Do you really think a jail cell will keep you safe? That’s funny, Michael.

As if you’d even get to a jail cell.

As if I’d let you leave this neighborhood.

Your girlfriend is adorable how she plays fireman. Maybe I should introduce myself.

Footsteps approached rapidly, sending panicked fury into the ground. Michael swore and looked up. Smoke had swirled closer to him. The fire was spreading.

His power flared without warning, drawing defenses from the earth. Before he had time to mentally process his actions, Michael had fractured a rock in one hand, and he was spinning to meet this new threat.

When a body appeared through the smoke, Michael didn’t hesitate. He threw a punch with his hand wrapped around stone. He connected and his quarry cried out. Michael hit him again, feeling the jagged edges of his stone tear into skin. The man fell. Earth and vegetation grabbed hold of the man to trap him there.

Michael dropped to pin the man’s arm with a knee, kneeling above him to hold the sharp edge of the rock to his neck.

Then Michael got a good look: Hannah’s father.

On his face was a hell of a mark. The rock had broken the skin.

Michael still felt power in the ground. Leaves and underbrush smoldered all around them. Smoke curled between them, and Michael wondered how long they had before a police officer or a Guide stumbled across them.

The fire marshal looked pissed, but his voice was low and even. “Let me up, Mike.”

Michael didn’t move. “We need to get people out of the woods.”

“Sure. I’ll get on my radio and we can clear all this up—”

“Don’t patronize me.” Desperation filled his voice, but Michael couldn’t stop it. “You don’t understand. I didn’t start these fires. I’m trying to protect people—”

“Is that what you’re doing right now?”

His voice hadn’t changed, but his words hit their mark. Michael drew a tight sigh—and realized how deeply he’d dug himself in here. He’d assaulted an officer of the law. He’d broken free of the handcuffs and run. He was twenty-three years old and already a suspect in the bombing—to say nothing of the house fires on the cul-de-sac.

There was no way in hell he was going to walk away from this.

For an instant, he wished the Guide would find him and shoot him and put him out of his misery.

“Please,” said Michael. “I didn’t do any of this.”

“We can talk about it. Let me up.”

“If I let you up, you’re going to arrest me and haul me out of here. There’s someone with a gun who’s going after Hannah, and I need to find him—”

“You found him, Michael Merrick.” A gun hammer drew back and clicked behind Michael’s head. “And I have all the proof I need.”

Michael went still. His world centered on that moment, the space of time between the click of the gun and the explosion of the bullet.

And in that moment, he realized he truly had nothing left to lose.

The jagged rock was still clutched in his fist, and Michael didn’t hesitate. He ducked and spun off his knee, driving the edge of the stone into the man’s abdomen. The rock glanced off bone. Michael felt a rib fracture. Skin tore and blood rushed over his hand.

It should have horrified him.

Instead, he kept on pushing. He thought of all the people who’d died over the last three days, and he kept on pushing.

Another rib broke.

The Guide stumbled back, yelling. Michael didn’t recognize him at all. He could have been the same guy from the restaurant bombing—or not.

He was also aiming his gun again, but Michael’s free hand had already found another rock.

That rock smashed into the man’s knee. The Guide fell. The gun fell.

The fire marshal was yelling, but Michael couldn’t comprehend his words. His element had taken over, and his brain was focused on nothing more than survival.

The Guide was on the ground, surrounded by smoldering underbrush. Michael trapped him there, holding him with power from the earth below. The Guide wasn’t powerless, however. The air had turned thin and ice cold again, and Michael couldn’t catch his breath.

He didn’t care. He pulled the jagged rock free and put it to the man’s throat. Blood was everywhere, running down his fingers, dripping along the man’s neck to find the earth. Michael felt every drop.

“I’ll kill you before I pass out,” he said, and meant it.

The Guide smiled. “You can try.” The smoldering underbrush burst into full-on flame.

Fire caught Michael’s clothes—and then his skin. He recoiled, smacking at his clothes, trying to ignore the burn. The fire seemed to burn hotter. The pain was intense. Michael sucked in a breath of cold air—but he got a lungful of hot smoke instead. His vision went hazy.

The Guide raised himself up on one arm. Blood smeared across his face. He found his gun and pointed.

A gun fired—but not his. Michael heard the shot just beside his head.

The Guide fell. The fire died so quickly the flames seemed to be sucked back into the earth.

The sudden silence was so absolute that Michael could swear his ears were ringing. He couldn’t move.

Then Marshal Faulkner stepped past Michael, his gun still in his hand. He dropped to a knee beside the Guide and reached out to check for a pulse.

He must not have found anything, because he holstered his gun, then looked up, at Michael. “You okay, kid?”