Spirit

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “She has my cell number,” he snapped. “She could have found me if she wanted.” Hunter felt like he couldn’t catch his breath. Emotions ricocheted around in his head.

  She’d watched him walk out. He shouldn’t give a crap what she thought.

  But he did. A lot.

  He didn’t want to ask what she’d said. His fingernails were digging rivets into the porch railing.

  Casper was back, dropping the ball at Michael’s feet and nosing it forward when it wasn’t thrown immediately.

  Michael obliged him, flinging it into the woods again. It cracked against a tree somewhere out of sight. Casper was off.

  Michael glanced up at the porch. “She said she’d put the rest of your things together, if you want to come get them.”

  Those words hit hard. Michael could have thrown the ball at him and the impact would have hurt less. Hunter couldn’t even speak. His voice would break and he’d look like a total wuss.

  She hadn’t said, “Tell Hunter to come home.”

  She’d said she’d pack up his stuff.

  Splinters from the railing were beginning to drive up under his fingernails, but the pain was keeping him grounded.

  “You doing anything right now? Have any plans?” said Michael.

  Hunter swallowed and told himself to knock it off. “Nothing.”

  “Good. Come on, I’ll drive you over.”

  “I don’t—that’s—” He had to slow his thoughts down or they’d never make it out of his mouth coherently. “I don’t want to go over there.”

  “Why?”

  Because I don’t want to see her.

  Because I don’t want to see him.

  Because if I pick up my stuff, that means I really don’t have anywhere to live.

  Hunter set his jaw. “What am I going to do, dump it in your basement? Keep sleeping on Nick’s floor?” His voice was hard, but inside, his heart was a frigging wreck. “Casper,” he called. “Hierr.” The dog bolted to his side, but Hunter was already off the porch and heading for the front of the house.

  For his car.

  “Hey,” Michael called after him.

  Hunter didn’t stop.

  But Michael was faster than Hunter gave him credit for, and he caught up before Hunter could close the door to his jeep.

  Hunter slammed the door back at him, making Michael fall back a step. He followed it up with a solid shove. “Leave me alone,” he shouted. “Just leave me—”

  Then his voice broke and he was crying.

  This was horrible and humiliating and he wanted to throw the jeep into neutral and just let it roll over himself.

  Michael didn’t touch him. Good thing, because Hunter would have punched him.

  He imagined it, the motion, the impact, exactly how much force it would take, what a release it would be.

  It didn’t help. If anything, he felt coiled more tightly.

  He slammed the door and dropped onto the pavement of the driveway, leaning back against his car and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

  “Go away,” Hunter said, hating that his voice was thick and made him sound like a sniveling six-year-old. Casper jumped out of the jeep and lay down beside him.

  Michael sat down on the other side.

  “That is the opposite of going away,” said Hunter.

  “Look,” Michael offered. “Your mom was worried about you.”

  “I don’t want to talk about her.”

  Michael didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t say anything for so long that Hunter swiped a sleeve across his face, then turned to look at him. “I’m not one of your brothers. Stop sitting here. Go. Away.”

  “I don’t think,” Michael began slowly, “that your mom offered to pack up your stuff because she didn’t want you to come back.”

  Hunter wanted to hit something. Unfortunately, the people who really deserved it weren’t available. “How the hell do you know?”

  Michael looked out at the trees lining the driveway. “I don’t. Not really, I guess.” He paused. “You know, there’s not a manual to the whole parent thing.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means . . . I think your mom feels badly about what happened, and she’s not sure how to fix it.” Another pause. “I think . . . by offering to pack up your things, she might think she’s helping.”

  Hunter rested his arms on his knees and didn’t respond.

  Michael sighed. “I remember when I was eighteen, it was a total shock to realize my parents had been winging it the whole time. Like, there was this one time that Chris—”

  “Save it,” said Hunter. “I don’t need any Merrick family anecdotes.”

  “Fine,” said Michael equably. “How about a Garrity family anecdote?”

  “What?”

  “You tell me, Hunter, because we—you and me—don’t have a history here beyond you trying to kill me, and me finding you ready to flatten the Home Depot. You’re not this mad at your mom just for letting your grandfather throw you out. What else is there?”

  Hunter gritted his teeth and stared at the trees. The air was crisp and cold, biting through his clothes as easily as the chill in the pavement was biting through his jeans. But being outside helped settle his nerves.

  And Michael just waited.

  Hunter realized he was holding on to everything so tightly that it was all going to snap and come apart if he wasn’t careful. Like with Gabriel in the cafeteria.

  Like with Kate in the car.

  And just like that, he found himself talking.

  “My parents were a bizarre couple,” he said. “I mean, I never really thought about it, but everybody said so. My dad was in the Marines for a long time. He went through special forces, the whole deal. Even when he got out, he worked private jobs—the dangerous kind. It went right along with being a Guide. I don’t even know all the jobs he took. A lot of them were classified—and now . . . well, now they’re going to be classified forever, I guess.”

  He paused, rubbing at the scruff of Casper’s neck.

  Michael waited.

