most, though she realized her feet were stinging as well.

  Lifting her arm, Brooke turned it slightly and sucked in a sharp breath when her eyes landed on the gash taking up a sizable portion of her forearm. There was still a piece of glass embedded in her flesh. It looked like the glass had been torn down her arm, and as she looked at it she realized that the pain had flared up while she’d been lifting her arms to protect her face.

  The momentum must have dragged it down my arm, she thought, her mind strangely numb. She could still feel the pain, but it was fading, as if it had been a bad nightmare. Even the stinging in her feet—where she assumed she’d stepped on pieces of glass—was going away. That can’t be good, she told herself as she tore her eyes away from her bleeding arm.

  Beyond the tree branch, Brooke could see that it was hailing outside, and the wind was still blowing. Hail was coming in through the whole in her wall and soaking into her carpet. The sky erupted overhead, and she finally realized that there was a thunderstorm raging. Another thunderstorm. Only, this time, she found herself wondering just how natural it was.

  I should call someone, she realized after another minute. She was somewhat surprised no one had come out to investigate the noise, but she was also glad for it. She didn’t want her neighbors to know her as the girl with the broken-off tree branch in her window.

  Shaking her head, Brooke wrapped her right hand around her still-bleeding left arm and turned to walk carefully around her table toward the kitchen counter where her cell phone was charging. As she began walking again, the stinging in her feet resumed with a force, and she bit back another cry of pain. Oh, I’m so going to need stitches.

  Without thinking, she braced herself against the counter as soon as she reached it—seeking to get some weight off of her injured feet—and ended up smearing blood along the light-gray surface. She hesitated for a moment, finding herself worrying about getting blood on her phone, and then reminded herself this was an emergency. So she picked up the phone and flipped it open in order to dial nine-one-one. But her fingers paused over the first digit, an image of Blake diving into the sea to save his sister flaring in her memory. If this wasn’t a natural storm, she didn’t need 911. She needed Blake.

  ****

  Tiny balls of hail bounced off the hood of Blake’s car as he swung in behind Brooke’s Civic. He disregarded the quickly dissipating storm as he yanked his keys from the ignition and rushed from his car to her door. All he’d been able to think about on the drive over had been her voice as she’d told him—in broken, disorganized pieces—what had happened. She’d started crying in the middle of her first sentence, but around her tear-soaked voice he could hear the tightness caused by obvious pain.

  His concern left no room for the manners his mother tried to teach him, and so he didn’t even pause to tap on the door before he let himself in. But he did pause when his eyes landed on her a moment later.

  Brooke was sitting on her counter, beside her sink. She had a kitchen towel wrapped around her left forearm, held in place by her other hand. Her cell phone was plugged into the wall on her other side, in easy reach. And between the phone and herself was a large smear of blood. Several spots of blood dotted the otherwise white kitchen linoleum, leading back to the living-room carpet.

  “Brooke.” Blake gathered himself and moved quickly towards her, sparing only a glance at the devastation in her living room.

  She lifted her head and blinked her eyes several times before attempting to offer him a smile. “You drove too fast,” she said, her voice devoid of any appropriate scolding tone.

  “No, I didn’t,” Blake argued, failing at his attempt at levity as much as she had. He was standing before her in no time, and with his new angle he could easily see a piece of bloody glass lying in the sink beside her. That piece of glass was undoubtedly the reason the towel on her arm was slowly darkening.

  Her tone curious and forcibly light, Brooke asked, “Are you sure I shouldn’t have called 911?”

  Frowning at her wrapped arm and the fresh droplets of blood on the floor beneath her dangling feet, Blake replied, “Absolutely. You get free medical. I’ll call Logan and have him come over to board up your window and get rid of that branch, okay?”

  “You don’t have to do all that,” Brooke said, her right hand tightening over her injured arm. “I have insurance … and my landlord will take care of my window as soon as he gets home.”

  Blake lifted his frown to aim it at her properly. �
�I’m not taking no for an answer this time. Now let’s get you in the car and we can talk on the road.”

  Brooke hesitated, her gaze darting toward the ground. “I’d really rather not walk, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Blake silently reached out and pulled her phone from the charger before dropping it into his pocket. Then he shifted and reached around her, ignoring her half-hearted protests, and wrapped an arm around her torso. He slipped his other arm carefully beneath her knees and slid her off the counter, against his chest.

