Читать книгу Spirit - Brigid Kemmerer - Страница 9

CHAPTER 2

The gun clicked empty, and Hunter swore.

A laugh in the darkness, somewhere ahead of him. “You thought I’d take a chance with it loaded?”

Then his bedroom door slammed and footsteps were pounding up the steps to the main level.

His mother was upstairs. His grandparents.

Kerosene. Match. Whoosh.

Hunter didn’t have the power to stop a fire by himself—and he’d done a pretty good job killing any sort of friendship with the one guy he knew who could.

He flung the door wide and sprinted up the stairs.

And there was Casper, his German shepherd, flopped out in the front hall, snoring loudly.

Hunter couldn’t really blame him. He’d been fooled by Calla once, too.

Glass was breaking in the kitchen, then something heavy crashed to the floor. Hunter darted through the foyer as more glass broke. What were they doing? Flinging dishes at the floor?

Yes, that’s exactly what they were doing. Calla was sweeping her hand along the counter as she headed for the door, sending ceramic canisters and the glass cutting board onto the floor. A guy Hunter didn’t recognize shoved the baker’s rack away from the wall, sending pots crashing to the ground. The table was overturned already, and shattered glasses and plates littered the floor.

Hunter wasn’t sure what to do. The gun was still downstairs—not like it mattered. It was empty, and besides, he couldn’t exactly shoot them for breaking dishes.

At least she wasn’t starting a fire.

Calla pulled a knife from the wooden block on the counter—then flung the block at the floor. Half the steak knives skittered free and landed among the rest of the mess. She dragged the blade along the wallpaper by the door. “Need more convincing?”

God, his head hurt, and the whack to his skull downstairs was only part of it. “Get out of here, Calla.”

“Or what? You can’t do anything to me, Hunter. I’m not working alone, you know. I’m not the only one who can start fires.”

Hunter glanced at her friend by the door. Dark hair, pale skin, a little on the skinny side. Close to their age, if not a little younger. Totally not familiar, but Hunter had only been in school here for a few weeks, so that didn’t mean anything.

The guy noticed Hunter’s scrutiny and grinned, though it looked a little crazed. He flipped hair out of his eyes. “Maybe we should start a little one, let you know we’re serious.” Then he shoved the microwave off the counter. It hung from its cord for a long moment, then jerked free and crashed to the floor.

Hunter heard a muffled curse from upstairs, then the floorboards creaked.

His grandfather.

Hunter felt pretty sure an adult wouldn’t help this situation.

He so didn’t want to deal with this. He sighed and picked up the cordless phone from the holder on the wall.

“Who you calling?” said Calla. “You think the Merricks can help you?”

The Merricks were probably the last people who would offer to help him, but Calla didn’t need to know that. “No,” Hunter said. “I’m doing what you’re supposed to do when people break into your house.” When she raised her eyebrows, he added, “I’m calling nine-one-one.”

Her smile wilted around the edges. “Liar.”

He spoke into the phone. “I’d like to report a break-in at one-eleven North Shore Road—”

“Calla!” said the guy by the door.

“Hang up that phone!” she hissed.

“They’re still here,” Hunter said into the receiver. “They’re armed.”

Calla dropped the knife. “I’ll kill you, Hunter,” she seethed. “You know I can—”

“Please hurry,” said Hunter. “They’re threatening to kill me.”

A siren started wailing somewhere in the distance. The dark-haired guy grabbed Calla’s wrist and yanked. They bolted through the door.

Hunter set the phone back on the receiver. He’d never dialed at all.

That siren had been sheer luck.

What a mess. Hunter ran his hands through his hair. The length of it still shocked him every time. He hadn’t cut it in months.

The floorboards in the hallway creaked, and Hunter swore under his breath. He had no idea how to explain this. If he said someone had broken in, his grandfather really would call the cops.

After he’d been arrested for his involvement in the fire in the school library last week—a fire Calla had started—Hunter didn’t need any more interaction with cops.

Thank god the gun was still downstairs.

His grandfather stopped short when he saw the mess. It was too dark to make out his expression—not that Hunter wanted to try. The man was tall but lean and muscled from years of farm labor, with short gray hair and a permanent look of displeasure. He hit the switch on the wall, and the light made things look a hundred times worse. His eyes narrowed at his grandson. “You’d better have a good explanation.”

Like Hunter had woken up in the middle of the night and started trashing the kitchen.

But really, this was exactly how every conversation with his grandfather went.

“I didn’t do this,” he said. His father had never had much tolerance for attitude, so Hunter was well practiced in keeping it out of his tone. It had just never been this much of a challenge with his dad.

“Who did?”

“Kids from school. A prank.” He paused. “I’ll clean it up.”

“And you’ll pay for it.”

Hunter set his jaw, but didn’t say anything.

When he and his mother had first pulled up the driveway six weeks ago, his grandfather had watched Hunter climb out of the car, then said, “We’re not going to have any of your nonsense here, you understand me, boy?”

Hunter had turned to his mother, looking for . . . something. Direction, maybe. A cue for how to respond.

But his mother had already been crying on his grandmother’s shoulder. If she’d heard the comment, she didn’t acknowledge it. And then she’d allowed herself to be hustled into the house, to be comforted over tea.

While Hunter had been left to unload the car under his grandfather’s glaring eyes.

