She grabbed his hand.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the magic coursed down through her with a force that she'd never felt before, leaping between them. She touched his own magic, the light that was his life . . . took hold of it, and pulled.
He screamed and jumped back, staring at his hands, which were engulfed in blue fire. The skin of his hands shriveled, as though rotting in front of her. It crawled up his arms, moving up to his face. What staggered and fell to the floor wasn't a young man, but something wrinkled and bloodless, with bone showing through the tatters of skin of his hands. He twitched on the floor, making small whimpering sounds through what was left of his lips.
The other T-Man dropped his gun and ran.
Kayla didn't notice that for a few seconds, until the apartment door slammed shut; she was too busy throwing up. She couldn't stop shaking, her stomach heaving even though there was nothing left.
Out of control, she thought, trembling. Like Elizabet said, out of control.
Got to get up. They'll come back and kill me.
The T-Man was moving feebly on the floor, trying to crawl away from her. She could feel a little life left in him, barely enough for her to touch.
I did that. I did that to him.
And it felt . . .
She didn't want to think about how she felt, because right now she felt wonderful, as though every nerve ending in her body was singing. She'd never felt this good before, and it was a dizzying high, overwhelming her with giddiness.
It's wrong . . . I shouldn't feel like this . . . I shouldn't . . .
She turned away from the T-Man, looking to where Ramon lay on the floor. She felt tears burning her eyes. He's dead. I didn't even see it happen. I didn't even have my eyes open to see it.
She felt the magic stir within her, trying to reach out to him. She was next to him a split second later, kneeling; her hands touching the bloody wound.
He's not dead, but . . .
Her healing sense widened, brightened; blurring the rest of the room to invisibility until all she could see was the track of the bullet and how it had passed through skin and muscle to nick the major artery that was pumping out his lifeblood with every second. She felt herself falling into the healing and stopped with a sudden thought.
They're going to be back in a minute. I won't have time to do this and get away. I have to get out of here, I have to . . .
No. I won't let him die.
She let the magic sweep through her, everything else fading away. She felt the electricity surge down through her hands, knitting the pieces of muscle back together, sealing up the rip in the artery, closing the flesh around it.
The magic let her go suddenly and she fell forward. Her cheek lay against Ramon's chest and she could feel his breathing growing stronger, his heartbeat strengthening.
She came back to herself with a start, hearing voices through the open window. Fighting off the waves of exhaustion, she lifted Ramon and dragged him into the bedroom, setting him down in the closet and closing the door. She laid her hand briefly on his face, feeling the glowing light of his life becoming stronger and brighter with every passing second. <T>
He'll be okay, she thought. I don't think they'll find him in here. Now I'd better get my ass out of here. . . .
She paused in the bedroom long enough to grab her jacket and sneakers, yanking on the shoes and quickly knotting the laces. She ran back into the living room, heading for the shattered door.
"Please . . ."
Kayla stopped, looking down at the source of the whisper. The T-Man boy, sprawled on the dirty floor, staring up at her with terrified eyes. "Please, don't . . ." he whispered again, his voice failing.
"You would've killed me," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to hurt you that way, but . . . I need to get away from here, I can't . . . I can't . . ."
His dark eyes stared at her, filled with pain.
I can't leave him like this. I can't.
She knelt beside him and rested her hand on his forehead, closing her eyes. Her other vision kicked in a moment later, and she was horrified to see what she'd done to him—pulling out the energy that his body needs, the energy of the cells themselves.
She reached into herself, for the heat of magic within her, and poured it back into him. She could feel his body changing beneath her hand, grasping desperately for life, and willing itself to live. When she opened her eyes, he was unconscious, but alive.
Now I'd definitely better get my ass out of here. . . .
"There she is!"
"Oh, shit!" Kayla looked up at the three T-Men in the broken doorway and saw the leader raise a pistol to fire. . . .
She closed her eyes and called the magic.