  “What are you doing?” Brooke asked, a tiny bit of life beginning to return to her voice.

  “Keeping you off your feet,” Blake replied easily as he carried her toward the front door. It was shut, indicating that he’d remembered to close it, but he didn’t hesitate. As he walked, his eyes flicked back toward the living room, and the melted hail pulled from the carpet and off the debris. It gathered together and then smoothly slid through the air toward them.

  The water expanded as it neared them, and Brooke watched in silence as the water poured into the space between her door and the doorframe. Blake slowed his pace just slightly as the water gathered together and popped the latch. Then it curved, pushing out, and the door slowly swung open.

  “That was impressive,” Brooke declared. Life had returned to her voice, but so had the pain.

  Blake moved them outside, letting the water pull the door closed behind them. He wouldn’t be able to use the same method to get into the car, but that was okay.

  They were in front of his car a moment later, and he carefully set her down on the hood. Holding her gaze for a beat, Blake said, “Don’t move.” When she nodded, he stepped back and quickly pulled open the door. With barely a flick of his wrist, he pushed the seat forward, and then he moved back to her.

  Brooke didn’t fight as he once again scooped her into his arms, and she ducked helpfully as he angled her into the backseat.

  “You can sit sideways,” Blake said as he helped guide her into the seat. “That way you won’t have to put any weight on your feet.”

  Brooke released her arm in order to adjust herself, though as soon as she was out of his arms Blake crawled in to help her. She cringed visibly, the pain undoubtedly worsening with each movement. “I’m sorry,” she managed on a gasp after she had finished adjusting herself.

  Blake’s gaze followed hers. When he realized what she was apologizing for smearing little bits of blood all over the backseat, he shook his head. “Don’t worry about it, that’ll wash out.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wide and tear filled, and said nothing for a long minute. He crawled backwards out of the car, repositioned the passenger seat, shut the door and ran around to his side. When he was sitting, buckled, and beginning to back out of the driveway, she finally said, “Thank you.”

  His eyes drifted from the back window to hers for a long moment, and his lips twitched in a bitter, apologetic half-smile.

  Brooke leaned her head back against the cool glass of the small window and her eyes drifted shut.

  Instead of trying to engage Brooke in conversation when she was so obviously fighting to stay awake, Blake tucked his earpiece into place and dialed Logan. Logan answered on the second ring, and Blake wasted no time with small talk.

  “I’m taking Brooke to Mom and Dad’s. She’s hurt. A large branch crashed into her living-room window. Looks like storm damage.”

  There was a brief pause before Logan replied, “Storm damage, huh? Okay, I’ll head out and cover the hole. I won’t be able to get a new sheet of glass in this late at night, though. That’ll be tomorrow.”

  “No problem. Thanks.” Blake felt a little bad for his clipped tone, but he was in no mood to be polite and chat. He knew Logan would understand.

  As soon as that call was done, he hit another button on his speed-dial and waited impatiently. The red light he was stuck at turned green at the same time his mother answered the phone. “Blake?”

  “I know it’s late,” he offered as an apology. “But Brooke’s hurt pretty bad. Please tell me Angie’s home.”

  “Of course she is. I’ll run upstairs and get her. You’re on your way?”

  “Be there in five,” Blake replied before disconnecting. He’d never been more grateful for his mother’s understanding of emergency situations.

  He flicked a glance in the rearview mirror to find Brooke with her eyes half-closed and glazed over. The sight made his stomach roll, and he had to make a conscious effort to keep the bile down. She’ll be okay.

  But he didn’t slow down until he was swinging into his parents’ driveway.

  Chapter Ten

  Christopher met him at the door, holding it wide and saying nothing as he watched Blake rush up the steps with Brooke in his arms.

  Lillian came to stand at the edge of the hallway, one hand resting on the wall. “Blake,” she said, concern in her voice.

  Blake came to a stop, his hands instinctively tightening. “Please. Questions later.”

  Lillian released a breath and nodded, her arm lowering. “Your sister’s in the living room, waiting for you.”