He’d learned pretty quickly to make himself scarce.

Even now, he probably had about three minutes before he’d hear a lecture about his piercings, about how he needed a haircut, about how if he was his grandfather’s son, he’d clean up his act or he’d be sleeping on the porch.

At first, Hunter had tried being perfect. He’d done chores without being asked. Taking out the trash, mowing the lawn, doing all his own laundry. He’d fixed the two loose boards on the porch, then repaired a shutter that was hanging crooked on the front of the house—things his father would have expected him to do. No backtalk, just respect for his elders.

His mom was no help. She was so lost in her own sorrow that even talking to her about his grandfather seemed petty and insignificant.

So he’d tried to get along. He’d tried hard.

“It’s drugs, isn’t it?” said his grandfather.

Hunter sighed and carefully stepped around broken glass to right the baker’s rack. “No. I don’t do drugs.” He barely ate processed food, and this guy thought he’d put drugs in his body?

Sometimes this whole arrangement just felt like a big cosmic joke. Where was the grandfather who’d take him fishing and put an arm around his shoulders and ask if he was sweet on anyone at school? Why did he get saddled with the guy who didn’t seem to give a shit that Hunter had lost the two people he felt closest to, less than six months ago? That he was starting at a new high school in his junior year? That he’d spent his life training for something he’d never get to do, because his father’s and uncle’s deaths had left him with no path to follow?

Hunter began stacking pots on the shelves of the baker’s rack. For an instant, he envied Calla.

He wished he could throw a few things himself. But he was a Fifth—his father had drilled endless lessons of self-control into Hunter’s head. He’d been trained well, and he wouldn’t let that training fail him now. Not over this.

His grandfather was still standing there, watching him.

Hunter wanted to punch him. Instead, he gently eased the Crock-Pot back onto the lowest shelf.

“Let me know how much everything costs,” he said. “I’ll figure out a way to pay you back.” He wasn’t entirely sure how. He didn’t have a job here, and while he had some money in an envelope in his dresser, it was slowly creeping toward zero each time he had to fill his jeep with gas.

Definitely not enough to replace everything that was lying in a shattered mess on the floor.

Maybe in between trying to stop a psychotic pyromaniac, he could find a job flipping burgers at McDonald’s.

It would be hilarious if it weren’t so sad.

Sometimes he wished he could just tell his grandfather about what he was, what he could do. How his military training would put Navy SEALs to shame. How he could sense the electricity in the walls, or the humidity in the air, or the anger in his grandfather’s head.

Then again, that talk would probably lend credence to this new drug theory.

“I’m done with this attitude, boy.”

Hunter looked up. “I’m not giving you any attitude. I said I would pay for everything.”

“It’s no wonder your mother can’t get it together, with all the trouble you give her.”

Hunter stiffened, but he didn’t say anything. He had no idea why his mother couldn’t get it together. He didn’t think it had anything to do with him, but maybe it did. The last time he’d gone up to her bedroom, her eyes had filled with tears. She’d put a hand against his cheek and said, “I wish you’d cut your hair again, Hunter. You used to look just like your father.”

He’d pushed her hand away. What are you so sad for? he’d wanted to ask. Dad was just using you.

His grandmother was no help, either. She didn’t rag on him like his grandfather did, but she’d watch him with pursed lips, and he could feel disapproval radiate through the room until he wanted to grab her by the shoulders and rattle her body and shout in her face.

“What?” he’d yell in this imaginary scenario. “Not good enough for you?”

And then he’d shake her so hard that her dentures would fall out, and she wouldn’t be able to make that expression with her mouth anymore.

Hunter almost smiled, but he only let himself enjoy it for half a second.

His grandmother didn’t even wear dentures.

A hand closed on Hunter’s arm, hauling him to his feet. “You think this is funny?” his grandfather demanded, his voice rising in pitch as well as volume. “Your friends destroy hundreds of dollars’ worth of our property, and you think this is funny?”

It took every ounce of self-control not to jerk free and drop his grandfather on his ass.

But Hunter met the man’s eyes. “Let me go.”

His grandfather’s grip tightened, his thumb pressing into the muscle behind Hunter’s elbow. It hurt, but Hunter wouldn’t let it show.

He knew some of this was his ability. His talents drew people to him—and that usually meant pulling their attention in whatever way they were wired to give it. Sometimes it was nice—like with Becca, his almost-could’ve-been girlfriend.

Sometimes it was not.

Like now.

“I should have left you in jail last Monday,” his grandfather said. “Let the justice system scare some sense into you.”

Like his grandfather had done anything more than pick him up at the police station. The cops hadn’t even pressed charges. No evidence—because he hadn’t started that fire. “Let me go.”

“You’re going to straighten up, or you’re going to be sleeping on the porch. You understand me?”

Hunter wouldn’t even consider that a punishment. He loved being outside.

Then again, it was getting into the thirties some nights, and all his camping gear was still in storage from the move.

“I understand,” he said. God, his head hurt. “Let me go.”

His grandfather let him go, adding a little shove. “Get this cleaned up before school. And I expect you back here right after, too.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hunter.

“And cut the sarcasm.”

Fuck you.

But Hunter didn’t say it. He wouldn’t give his grandfather the satisfaction.

Instead, he held on to his temper and cleaned up the mess on the floor.

If only the mess in his life would be so easy.