Sacrifice

by Brigid Kemmerer

  Nothing about this was reassuring. Did this mean Calla had done it, and she didn’t want him to know?

  Or did this mean Calla had disappeared again?

  Or was she working with someone new?

  Could one person have started five fires at once? Had they started simultaneously? The houses on his cul-de-sac weren’t far apart, but it still would have taken time to set a fire in each one. He couldn’t see how one person could have caused that kind of damage—but maybe a powerful Fire Elemental could. He and Hunter and Chris had been in the woods for maybe fifteen minutes, if that. Then he thought of the markings Hannah’s father had pointed out. Elemental or not, laying out a pattern in accelerant would have taken time. Could someone have broken into five houses without detection, poured some kerosene or whatever, then lit five fires, all within in fifteen minutes?

  He broke it down. Three minutes per house. That seemed really unlikely, even if each house didn’t have an alarm system. He tried to remember which houses had the little stickers in their windows, but he was coming up with nothing. Alarm systems or not, two houses on the court had dogs. Dogs would have sounded their own type of alarm.

  Unless the dogs had been taken care of ahead of time? He remembered his neighbors standing outside, screaming for their dog. Had the animal succumbed to the fire—or had someone else gotten to him first?

  Ignoring alarm systems and dogs, this still seemed like a big job. This would have taken planning.

  Maybe that’s what you sensed in the woods every night.

  It hadn’t just been Chris. It couldn’t have been—last night had proven that. Michael had been ready for an attack on his family. He’d sat outside, ready to wake them if he sensed true danger, so they could fight or run.

  He hadn’t been ready for an attack on the whole neighborhood.

  Guilt, quick and sudden, slammed into Michael. Maybe he should have been ready. Calla had set fires at a school carnival last month, just to get the attention of the Guides. She wanted a war. Her carnival fire hadn’t started one, and Michael wasn’t willing to do anything to draw more attention to his family. Had she given up on patience and turned to killing more people?

  He needed more information. He wondered if the fire marshal would give him any. He fished the card out of his pocket and started to dial.

  No. That was stupid. The fire marshal thought he was a suspect. He wasn’t going to say, “Hey, sure, Mike, take a look at my files while you’re at it. Want to walk through the crime scene?”

  Michael ran a hand down his face. God, he needed some sleep.

  His cell phone chimed.

  Is this Michael Merrick?

  He stared at it for a long moment. He didn’t recognize the number, but the area code wasn’t from Maryland or D.C. Sometimes landscaping customers would send him a text, but those had never been from an out-of-state cell.

  Another bubble of text appeared.

  We should meet to talk about last night. Free for dinner?

  Wait. Was this the fire marshal? Was this Calla? Michael didn’t move.

  Another bubble.

  It’s in your best interest. I’m not sure I could limit a fire to five apartments.

  Michael was on his feet in a heartbeat, letting the blanket fall. He sent power into the ground, seeking information. He needed to wake his brothers. They needed to move. They needed to move now.

  The phone vibrated again.

  Good idea. Run. One truck is definitely a more convenient target.

  Michael couldn’t catch his breath. He searched the trees for movement, for anything out of the ordinary.

  Nothing. The air was still and cold. The earth warned him of nothing.

  Another message.

  Relax. I’m not your enemy. But I could be.

  Michael slid his fingers across the phone.

  Who is this?

  No message appeared, but instead, a photo.

  Michael, sitting on the back porch of the Merrick house. Last night, before the fire.

  Then another photo, taken from a distance.

  Of him standing right here, looking at his phone.

  Michael looked up, searching the trees on the other side of the pond. He begged the ground for information, but the earth returned nothing but contented vibes.

  His phone vibrated with another message.

  Dinner. Yes or no?

  Michael wanted to punch his phone into the side of the building. He started forward, ready to search the woods himself. A new message appeared.

  Don’t go too far, Michael Merrick. Wouldn’t want to leave your brothers alone, would you?

  He froze. He had no idea if this was one person or several. If he walked away from this apartment building, would it go up in smoke like the house had last night?

  New awareness shot off a flare in his head. Wasn’t that exactly what had happened? He’d walked away, leaving them vulnerable?

  He typed back with shaking fingers.

  This isn’t a game. What do you want?

  I just told you what I want. Let’s say 7 p.m.?

  Who are you? Is this Calla?

  No. Bring her if you like. I think she’ll appreciate what I have to say.

  Michael couldn’t think. Lack of sleep and an abundance of adrenaline didn’t help.

  He looked out at the trees, then slowly slid his fingers across the face of his phone again.

  You’re obviously here. Why don’t you come talk to me right now?

  I think a crowded environment would be better for this meeting.

  Interesting. Something about that statement dialed Michael’s anxiety back a notch and fed him confidence. Photos taken from a distance weren’t half as intimidating when you considered that it meant someone wasn’t drawing close.

  Was this mystery texter afraid of him?