Blinding light filled the room, light and a warmth that felt like sunlight on Kayla's face. It was too bright to see, so bright that the light imprinted itself on her closed eyes. Kayla blindly leaped for the doorway, crashing into someone who fell out of her way and half-falling, halfrolling down the stairs. On the landing, she managed to open her eyes, though the world was still filled with glowing afterimages. She scrambled down the remaining stairs and paused at the bottom, listening closely, and then reaching out with that other sight.
She could feel the light of human lives around her: two just beyond the apartment wall that she was leaning against, close to a third life that was fading to nothingness even as she touched it. There were two others outside, beyond the building walls.
She took a deep breath and leaped out the door. The two T-Men standing at the car reacted a half second too late as she dashed past them and into the alley. She heard a gunshot ricochet off the wall just behind her, and a window just ahead of her shattered, splinters of glass flying past her.
"Stop her!" she heard someone yell from behind her. She ran without looking back, her legs pounding against the uneven pavement, her heart thudding in her chest.
She didn't bother to stop for traffic at the next street, just ran across the intersection and dodged the cars, which screeched to a halt around her. She heard another squeal of tires off to one side and glanced up to see the Mercedes tear around the corner, barely missing a collision with a truck. Kayla dashed into the next alley, too crowded with boxes and trash cans for a car to pass through, then around a corner and into a wide empty parking lot, next to a desolate-looking area of warehouse buildings and parked trucks.
Keep running . . . keep running . . .
I don't know what I'll do if they catch me. I can't do whatever it was that I did to that guy, not again. If they find me, I don't know what I'll do.
She paused long enough to catch her breath, gasping as she leaned against a graffiti-covered wall. She thought for a moment that maybe she'd lost them, and then she saw the Mercedes turn into the parking lot ahead of her, moving silently like a gliding shark.
She ducked into the shadow of the closest building, but heard the roar of the Mercedes' engine accelerating and knew that they'd seen her. Kayla ran further into the shadows between the tall warehouses, plain flat walls without any place to hide, nowhere else to go.
Suddenly, ahead of her in the shadows, she saw a light glittering from a warehouse window. She ran for it, half-blinded with the sweat dripping in her eyes, her lungs aching.
Beside the lit window was a closed door. Kayla shoved at it; to her surprise, it opened, apparently unlocked.
She slipped inside and shut it quietly behind her. She looked around quickly to find a light switch, planning to hide herself in the darkness, and found herself face-to-face with a short, wrinkled old woman dressed in tattered, filthy rags, looking at her with an odd smile on her face.
"My, my," the old woman murmured, in a voice thick with a foreign accent, "what have we here?"
"Two guys, chasing me," Kayla gasped. "They're . . ."
"I know," the old woman said. Kayla could recognize the accent now as Irish, but a heavy, slow Irish accent, not like what she'd always heard on television. "But they won't dare to enter here," the old woman added.
"B-but, they're . . . they're . . ."
The old woman smiled, showing several pointed, yellow teeth. "You're not very observant, for one who bubbles with magic like Bridget's Well," the woman said. "Can't you see it? Can't you feel it?"
Kayla shook her head, wanting to explain to this nice old woman that they were in terrible danger, that they had to do something, call the cops, get the Feds, call in the U.S. Marines. . . .
There was something else here, something that Kayla realized with a start. She's not . . . there's something very different about this bag lady. That odd face . . . the heavy cords of muscle beneath the rags, this lady could be a pro weightlifter without any training . . . the teeth, too long and pointed to belong to a human . . . the long fingernails, crusted with dirt . . . no, they're claws, sharp claws. She's not human, not anymore than the elves, she's something else, something completely different. . . .
She felt more than saw the burst of magic, flowing from the old woman like dark water, racing toward Kayla . . . a shadow reaching out past her, moving through the door. She nearly fell, stepping away from it. She pressed against the wall, flinching where the dark light brushed against her, feeling a sharp pain as though she'd been cut and was bleeding . . . and sensed that it was delighting in that, enjoying her fear and pain.
There was a strangled sound from outside the closed door, and then the boneless thump of something heavy falling, and then again, a similar noise. Kayla listened, but she couldn't hear anything else, not a single sound.
