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.
