Sacrifice

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “Downrange only,” he said, holding her wrist. “Always pay attention where you’re pointing it.”

  Her breath was shaking, just a tiny bit. “What are we shooting?”

  “Just cardboard. The targets are backed with half-inch steel. The bullets won’t go through.”

  “What if I miss?”

  “Shooting this way, we’re almost a mile from the nearest house,” he said. “Besides, we’re only twenty feet from the target. You’ll hit it. Just hold on to the gun. There’s a kick to it.”

  “I’m scared I’m going to shoot myself.”

  “Come on. I mean, if anyone should be scared here, it’s me.”

  She gave him a look, and he smiled. “Here. I’ll shoot first.” He took the pistol and aimed. “Put your hand on my wrist. You’ll feel it.”

  As soon as her fingers closed around his wrist, Hunter almost couldn’t focus. He was acutely aware of her closeness, of the scent of mangoes and cut grass and summer corn. He took a deep breath. It didn’t help.

  “What’s with the bracelets?” she said, her thumb brushing one of the strands of twine wrapped around his wrist. Her touch was making him crazy.

  “Just rocks,” he said.

  “Very New Age.”

  “My mom’s into that stuff,” he said. It was a half-truth. His mother was into rocks and charms and talismans, but the difference between the crap she sold in town and the rocks on his wrist were that his rocks actually did help him focus power.

  Really, it was a miracle he could even remember to keep it a secret.

  Focus. “Ready?”

  She nodded. He pulled the trigger.

  The sound was near deafening. She flinched hard, but didn’t let go of his wrist. Her fingers were trembling against his skin.

  “You all right?” he said. His ears felt thick. He probably should have thought to bring earmuffs.

  “Yeah,” she said. Her breathing sounded too quick, but she glanced up at him. “I want to try.”

  He showed her how to hold the weapon again, how to look down the sight to find the target. “Don’t do it halfway,” he said. “My dad always says commit to the target.”

  Her grip tightened, but she didn’t pull the trigger.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” he said.

  Her eyes were narrow, staring down the line on the barrel. “Do you ever wish you could just shoot them?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “When I’m in the moment.” He hesitated. “I don’t think I could do it, though. We can talk about bullets and safeties and target practice all day, but the bottom line is that guns are made to kill people. It’s stupid to forget that.”

  “And you don’t want to kill them.”

  “Not for a bloody nose, no.” He paused again. “I don’t know what it would take.”

  “I do.” She pulled the trigger.

  He wasn’t ready for it, and it made him jump a mile.

  “I did it!” She had a huge smile on her face, and he grabbed her wrist before she turned toward him again.

  “Downrange,” he said, breathless. “Not at me.”

  Her eyes were shining up at him. “Take the gun.”

  He took it and flipped on the safety. “That’s it?” he teased. “One shot?”

  “I need my hands free.”

  And before he could even ask why, she put her hands on both sides of his face and kissed him.

  Hunter sat at dinner and pushed his food around the plate. His brain had turned to mush. Criminals could storm the house right now, and he’d probably just sit here and watch them do it. He kept thinking about Clare. Her hands in his hair. Her lips against his. Her mouth. Her fingers. The thin fabric of her dress, the warmth of her skin, the way he’d traced the freckles on her shoulders with his fingertips first, and then his tongue.

  He’d almost missed dinner.

  He wouldn’t have minded.

  Clare had been the one to bring him back to reality, telling him she’d have to sprint for the house just to make it back before her mom got home from work. He’d barely made it home in time himself. The guns were still in the bottom of his backpack, waiting to be put back when his dad wouldn’t notice him going downstairs.

  “Hunter?”

  He dropped his fork. It clanked against the plate. His dad was staring at him intently. Hunter had to clear his throat. “Yeah?”

  “I asked what happened to your face.”

  Hunter stabbed a piece of grilled chicken for an excuse to look away. He’d checked the mirror when he got home, and there was a pretty decent bruise along his left cheek.

  “Accident at school.”

  “Those boys still hassling you?”

  Hunter never knew how to answer that question. Did his dad want him to admit it? Or did he want to know Hunter could take care of himself? “Just guys being stupid. School’s almost out anyway, so . . .” He shrugged.

  His mother tsked and reached out to put a hand over his.

  Hunter pulled his hand away. No matter what his father meant, Hunter hated taking her sympathy in front of him.

  “And the girl?” said his dad. “How are things there?” Hunter almost choked on the piece of grilled chicken. “She’s great. Good. She’s good.”

  “Girl?” said his mother. “There’s a girl?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Hunter. He shoved another piece of chicken into his mouth.

  “Learn anything yet?” said his father.

  Yes. He’d learned that the world could narrow to a single breathless moment when he was kissing Clare.

  He met his father’s gaze head-on. “Not yet.”

  “Make sure you’re paying attention.” His father stood to take his plate to the sink and dropped a kiss on his wife’s head. “Thank you for dinner, darling.”

  Hunter watched this and wondered about Uncle Jay’s warning last night. It seemed like a direct contradiction to the whole use them before they use you.