  “Mom was . . . unique. She had a new age store in the town where we lived, and she played up the part. She did tarot readings, crystal healings, stuff like that. She gave me the stones. I didn’t realize until I started getting powers that they’d start to feel like a part of me . . .” Hunter paused and lined them up along his wrist. “She didn’t know what my dad was—like the Guide stuff—but she always used to dote on him and say he had a special connection to the world around him.” Now, knowing what he knew about his mother and father, Hunter wondered if his dad had laughed about that behind her back.

  “Have you ever wanted to tell her?” said Michael. “About what your dad was?”

  Hunter shook his head. “No. When I was younger, it was something between me and him. Not like a secret, but more like he got me—” He made a dismissive noise. “This is stupid.”

  “It’s not. I get it.”

  Hunter glanced over, and Michael shrugged. He was still looking at the trees, which made this whole conversation easier.

  “My dad was an Earth Elemental, too.” Michael paused, and it was weighted with feeling. “We didn’t always get along, but—well, you know.”

  Hunter nodded and looked back at the trees himself. “People always ask if my dad was strict, and he was—but he wasn’t. I never—I didn’t—”

  He had to stop.

  His dad would have shit a brick if he’d known Hunter was sitting here crying.

  “Was he proud of you?” said Michael.

  Hunter snorted. “I never knew where I stood with him.” He had to swallow. God, suck it up. “I never will.”

  “I’m sure you have some idea.”

  “I don’t. The day before he died, he told me that the only reason he was with my mother was because he was using her. Their whole relationship was based on that. And she has no idea.”

  “Wow.” A pause. “What do you think that mea
ns about your relationship with him?”

  “He said I needed to learn to use people, that it would keep me safe because of what I am.”

  “Well, that explains a lot.”

  Hunter snapped his head around.

  Michael put a hand up before he could say anything. “Take it easy. You don’t have to be on such a hair trigger, kid.” A pause. “But if you don’t mind me sharing one thing I learned when I was eighteen, something that’s bothered me since my parents struck that messed-up deal with the other Elementals in town . . .”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes parents are wrong.”

  The words hit him hard again, and Hunter flinched.

  “Come on,” said Michael. He clapped Hunter on the shoulder. “Let’s go get your stuff.”

  “I don’t want—”

  “Come on,” Michael said. “Let her be wrong for once. It’ll be good for you both.”

  CHAPTER 13

  No one was home.

  Or at least, neither his mother’s nor his grandparents’ cars were in the driveway.

  “Well, this is anticlimactic,” said Hunter. He hadn’t even killed the engine in the jeep.

  Michael glanced over. “You have a key?”

  “Sure.”

  But he didn’t want to go inside. This felt like a free pass, and he was tempted to peel out of here, spraying gravel behind him.

  “If your stuff is packed up,” said Michael, “we can just grab it and go, right?”

  Point.

  The house felt the same as he remembered, some lingering scent from his grandmother’s chili—which she made every weekend—combined with the faint whiff of the potpourri sitting out in the living room. Cool and quiet and still.

  Nothing was in the front hallway, but maybe she’d left his stuff downstairs.

  Or maybe she hadn’t packed it up at all.

  Hunter couldn’t decide which option he was hoping for.

  He felt jittery now, not knowing where everyone was or when they’d be home. He was just standing there between the dining room and the living room, keys jingling nervously in his hand.

  “So . . . ,” started Michael. “Upstairs?”

  “No. Down. Follow me.”

  The basement was ten degrees colder than the rest of the house, something he’d never really noticed until today. He hit the switches to light up the space.

  She’d packed. Two plastic storage boxes plus a duffel bag were laid out on his bed.

  His old bed. His quilt was gone, either packed away or folded in one of these boxes. His Xbox and alarm clock were gone. His books, his old school notebooks—everything. The room looked like it was waiting for the next tenant.

  He snapped the lid off one of the boxes. Mostly electronics and notebooks, though two framed pictures lay right on top.

  Michael picked up one. “Your dad and uncle?”

  For some reason, Hunter wanted to snatch it away from him.

  “Yeah.” He held out a hand. “Don’t say I look exactly like my dad. I get that all the time.”

  Michael glanced up. He handed back the frame. “Hunter, there is nothing about you that would make me say you look exactly like this guy.”

  Hunter stared back at him in surprise.

  “Look in a mirror sometime,” said Michael.

  Hunter glanced at the picture again. He was trying to decide whether or not that was an insult when the front door of the house slammed.

  It might as well have been a gunshot right into his heart. His pulse rate tripled.

  “Relax,” said Michael. “Your mom said you could come get your stuff.” He put the plastic lid back on the box Hunter had opened—leaving the frame clutched between Hunter’s hands. Then he jerked his head at the other one. “Grab that, huh?”

  It spurred him into motion. Hunter slung the duffel bag over a shoulder, grabbed the box, and headed for the stairs, Michael following.

  He didn’t really want to see any of them, but he hoped it was his mom. She seemed like the lesser of two evils.

  But of course it was his grandfather who appeared at the top of the stairs.

  Hunter stopped short and stared up at him.

  He knew about thirty ways to disarm someone bare-handed, but just now he wanted to duck behind Michael.

