Fearless

  Books by Brigid Kemmerer

  Spark

  Storm

  Elemental (an e-book)

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  FEARLESS

  THE ELEMENTAL

  SERIES

  BRIGID KEMMERER

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  Spark,

  Copyright Page

  CHAPTER 1

  Hunter Garrity ducked behind a copse of trees and waited. The last week of school, and those jerks were still pulling this crap.

  He held his breath and listened. Nothing.

  But someone was still back there. He could feel it. He’d been feeling it the entire walk home, but sometime during the last fifteen minutes, they’d drawn close.

  They’d never be able to wait him out. He knew that from experience. He had patience in spades and could sit here all night, letting the air and the earth feed him information. His talents weren’t strong enough to demand answers from the elements—yet—so he had to wait, to pay attention to what they were willing to offer.

  But if he missed dinner again, his dad would be pissed.

  A branch snapped underfoot about twenty feet behind where he was hiding.

  Hunter eased out a breath and waited. Another branch, a rustle of leaves.

  It seemed like one person, which was surprising. None of them ever had the guts to face him alone—not anymore, anyway. Freshman year, sure, before he’d come home with one bruise too many and his father had taught him to put up a fight.

  This year had started differently. Jeremy Rasmussen had been the first one to find out the hard way. On the second day of school, he’d walked into the boy’s bathroom and slammed Hunter face-first into the tile wall.

  Hunter had slammed him face-first into a mirror.

  Jeremy had earned a broken nose, stitches across one cheek, and a chipped tooth. Hunter had earned two days’ suspension and some greater regard from his classmates.

  But they didn’t leave him alone, though they wouldn’t mess with him at school. No, now his walk home was a challenge. A gauntlet. They kept coming up with more creative ways to screw with him.

  He kept coming up with more creative paths to travel.

  Like this afternoon. He’d turned his walk from one mile to three, cutting through the dairy farm at the end of his road, easing between fence boards until he reached the acre of corn that led to the woods backing his parents’ property.

  Just because he could fight didn’t mean he wanted to.

  The crunching underbrush stopped, but Hunter couldn’t look without giving away his hiding place. He held his breath again, wondering what their weapon would be this time. Bricks? A two-by-four? Once they’d actually thrown cow manure at him. Idiots. Maybe one day they’d shock him with something effective.

  He let a breath out, drew one in, and held it.

  Another step, another snap of underbrush. A breeze kicked up and whistled through the leaves overhead, whispering across his cheeks. He focused, waiting for information about his pursuer, but the wind cared for nothing more than the sunlight and the trees. He touched his fingers to the ground, and the earth confirmed it was one person.

  One person, drawing close.

  Hunter braced himself. Time slowed down, an eternity passing before the next crunch of leaves.

  His eyes registered movement beyond the edge of the trees, and then he was all motion. When he fought, his brain tracked the activity like stop-action photography. The toe of a boot, a denim-covered knee, a powder-blue shirt, a flash of brown hair. His arm, flying out to block any weapon. His leg, hooking an ankle to bring his attacker to the ground. A gasp and a shriek and an oof.

  And a bright pink backpack, sailing through the air to land somewhere nearby. Papers fluttered into the wind and scattered.

  Pink.

  He stared down at the person he’d pinned. “Clare?”

  “Ow.” She grimaced and put a hand to her head. Strands of her hair were tangled in the dead leaves littering the ground. “That kinda hurt.”

  Clare Kasten was in his fourth-period government class. Cute, in a gentle way, with wide brown eyes and soft features. Shy, too. He couldn’t remember a single word they’d ever exchanged.

  Hunter swore and braced a hand against the ground so he could get some distance. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . . Are you okay?”

  “I just wanted to talk to you.” She made another face. “I didn’t realize I’d be risking my life.”

  It would figure that the first time a girl wanted to talk to him, he’d knock her flat.

  “I’m really sorry,” he said again. He rolled up to one knee and held out a hand. “Are you all right?”

  She took his hand. Hers was slight and soft, and it practically disappeared inside his. He pushed to his feet and pulled her along with him.

  She wavered and he caught her elbows. It put them very close, probably closer than he’d ever been to a girl. “You sure you’re okay to stand?”

  She pulled an arm free to rub at the back of her head again. “I probably should have just passed you a note in class.”

  A note? No one had ever passed him a note. What kind of note? He had no idea how to play this. He had no idea what she wanted. Had she followed him?

  “Could you let me go?” she said. “I need to get my papers.”

  “Crap. Yeah. Sorry.” He’d been staring at her. He let her go and started grabbing for wayward papers, straightening them into a pile. “Do you want my phone? You could call your parents—”

  “I’m not sure I really want to explain this to my parents.”

  “Look . . .” Hunter couldn’t meet her eyes. He focused on getting the last of the papers together. “I didn’t think it was you.”

  “I sure hope not.” She rubbed at the back of her head again and winced. “Holy crow, just who were you expecting?”