  Should I come alone?

  Your choice.

  What if I choose to bring the cops?

  Go ahead.

  Michael frowned.

  Another message appeared.

  As I said, I am not your enemy. Bring anyone who makes you feel comfortable.

  And what if I don’t come?

  I’ll be forced to make my point another way.

  More pictures appeared, in frighteningly rapid succession. Homes on fire. Car crashes. Tornado damage. A bloated body, floating in murky water. Terrible images, but nothing personally terrifying.

  Then more photos: Hannah in her fire gear, kneeling over him last night, her face exhausted but focused. Another of Nick, stopping the CPR efforts. Another photo of an ambulance in the cul-de-sac, Chris sitting on the bumper.

  Michael clenched his jaw. His hands gripped the phone so tightly that he worried the case would snap.

  Then another photo appeared. Hannah on the front steps of Southgate Elementary, James bouncing along beside her, his backpack hanging askew.

  Michael felt his heart give a jerk. He made a sound before he could stop himself. His fingers wouldn’t type, but his voice wasn’t broken.

  “You leave them alone!” he yelled, shouting at the trees, at the distance, at the very air. The earth rumbled and split, forming a crack that led from his feet to the fence around the drainage pond. “You hear me? You leave them alone!”

  The phone vibrated.

  You meet me, and I’ll leave them alone.

  Michael couldn’t catch his breath. He stared out at the trees, then back at the series of photos.

  Then back at the trees.

  Nothing.

  Sweat had collected on his neck. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. He wasn’t cold now.

  He forced his fingers to work.

  Fine. Where?

  Another text, this time a link to the web page of a little bar and grill on the outskirts of town.

  7 p.m. I’ll be in the bar.

  Eventually, Michael couldn’t take the quiet stillness. Seven o’clock was almost half a day away, and he had to do something.

  So he walked. Not far, ju
st a short walk along the fence blocking the drainage ditch. At first, he’d been ready for a chastising text. A warning, a threat, something.

  Nothing.

  As his brothers slept and no danger presented itself, Michael gained confidence. That picture of him on the patio had to have been taken from the woods, and even if no one remained, he should at least be able to seek information from the ground.

  If nothing else, the movement would do him good.

  But the woods didn’t offer any answers, and they didn’t offer enough space to walk and think, either. The dense trees barely covered half an acre before giving way to Ritchie Highway; they were more to give the illusion of nature than any real attempt to preserve the land. The air was still brisk, reminding him that he didn’t have a sweatshirt, keeping his steps quick.

  Every time his bare feet touched the earth, he asked for information.

  Was someone here? Did someone cross this path?

  Is someone here now?

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  He checked his phone a few times, examining the picture of himself, aiming his own phone at the now-empty patio. The photo was grainy—no surprise since it had been taken from a pretty good distance. He could estimate the angle, but now that he was out here using his own phone to try to recreate it, he realized that the picture hadn’t been taken from the ground.

  It had to have been taken from high up in a tree.

  All of a sudden, Michael felt too exposed.

  He cast his gaze up, searching the branches overhead. He put his hand against the trunk of the nearest tree, and as always, he could almost feel the tree leaning back into him.

  Much like the earth, trees and plants didn’t speak to him in words, but in general impressions. He sensed nothing malicious, nothing insidious. The tree liked him here.

  Another tree. This one was younger, and a few autumn leaves eagerly fell around Michael when he touched the trunk. Again, nothing negative.

  Another tree. This one didn’t lean into him. The bark almost crumbled under his fingers when he touched it. Dead. No information to be found. He moved on to the next ones.

  Nothing.

  The young tree shed a few more leaves. One caught the wind and twirled to Michael. He caught it and spun it by the stem.

  No one was out here. What had he expected to find? A journal detailing plans to destroy the Merrick neighborhood? He didn’t even know what he was doing out here.

  Yes, he did.

  He remembered being young, being terrified of the strength of his affinity to the earth—but finding relief in it too. When he’d been fourteen, he’d snuck out of the house to sleep in the woods almost every night.

  His father had found him, every time.

  He’d been an Earth Elemental, too.

  With a jolt, Michael realized that’s what Chris had been doing: finding solace by the water. How had he missed that?

  Being here, his feet in the dirt, his hand against a tree, brought Michael comfort. Some of the weight stacked on his heart eased, just a little.

  Sorrow slid in to replace it. Sometimes he missed his father so much he almost couldn’t stand it.

  Like now. Help me, Dad. What would you do?

  Another leaf, vibrant red, fell from the young tree and floated in his direction. Michael smiled and caught this one too. He stepped back to the tree and leaned against it, letting it lean back against him. He slid the two fallen leaves between his fingers and scanned his surroundings for the hundredth time. Whoever had been texting him knew how to move through the woods without leaving a mark. No broken branches or twigs. Nothing disturbed. No malice, no ill intent.