  That realization shocked him into movement again. “I’m just getting my stuff,” he said. “Mom said I could.”

  His grandfather didn’t move from the top of the steps, and Hunter stopped there on the second to last step, the plastic box a barrier between them.

  The man was glaring. Hunter glared back.

  He wanted to shove him with the box. Hard.

  “Who’s your friend?” said his grandfather. “One of the ones who trashed the kitchen?”

  “No,” said Michael. “One of the ones offering Hunter a place to live.”

  When no one said anything and no one moved, Michael added, “Could you please step aside so we can take these out to the car?”

  To Hunter’s surprise, his grandfather actually stepped back—but he didn’t look happy about it.

  “Just keep walking,” Michael said quietly.

  Good advice. Hunter broke the staring match and started walking.

  Unfortunately, his grandfather seemed to think he’d won some battle. He grabbed Hunter’s arm before he could go past. “Maybe I should check those. Make sure you aren’t taking anything that’s not yours.”

  Hunter gritted his teeth. “Mom packed them.”

  “You still owe me for the mess in the kitchen. Maybe I should take that GameBox thing—”

  “Fine,” snapped Hunter. “Take it. I don’t give a—”

  “Whoa.” Michael caught Hunter’s arm.

  Hunter realized he’d slammed his own box onto the ground, and it seemed like he’d been ready to swing a fist.

  He took a breath. It felt like the first breath of winter, a stinging cold that sliced into his lungs.

  He was better than this. He took another breath and tried to get it together.

  “How much does he owe you?” said Michael.

  His grandfather looked like he was hoping Hunter would try to take a swing again. “It was a lot of damage, so—”

  “How much?”

  “Three hundred.”

  The number might as well have been three million. “Fine,” said Hunter. He jerked away from Michael. “Keep my stuff. I don’t—”

  “He’ll pay you,” said Michael. “In two weeks. Fair?”

  “Two weeks. I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  Michael looked at Hunter. “Can you work six nights for me in the next two weeks?”

  Hunter stared back at him until Michael raised his eyebrows in a Dude, wtf? expression. Hunter shook himself. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Done.” Michael picked up his box. “Let’s go.”

  “And just who are you? What kind of work is this?”

  Like the eldest Merrick brother was going to have him selling weapons to foreigners or dancing naked on tables. Michael shifted the box to one hip and pulled a business card out of his pocket. “I’m Michael Merrick. I do landscaping. Feel free to call me if you want those mums out front to stop dying.”

  Then he left the card on the corner of the dining room table and headed toward the door.

  Hunter knew when to make an exit. He hustled to catch up.

  His grandmother was sitting in the kitchen, that same sourpuss look of disapproval on her face.

  “Hi, Grandma,” Hunter called cheerfully, knowing it would irritate her even more than if he’d flipped her off.

  Then he was in the jeep and they were driving away, his hands almost shaking on the steering wheel.

  Michael hadn’t said a word. Hunter wasn’t entirely sure what to say, either.

  Finally, he said, “Those mums weren’t dying.”

  “They’ll look like it.”

  Hunter smiled. Then laughed. “Thanks.”

  “Sure.” He glanced in the b
ack. “You can throw those in the basement until you figure out what you want to do.”

  Hunter lost the smile. He wondered if there was a time limit attached to the offer—and because he was scared of the answer, he didn’t want to ask. “Okay.”

  “Gabriel’s been trying to catch up in math and some other classes, because he wants to qualify for an EMT course in the spring. He usually helps on Tuesdays and Fridays. Want to take his nights for the next two weeks? Maybe some weekend time?”

  So Gabriel was going to take the firefighter thing seriously. Hunter was envious for a moment, that his frenemy had figured out a path in life, when it felt like his own life map had been put through a shredder. “Sure.” He paused. “You don’t have to do that—I can sell some of my stuff—”

  “If your whole life is in those boxes, Hunter, I want you to hold on to all of it.”

  Well then.

  They pulled into the Merrick driveway, and nothing had changed—Michael’s brothers were still out.

  Michael hesitated before getting out of the jeep. “I’m picking up Hannah in an hour. She wants to take James to the carnival, too. No one will be at the house tonight.”

  Hunter had no idea who Hannah and James were. He glanced over at Michael and wondered what he was implying. “Do you not want me to be here by myself?”

  Michael sighed. “Jesus, Hunter, take a breather. I want you to go be a teenager. You’ve got a car, there’s fun to be had. Go. Find it.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Kate didn’t see how this carnival was supposed to make money for the senior class. The field was packed with rides and food kiosks, then lined with silly game stands. The lights and noise were overwhelming, a mash-up of neon and carnival music and the smell of popcorn and funnel cake.

  Her senses couldn’t make heads or tails of anything.

  Frustrating on a good day, but doubly so today.

  Silver would be watching her every move tonight.

  So she’d done a quick lap of the grounds and found the Merricks.

  Nick was playing skeeball with that bitchy blond cheerleader.

  Gabriel was with a dark-haired girl and a younger boy, throwing darts at balloons way at the end of the row of game stands.

  Chris was sitting on a bench with the brunette who’d clung to Hunter in the hallway, and they were sharing a box of popcorn.