  Then again, he kept thinking about Clare’s question in front of the gun locker, about the fact that his mom’s birth date wasn’t part of the combination. It was such a minor, inconsequential thing—but it felt like such a big thing when combined with that harsh warning.

  His father doted on his mother. Hunter watched it every day. They really were the most unlikely pair—his mom even commented on it to strangers with a laugh. How the die-hard military man had fallen for the New Age neo-Wiccan.

  But for the first time, Hunter started to wonder if what looked like doting was really . . . tolerance. Indulgence.

  As soon as he had the thought, Hunter shoved it out of his head. They’d been together for seventeen years. They never fought. He’d never questioned their love for each other, because their love for him was an unwavering constant.

  But now that he’d considered it, he couldn’t stop thinking it.

  A hand rapped at the back door, and Uncle Jay stuck his head in. “Am I late for dinner?”

  “There’s plenty left,” said Hunter’s mom.

  Jay opened the door fully, and Casper burst into the room, jogging immediately to Hunter, who rubbed the scruff of his neck and slid him chicken from his plate.

  “That dog loves you,” said Jay.

  Hunter gave Casper another piece. “I love him back.”

  Casper sat by his side and put his head in Hunter’s lap.

  Jay pulled out a chair and dropped into it. He glanced at his brother. “Did you get more info?”

  Hunter’s dad cast a glance at him. “Yeah. We’ll talk upstairs. Later.”

  Hunter pretended he didn’t notice. But after dinner was done, he lingered in the kitchen, washing dishes, playing with Casper, giving his dad and uncle time to finish shooting the shit and get down to real business.

  Then he crept up the stairs, easing around the step that creaked, holding his breath as he edged as close as he could to his father’s office door.

  Their voices were low, and he could only make out a few words, none of which made too
much sense.

  He eased out a breath, then took another one in. He slid a bit closer.

  “Hunter.”

  Damn it.

  His father’s voice. Hunter didn’t move. Maybe this was a bluff.

  Then the door opened. Uncle Jay stood there. “Really, kid?”

  Hunter sighed and looked up at him from where he crouched on the floor. “I don’t get what the big deal is. You said it was just surveillance.”

  “Come in here,” his father called. He didn’t sound happy.

  Hunter shoved to his feet and went to the doorway.

  His father was sitting at his desk, two files on the surface in front of him. Both were closed.

  “First,” he said, “I’m not happy about the spying.”

  “But you never tell me anything! I’m sixteen years old, and—”

  “And you’re acting like a teenager. Not yet, Hunter.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “Like you handled those boys at school?”

  Hunter flinched. “I don’t know what that means. What do you want me to do, break their necks? Get expelled? They’re just playing stupid pranks. I can’t exactly kill them for that.”

  “What if I told you they would grow up to be criminals? What about then?”

  “What about then?” Hunter glanced at Uncle Jay, but there were no answers there. His uncle was leaning against the doorjamb, his arms folded.

  His father leaned forward in the desk chair, bracing his arms on his knees. “If I told you they would grow up to be criminals, that they could potentially hurt people, could you kill them then?”

  Hunter licked his lips. This felt like a trick question, and the wrong answer wouldn’t be something he could take back.

  His father didn’t wait long. He shook his head. “You’re not ready.”

  “I’m not ready because I didn’t say I could kill my classmates? You’re not making any sense. What does this have to do with one stupid surveillance job?”

  “Sometimes watching leads to action.”

  Hunter felt like the right answers kept springing up in front of him; he just couldn’t grasp them quickly enough. “Fine. If it comes to that, I’ll stand back and let you guys do the action part.”

  “That’s not how this works. If you’re there, you’re there. Nothing halfway, right?”

  Hunter nodded. “Right.”

  “This is a different surveillance case.” His father flipped open the file folder. “These aren’t full-blown Elementals causing major problems.”

  “Then . . . what are they?” Hunter reached for the file, but his dad snapped it closed.

  “They’re teenagers. Your age. They haven’t come into their full powers yet.”

  “So it’s safer—”

  “No.” His dad laughed, but there wasn’t any humor about it.

  “There’s nothing safe about this one. Not from what I’m reading. These could be four of the most powerful Elementals to surface in years.”

  “What have they done?”

  “I don’t know yet. There are conflicting reports about deaths and threats and . . . hell, I can barely wrap my head around what’s going on in that town. But really, Hunter, it’s not about what they’ve done.”

  “What’s it about?”

  His dad leaned back in his chair. “It’s about what they can do.”

  Hunter stared at him.

  “Say I agreed, and I took you along as a decoy. You’re a teenager; you could fit right in.” He glanced in the file again. “Your mom’s folks even live right in the area. We wouldn’t have to think of an excuse for you to be there.”

  “Yes,” said Hunter. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

  “And what if you determined they were as powerful as these reports say? Could you kill them?”

  Could he kill complete strangers? “If they were using their powers to hurt people, I would do what I had to.”

  “What if they’re not using their powers to harm anyone?” said his father. “What if they’re good kids? Boy Scouts? What if they help people?”

  Hunter swallowed. “Then . . . why would you kill them?”

  His father smiled, a little sadly. “You’re not ready.”