  This didn’t feel like Calla. Last night had, for sure. But this, this texting, it didn’t feel like her at all. She didn’t play games, and this definitely felt like a game. But there was something else, and he couldn’t put his finger on it.

  He glanced at the patio again. No movement, no sign of danger.

  Maybe the clue was here, in the woods. Calla was a sixteen-year-old Fire Elemental. She would have set these woods on fire to send a message. Or she would have burned down Adam’s apartment complex. She wouldn’t taunt him with texts and then ask him to meet her in a bar.

  A bar.

  Calla wouldn’t have asked to meet in a bar at all—she wouldn’t be allowed.

  So his tormentor was over twenty-one. That narrowed it down to about a bazillion people.

  Well, not really. It couldn’t be any of the middle- or high-schoolers who agreed with what Calla was doing. Who else did he know who was over twenty-one?

  Bill Chandler, Becca’s father. He was a Guide himself, but he was in hiding now, trying to keep Becca safe. He was also terrified of the Guides coming to town. He wouldn’t have started a bunch of fires. Michael was honestly shocked he hadn’t called yet to yell at Michael for letting his neighborhood get destroyed.

  Bill was an asshole, but he wasn’t behind this.

  He scrolled through the text messages again, stopping on the one of Hannah at the fire. Fierce in her fire gear, then gentle and patient with her son.

  Sudden fury welled up in Michael’s chest.

  He rolled forward onto his knees and punched the dead tree. Bark splintered and wood creaked. A few dead branches cascaded down around him. His knuckles were bleeding.

  He wanted to do it again.

  No, he wanted to do it to whoever had texted him.

  Focus. Figure this out.

  Another name came to him. Tyler?

  Tyler.

  Michael tried to make that work. Tyler had made it his life’s goal to torment Michael—until he’d revealed himself to be a full Fire Elemental, just as cursed as the Merricks were. He’d saved Michael’s life a few weeks ago, shooting a Guide in the head just before the man was going to kill Michael and Chris in their own living room.

  Would Tyler do something like this? Why?

  Michael couldn’t connect the dots there, either, but he also couldn’t eliminate Tyler entirely.

  Who else? A complete stranger? A new Guide in town wouldn’t taunt him. They wouldn’t be like, “Hey, let’s grab a beer.”

  They’d just shoot him.

  Michael took a long breath and brushed bark off his knuckles. He picked up a dead branch and started snapping small pieces. He needed to think of a contingency plan, somewhere to send his brothers if he didn’t survive this meeting tonight—because he wasn’t naïve enough to think it was just a talk.

  And he sure as hell wasn’t telling them about it.

  Snap. Snap. Snap. Each piece was easier to break than the last, the wood dry and lacking any energy.

  His fingers went still. He studied the dead tree again. There was a gap of bark where he’d slammed his fist into the trunk.

  But there were other gaps in the bark, and more broken branches higher up the trunk.

  Someone had climbed this tree. Recently, too, considering the bare wood hadn’t been exposed to the elements long.

  Michael found himself climbing before he really thought about what he was doing. His feet caught the bark and gripped tight, his hands finding every available branch. In less than a minute, he was twenty-five feet above the ground, obscured by the autumn-darkened branches of the surrounding trees.

  He had a perfect view of Adam’s apartment.

  And he had a comfortable seat, right in the crook of two strong branches.

  He pulled out his phone and aimed the camera app at where he’d been sitting. It was an almost identical match to the picture he’d received.

  Gotcha.

  Well, not really. The tree was empty now, the dead limbs offering no information. The air was silent up here, too, no breeze moving through the branches. Michael watched his breath fog for a while, thinking.

  A Guide might be smart enough to climb a dead tree to avoid his notice. He’d have to ask Hunter if it would occur to him. An Earth Elemental definitely would.

  Michael onl
y knew one other Earth Elemental: Seth Ramsey. Tyler’s best friend.

  Seth and Tyler were totally the type to do something like this to fuck with him. They didn’t necessarily have to be behind the fires in the Merrick neighborhood—they could have heard what had happened and known it was an opportunity to kick him when he was down.

  But . . . how would they know to find him here?

  Had they followed him? It was possible. Not likely—but not unlikely either.

  Despite everything, Michael felt a twinge of disappointment. He’d thought he and Tyler had grown past that and found some middle ground. They’d never be friends, but he didn’t hate the guy anymore.

  Maybe he’d found a reason to renew that hate.

  CHAPTER 9

  Michael heard a shout and bolted upright. For an instant, he was completely disoriented. He didn’t recognize these walls, this bedroom, this quilt.

  Then he remembered all of it. The fires. Adam’s apartment.

  The threatening messages. The photo from the trees.

  Another shout, more muffled. It sounded like someone was right outside the window.

  Michael flung the blanket aside and staggered to his feet. Weak light filtered through the window blinds. He grabbed at the slats and pulled open a gap large enough to look through.