"Well, that takes care of that," the old woman said, a small satisfied look on her face. She turned to Kayla, who was still crouched against the wall. "They won't trouble us," the woman said, "or interfere in any way. Now, come with me. I was about to set the table for dinner." The old woman tottered away toward a lit doorway down the hall.
Kayla glanced at the closed door, sensing that hungry darkness still lingering outside, and decided that maybe, just this once, she didn't want to look.
She didn't really want to follow the old woman anywhere, either. Just what did she do? It felt like magic, but it wasn't any magic I'd ever seen before, nothing I'd want to know . . .
I'd better be polite, at least until I figure out who—or what—she is, and what's going on here. . . .
"Coming, dearie?" the old woman asked, peering back at her.
"Uh . . . yeah," Kayla said uneasily. "I'm coming along right now."
The next room was dimly lit by several huge candles, their flickering light half-concealing the furniture draped with dark cloth and the odd object in the corner, a huge metal cauldron hanging over a pit of bright coals. The cauldron was blackened and old, and the old woman was now standing in front of it, adding seasonings from a small clay pot.
"Make yourself comfortable, dearie," the old woman said, sniffing suspiciously at the open clay pot in her hand. Something leaped out of it and skittered across the floor. The old woman yelped, dropping the pot.
Kayla gingerly sat down on the couch. "Can I help?" she asked hesitantly. As long as I don't have to eat whatever she's cooking for dinner. I'm not into cockroaches, thanks.
"Oh, possibly in a minute," the old woman said, reaching for another clay pot on the shelf above her. "For now, just make yourself comfortable."
"Uh, thanks," Kayla said. There was a low table, also draped in a dark sheet, directly in front of the couch. Several dozen pieces of paper were spread out upon it. Curious, Kayla picked up one of them.
It was covered with beautiful, twisty designs drawn in many colors: bright blues and reds and golds, all coiling together to form patterns. In the center, there was what looked like the image of a cow drawn out of a knotwork of twisty lines.
The paper was odd, too: a heavy, tanned paper with darker lines running through it. "What is this?" she asked the old woman.
The old woman sighed. "That is a drawing I made from the Book of Kells," she said, reaching for a wooden spoon with a long handle, maybe three feet long, and stirring the contents of the black cauldron furiously. "I've been drawing my own version for the last two hundred years or so."
"Two hundred years!" Kayla repeated in shock.
The woman laughed, an odd creaking sound. "I suppose I should be explaining to you who I am. An Caillach Beara, that was what they called me in the Old Country."
"An Caill . . . ?"
"Call me Beara, dearie, if you can't pronounce the Gaelic."
"Beara. Okay, I can handle that. What's the Old Country?"
"My, you're full of questions! I was born in Eire many years ago, what they now call Ireland. I came to America when foul times and famine befell the land. Not that I ever cared to eat potatoes, mind you, but if the people were starving, so was I.
"And, to make it worse, they wouldn't believe in me anymore. Once they feared me and my magic, but now no one believes in me. Nobody believes in magic anymore, not even you; and you're so strong with it, it's skittering out around your edges even when you're not using it."
"I believe in magic," Kayla said, a little uncertainly.
"Do you now? Seems to me that all you've done is try to pretend that it isn't real, ever since the magic first touched you."
"How do you know that?" Kayla asked, bewildered.
"I wasn't born yesterday, dearie. I can read it in you, read you like a book. I understand power, and humans, and what you have simmering inside you. Some of us appreciate magic, believe me. It was quite a surprise, though, to have someone as talented as yourself come wandering across my doorstep. Hmmm, I think this stock will need more salt, don't you?"
Kayla got up from the couch and walked over to her as Beara lifted the wooden spoon, dripping with broth, from the cauldron.
This smells awful! Kayla thought, as soon as she was within a couple feet. I'm not going to try any of that, no way! "Er, uh . . . I'm really not a good judge of cooking," she said quickly. "But it smells like it needs some salt, yeah."
