CHAPTER 3

The early summer air was soft on Hunter’s face as he trudged through the woods to the edge of the cornfield. He’d shoved some apples and two cans of soda in his backpack, along with a box of ammunition and two unloaded handguns.

Clare was walking by his side.

He was going to teach her to shoot.

His father’s lack of anger left him feeling more worried instead of less. The warning still rang in his ears, and he told his brain to knock it off. What could she be using him for? Shooting lessons?

Stupid.

She’d been mostly quiet on the walk to his house, and he’d been walking a cord of tension himself, ready for Jeremy or Garrett or one of those morons to come flying out of the trees.

But nothing had happened.

“You could take them, couldn’t you?” she said out of the blue.

He didn’t have to ask who she was talking about. After that display in the hallway, he wasn’t surprised those thugs were on her mind, too. He smiled. “Take them,” he mimicked. “I don’t really want to fight them.”

“Why not? Don’t you think they’d leave you alone?”

Hunter stopped at the edge of the tree line. There was a long stretch of grass here before the cornfield started, and his dad had set steel targets of varying heights into the ground. He set his backpack gently on the ground.

“That’s not how it works,” he said, dropping to sit in the grass. He unzipped the nylon. “If it were that easy, I’d have done it at the beginning of the year.”

She hesitated, then dropped to sit beside him, pulling her skirt over her knees. The grass was warm here, the sun beating down. “I don’t understand.”

“People don’t really leave me alone,” he said. “Kind of an occupational hazard.”

She frowned. “I still don’t understand.”

Hunter smiled and shook his head. “Sorry. I just mean, when I fight them, it seems to inspire them to fight more. You know how sometimes when you put up resistance, it just makes people push harder?”

She was staring at him, and he couldn’t figure out the tension in her expression.

“What?” he said.

She shook her head quickly. “Nothing. So they keep coming after you?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged and started snapping bullets into an empty magazine. “It’s like they keep coming up with more creative ways to try to kick my ass. And if I fight them at school, it just gets me in trouble. Getting in trouble pisses off my dad. I mostly try to avoid them. Want an apple?”

“Sure.”

He snapped the last bullet, then slid the clip into a 9mm Beretta. He’d chosen this one because it was smaller and might not make her so uneasy.

Even so, she swallowed when the metal clicked.

“We don’t have to do this,” he said.

“No. It’s fine. It’s good.”

Hunter made sure the safety was on, then stood. He showed her all the parts to the gun, going over the safety features, glad for his father’s and uncle’s thorough instruction, because he could talk about this stuff in his sleep. He paid close attention when she started to take the gun from him, and it was a good thing, because she almost pointed it directly at him.

“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.”