  “But—”

  “Enough, Hunter. We have work to do.” He lost the smile. “And if I catch you spying again, you’re not going to like the results. Do you understand me?”

  Hunter walked out and slammed the door behind him—before realizing he was probably driving his father’s points about immaturity home.

  He went back to the kitchen and grabbed his backpack. He should probably put the weapons back before he got in trouble for that, too. He slammed the door to the basement, too, wanting to punch a hole in the drywall. He jammed the key into the gun locker door and punched the buttons, practically breaking a finger in his fury.

  Only when he reached into his bag was he careful. He pulled the zipper free on the table and looked inside.

  Then he kept on looking.

  One gun and a fully loaded magazine were missing.

  CHAPTER 4

  Hunter wondered if this was what a heart attack felt like. The bag had been sitting in the corner of the kitchen all evening. Unless someone had broken in and stolen the gun in the last hour—while there was a police dog lying on the mat in front of the sink—then he’d either left the gun in the clearing or Clare had taken it.

  He had no idea why Clare, someone who was obviously afraid of firearms, would take the weapon.

  But he knew he hadn’t left a fully loaded handgun lying in the grass, either.

  If his father found out, he was so dead.

  He grabbed the cell phone out of his pocket—just as he realized he’d never gotten her number.

  Like she’d answer. What would he say? “Did you maybe accidentally take a gun from my bag?”

  Hunter ran a hand through his short hair and tried not to panic.

  How. Could he. Have let. This happen.

  His father’s stupid comment kept running through his head.

  You’re about to teach yourself a lesson a lot more effectively than I ever could.

  Or his uncle’s: Use them before they use you.

  It didn’t make any sense. Clare didn’t seem like the type.

  God, what did he know about types?

  He needed to figure out a solution. Otherwise he might as well just load the remaining handgun and shoot himself.

  No. He could handle this. First, he needed to get out of the gun locker before his dad realized he was down here and decided to come see what was going on.

  Hunter locked the room. He almost put the remaining gun away, but if Clare had totally played him and was some kind of marksman, he didn’t want to go facing her unarmed.

  Marksman. Who was he kidding? He’d felt her hand tremble on his wrist when he’d fired that first shot.

  Why would she take a gun?

  Hunter went back to his bedroom and logged on to Facebook. Clare wasn’t his friend, but maybe he could find her cell phone number.

  No cell number. No address. Her status message was set to public, and it was last updated two days ago. The cafeteria macaroni and cheese doesn’t actually include cheese. I read the ingredients!!!

  Seriously. Like there was any chance it would say I stole a handgun from Hunter Garrity this afternoon! He can totally find me at 123 Main Street!

  Uncle Jay was a cop. He could find out where she lived.

  Yeah, and his dad said he’d be pissed if he caught Hunter spying again.

  Why the hell hadn’t he offered to walk her home this afternoon?

  Wait a minute. What had she said yesterday?

  I live on the other side of the dairy farm.

  Hunter grabbed a flashlight.

  The sun was fully down now, but humidity still clung to the air. Hunter had the other handgun, a .45 ACP officer’s model, in one hand, a flashlight in the other. Casper had followed him out of the house, which worked well—so well that Hunter h
ad gone back in to yell to his uncle that he was taking the dog for a quick run.

  And he could have been running, as fast as his heart was racing. It felt like it took forever to cross the pastures to the far side of the dairy farm, but he could see a small house between the trees, the porch light like a beacon.

  He had no idea what he was going to do when he got there. He couldn’t exactly knock on the door with a gun in hand. And if Clare had stolen his weapon, it wasn’t like she’d hand it over.

  Hunter stopped in her backyard and waited, deliberating. He wasn’t even sure this was the right house. The back patio offered no answers. Only the upstairs lights were on, although it seemed early.

  Casper waited by his side, bracing against Hunter’s legs.

  “Damn it,” Hunter whispered. He bit at his lip.

  Could he break in?

  Yeah, if he did that, his dad and his uncle would kill him. How long had he been gone? They might be starting to wonder already.

  What he needed was for Clare to come running out here with the gun.

  He took a deep breath and blew it out.

  And then he heard the yelling.

  Hunter held his breath. He couldn’t make out words, but it was definitely a man, very loud and almost incoherent.

  And then a girl’s voice, high pitched and almost shrieking.

  Casper growled.

  Hunter put a hand on the scruff of his neck. The air was whispering all kinds of hints about this altercation, and none of them were good.

  Then a gunshot cracked the night.

  Hunter dropped and dashed to the side of the house, staying low. The shot had come from inside.

  The screaming had escalated.

  Another gunshot. This round went through a window, because glass shattered and rained down on the patio about ten feet over from where Hunter crouched.

  He could barely hear over his breathing.

  More screaming. A woman, but Hunter couldn’t tell if it was Clare. No one was dead yet, because they sure were making a racket. Casper barked.

  Another shot. A bullet hit the storage shed across the yard. Hunter flinched.

  If that was the 9mm, there would be at least five bullets left, unless shots had been fired before he got here. He and Clare had fired two in the field, and now someone had fired three.