  “It’s not important.” Despite the fact that he could kick Jeremy’s ass blindfolded—not to mention most of his friends—being a target always left Hunter feeling less than dignified. He shrugged a little and looked at her sideways. “Seriously. You all right?”

  “I think so.”

  He picked up her bag and slid the papers inside, then yanked the zipper closed. “How far do you have to walk?”

  “I don’t know. How far do you live?” She held out a hand for her bag.

  “You want to come home with me?” God, he should tackle girls more often. He hoisted his backpack onto one shoulder and slung her bag over the other. “I can carry it.”

  “I live just on the other side of the dairy farm. But I wanted to ask you about the presentation you made in class yesterday.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Talk about slamming the brake pedal. He should have figured she wouldn’t be interested in him. But he couldn’t really figure why she’d be interested in his presentation, either. Their government final had consisted of preparing a speech on Constitutional amendments. Two kids in class had actually fallen asleep while he was talking.

  He sighed inwardly and pointed west. “I live on the other side of these woods. What did you want to know?”

  She kept pace beside him, carefully picking her way through the underbrush. “Do you really believe what you said?”

  He glanced over. There was a leaf stuck in her hair, but he didn’t have the courage to pick it free. “Which part?”

  “The part about guns being harmless?”

  “I’m not s
ure I said that.”

  “You said people shouldn’t be afraid of guns.”

  “They shouldn’t. They should be afraid of people who don’t know how to use guns.”

  “Do you?”

  He grabbed her arm and hauled her to a stop. “Careful. You’re about to step in poison oak. Do I what?”

  She stepped around the leaves. “Do you know how to use a gun?”

  “Yeah.”

  She gasped a little and stopped short. “Really?”

  He shrugged. “My dad was in the military. He still works defense jobs. I’ve known how to handle a gun practically since I could walk.” He paused. This might be the longest conversation he’d ever had with a girl, and he couldn’t tell what that gasp meant. “It used to freak my mom out, but Dad always told her that I’d be a lot safer if I knew what I was doing with a firearm.”

  She was staring at him, wide-eyed. “You don’t, like, have a gun on you now, do you?”

  God, he wished he could carry weapons to and from school. Flashing a handgun would certainly save time with those idiots. “No. Are you crazy? That’s a good way to get expelled.” Not to mention his dad would go ballistic if Hunter took one out of the house without permission.

  “But still.” Clare started walking again. “Wow.”

  He had no idea how to take that, either. And she didn’t say anything else. Their feet crunched through the leaves.

  Hunter wondered if there was any possible way he could have made this interaction more awkward.

  Here. Let me give you a concussion and then scare you.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It’s never been a big deal in my house.”

  “My parents are total pacifists,” she said, and there was something bitter in her voice. “They’re completely against guns, and war, and . . . well, you know.”

  He didn’t know. But he said, “Yeah. I get it.”

  “My older brother graduated last week, and he’d secretly enlisted in the army. He left on Saturday.” She hesitated. “Mom and Dad are having a really hard time with it.”

  Clare was, too. He could tell from her voice, could feel the uncertainty in the air around her.

  “My mom would have a really hard time with it, too,” he said. He had no idea whether that was true, but it felt like the right thing to offer.

  “Your dad would probably be proud, huh?”

  “He’d probably throw a party.” Then again, maybe not. His dad wasn’t exactly the celebratory type. But he never lost a moment to impart a lesson that would fit right in with the military. Even when he was younger, Hunter had known that each gun lesson, every moment spent in self-defense was twofold: part knowledge, part training.

  Sometimes he liked that. Even now, barely sixteen years old, there was some self-assurance in knowing he could take care of himself, that his father’s rigid adherence to discipline served some purpose. With his connection to the elements, control could be a fleeting thing, and he’d take what he could get.

  But sometimes he wanted to say screw it, to grow his hair out and get piercings all over, to let his abilities run rampant, just to break free of the mold for a minute.

  “Does it scare you?” said Clare. “Living in a house with guns?”

  Hunter smiled. “It’s not like I wake up in the middle of the night to find them staring down at me.”

  “Shut up.” She gave him a light shove. “No, I mean, are you ever worried you’ll accidentally get shot?”

  “You mean, when I catch the assault rifle raiding the refrigerator? Like maybe it’ll turn on me?”

  Her breath caught again. “You have an assault rifle in your house?”

  “Sure. It’s partial to lime Jell-O.”

  “Hunter. Seriously.”

  He liked the way she said his name, the way her tongue lingered on the T, just the tiniest bit.

  He lost the smile. “Seriously.”

  They’d stopped again, and she was staring up at him. Her eyes were a little wide, her breathing a little quick. There was a slight flush of pink across her cheeks.

  “Scared?” he said, amused.

  “Yes,” she said. That flush deepened. “A little.”

  “I’ve never caught a gun wandering the woods yet.”