  “Thanks.” He carried Brooke silently down the hall, knowing full well that his parents were following them. And then the hall gave way to the living room, where Angela was balancing on the edge of the couch anxiously. “Angie,” he said when he saw her.

  Angela’s head immediately snapped up, and she was just as quickly on her feet. “Put her on the couch,” she said, moving to the side and gesturing needlessly.

  Blake nodded and approached the sofa, carefully lowering himself to his knees before gently easing Brooke onto the cushions. “Just lie still for a few minutes, okay?” he asked softly as he pulled his arms back.

  Brooke’s head was propped up against the arm of the couch, her injured arm nestled between her body and the back cushion. She nodded slowly at Blake, her gaze flickering between him and his sister.

  Angela cleared her throat, and Blake coughed self-consciously even as he pushed to his feet and stepped several feet back. Then his sister moved up and knelt deliberately beside Brooke, smiling gently. “Try to relax, all right? This will take a few minutes.”

  With another slow nod, Brooke said, “Um, okay.”

  It wasn’t until Angela had unwrapped the blood-soaked towel, tossed it to her brother, and reached over to hold her hands directly above the gash that Blake recognized a look of realization dawning in Brooke’s eyes. In all the chaos, she’d likely forgotten what he’d told her about his sister’s healing ability.

  Angela released a breath, her eyes fell closed, and her hands began glowing. The glow built, slowly at first, wrapping around Angela’s hands like a golden aura. As soon as the golden energy was undeniable Brooke’s entire forearm—from elbow to fingertips—became surrounded by it.

  Blake knew the sensations Brooke would be feeling as he watched her eyes drift shut. As the healing process began, the injured areas would start to tingle, almost like a low-level massage. Then a relaxing warmth would seep into the surrounding muscles, loosening them and freeing the tension. Those feelings would spread from the injury sites to the entire body until the patient fell into a deep, healing sleep. Angela and Lillian both said the sleep was necessary for the restoration of energy. All Blake really knew was that it was always the best sleep he’d ever had.

  Either way, Brooke would be out for most of the night.

  ****

  Once Brooke was unconscious, Blake allowed himself to breathe again and simultaneously registered the weight of her bloodied towel in his hands. With nothing better to do, he turned to throw it away. His parents followed him into the kitchen, as he’d known they would, and so he opted to begin the conversation on his own terms. Keeping his voice low in order to help Angela focus, he said, “I’m sorry. I know it’s late and you probably feel I should’ve taken her to the hospital.”

  Neither of his parents spoke for a long minute, and after dropping the towel into the garbage, Bla
ke turned to face them. Just as he registered the lack of anger on their faces, his mother broke the silence.

  “We’re not angry, Blake,” Lillian said, voicing the realization he’d only just made. “You wouldn’t have brought her here if you didn’t think it was necessary.”

  Blake swallowed, accepting his mother’s faith in him and taking a moment to compose what he had left to say. “It gets worse,” he warned. “I think our enemies are responsible for this.”

  Both of his parents went wide-eyed at his declaration. It was Christopher who asked, “What do you mean?”

  Eyes drifting to the hall reflexively, Blake explained, “A thunderstorm hit directly over her apartment. It looked like lightning struck the tree in her front yard, and a branch went crashing through the window. The glass is what caused those cuts.”

  Lillian’s eyes fell closed and she curled her hands into fists at her sides.

  Without waiting for their response, Blake continued. “I can’t imagine she’s ticked off the same people who hate us. So I’m assuming that they went after her because of me.”

  It was a long moment before, with obvious reluctance, Christopher said, “I can’t think of a more realistic scenario, either.”

  Taking a deep breath, Lillian asked, “Were the police called?”

  “No,” Blake said.

  They nodded. After a moment of heavy silence, Lillian released a breath. “Well, she’s going to need a safe place to stay tonight. I’ll go prepare one of the rooms. I’ll put fresh sheets on your bed, too, if you want to stay close to her.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Blake said before his mother turned and slipped down the hall. He’d always wondered why his parents had kept his—and all of his brothers’—bedrooms intact after they’d moved out. Now he was feeling like an idiot for wondering.

  Christopher stepped up to his son and dropped a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Blake. Let’s go keep your sister company.” He gave Blake’s shoulder a squeeze for good measure before releasing him and starting toward the living room.