  She shoved him again. “Don’t tease.”

  He started walking before he had to analyze all this touching too closely. “Sorry. I’ll be nice.”

  She fell silent again, and he bit at the inside of his lip, sure this silence meant she was done with the conversation, that she was ready to find some other way to spend her afternoon.

  “So,” she said quietly.

  Yep. This would be it. Hunter didn’t even know how to prolong the interaction. He didn’t look at her. “So.”

  “Your dad has a lot of weapons.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know about a lot . . .”

  Clare looked up at him. “Would you let me see them?”

  His dad would definitely have a problem with this.

  Thank god his dad wasn’t home yet.

  Hunter had worried his mom might be home, though she was the polar opposite of her husband: She never interfered in Hunter’s activities. It didn’t matter, anyway. A note hung from a magnet on the refrigerator, something about a trip to her store in town and a snack on the top shelf.

  He looked at Clare. He felt jittery now that she was in his house. Somehow the kitchen felt both larger and smaller with her presence. “Are you hungry?”

  “Not yet. Your mom has a store? What does she sell?”

  Hunter shrugged. “Odds and ends. You know.” His mother really worked for a New Age store in the antique district, but that usually launched a whole line of questions he didn’t feel like answering.

  Clare stepped forward and leaned close. His pulse jumped, but she was only reaching out a finger to touch a photo stuck to the refrigerator. “Is this you and your dad?”

  “And my uncle. Yeah.” The picture was from a camping trip last fall. They’d gone into the Appalachian Mountains, and it had rained almost the entire time. In the picture they were drenched and smiling.

  “You look just like your dad.”

  “Everyone says that.”

  She touched another picture. “You have a dog?”

  “My uncle does. Casper is a police dog. Uncle Jay is a cop.”

  Clare looked up at him. “You’re close.”

  He shrugged. “You know. Family.”

  “Must be nice.”

  The tone in her voice reminded him of the uncertainty when she’d talked about her brother. He wondered just how upset her parents must be—and where Clare fit in.

  Hunter reached on top of the refrigerator to grab the keys to the gun locker before he could think better of it. “Everything is in the basement. Come on.”

  The gun locker wasn’t really a locker at all; it was more of an extra bedroom with a steel door, a dead bolt, and a six-key combination lock.

  He wanted to cover his hand while he punched the numbers, but that would look stupid, and what was the difference if she knew how to get in here? She was scared of the very mention of guns; it’s not like she was going to be back later to steal something.

  Clare watched him push the buttons until the door clicked and the lock released. “What’s twelve-fourteen-twenty?”

  He stopped with his hand on the knob. “Our birthdays. My dad’s is the twelfth, mine is the fourteenth, and my uncle’s is the twentieth.”

  “Not your mom’s?”

  Hunter had never thought about it. He shrugged. “I guess he ran out of numbers.” He hesitated before pushing the door open. Now that they were down here, he was having second thoughts.

  Clare put a hand on his arm. “Are you going to get in trouble for showing me?”

  Her fingers were warm, and when he turned his head to look at her, her lips were close.

  Stop thinking about her mouth.

  He had to clear his throat. “No. I mean, I don’t think so.”

&n
bsp; Because no one was going to know about this.

  Before he could think better of it, he threw the door wide.

  “Holy crap,” she whispered.

  Hunter tried to see the room with fresh eyes, but it was tough. He’d grown up with this stuff. The hunting rifles in racks along the far wall, the Peg-Board on the right with hooks for the handguns, the military-style guns hanging on the left. Low cabinets lined the sidewalls, the counter space clear. A table sat in the middle of the room, empty, of course. His dad had way too much military training to leave anything out of place.

  Clare had sucked back a bit, and Hunter gave her a smile. “They won’t jump out and bite you.”

  “Am I being ridiculous?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never showed this room to anyone.”

  Ugh. Why did he say that?

  “Can I go inside?”

  “Sure.” He stood back, then followed her through.

  She walked to the wall of military-style weapons first. He couldn’t really blame her; those were definitely the most impressive.

  “Do you know how to use all of these?” she asked, her voice hushed.

  “I haven’t fired all of them, but most guns work on the same principle.” He took down the AR-15, which looked pretty badass but was really rather simple.

  She flinched.

  “Relax,” he said, more at ease now that they were in here. With weapons, he knew what he was doing, and it fed his confidence. He did what his dad always did, unclipping the magazine and checking to make sure it wasn’t loaded. Each click was loud, heavy steel sliding into place. When he was sure the gun was safe, he held it out to Clare.

  She shook her head quickly.

  “No bullets,” he said. “You can hold it.”

  She gingerly started to take it from him, just her fingers wrapping around the barrel. Hunter shook his head. “Don’t do it halfway. It’s heavy. Just take it.”

  He didn’t let go until her hands were wrapped solidly around the weapon. She held it at a distance from her body, like a poisonous snake.