"Why don't you stir it, while I get everything else ready?" the old woman asked, and immediately plunked the huge wooden spoon into Kayla's hand without waiting for an answer.
Oh no, this means I have to stand next to this stuff and stir it! "Ah, listen, it's nice to meet you and all that, but I really need to be getting out of here. It's getting dark outside, and I really want to get out of this neighborhood, y'know, and . . ."
"You can't leave before dinner, I won't hear of it," Beara said. She hobbled away to another table, picking up a large gleaming knife from a huge knife rack on the wall. She hummed an odd melody as she ran a honing stone over the long blade.
"Okay, sure," Kayla said, looking apprehensively at the knife. I don't think I want to tick this lady off. She has some kind of weird, dangerous magic, and she keeps really long knives around—lots of them.
Absently, Kayla stirred the soup and wrinkled her nose as another blast of foul odors wafted up at her. What's in this stuff? It smells worse than anything . . .
She looked down at the thick, grayish soup and stared.
There was a human finger floating in the soup.
"YAAAAAAHH!"
Kayla leaped backwards, the spoon flying, soup spattering everywhere.
"Is something wrong, dearie?" the old woman asked, turning to look at her with the knife raised in her hand.
Oh . . . oh, this is bad, this is really bad . . . Kayla, you've really done it to yourself this time.
"Uh, no, not at all," Kayla said nervously, glancing from Beara's face to the sharp knife in her hand. Probably the same knife that sliced the finger off of . . . whoever it is that's in the soup. Don't panic, don't panic, just get out of here. . . . "There's just something . . . about the soup . . . it's . . . it's not . . . not what I was expecting."
"Ah, of course," the old woman said, nodding. She set down the knife and picked up another wooden spoon, hobbling back to the cauldron to stir it. "That's the problem nowadays: it's hard to find good meat. How can you make good stock from something like this?" She fished the floating finger out of the soup and tossed it into a trash can several feet away. Kayla flinched as she saw the large pile of white bones in the bin.
"I thought that young man looked so tasty," the old woman continued. "After all, he was very muscular. He broke into my house without even working up a sweat. You just can't tell with these things, though. It's terribly difficult to cook a decent meal when you have to work with raw ingredients like that."
"Yeah, I can guess," Kayla said weakly, glad she didn't have anything left in her stomach that could come up. She glanced at the knife lying on the table. She could grab it, maybe threaten this lady long enough to get out of here. Then she remembered that flash of dark magic, the sound of two bodies hitting the floor in the alley.
Come on, Kayla, think fast . . . think of something, anything . . .
There was a sudden knock at the front door; the old woman looked up at the sound, startled.
"Would you like me to answer that?" Kayla asked hopefully, already imagining how quickly she could be out that door and running down the street.
"Oh, that's all right, dearie. I'll get it myself," the old woman said. "I'm just a little surprised. I wasn't expecting any other guests." She walked slowly to the door; Kayla took the opportunity to pick up the long-bladed knife from the table. She held it with one hand behind her back, hoping the old woman wouldn't see it.
"My, this is a surprise!" Beara said from the hallway. "Two guests for dinner! Come with me, come with me." She returned a moment later, followed by . . . Elizabet?
Kayla blinked. It was Elizabet Winters, looking very calm, but with a simmering anger half-hidden in her eyes. "Elizabet," Kayla gasped, so overwhelmed with relief she thought she was about to fall over. "You . . . you can't guess how good it is to see you right now!"
Elizabet walked to her, resting her hands on Kayla's shoulders. Her dark eyes searched Kayla's. "Are you all right, child?"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, but listen, there's—"
"Later, child," Elizabet said, turning that glare on Beara. "All right, old woman, I want some answers from you. To start with, why are there two dead black boys lying on your doorstep?"
"Trespassers." The old woman shrugged. "Hoodlums. Thugs. Cheap stew meat."
"Elizabet," Kayla began, her voice squeaking a little. "She's a, uh . . . she's a . . ."
"Ogress," Elizabet said firmly. "And a cannibal, from the looks of her kitchen," she said, glancing around and wrinkling her nose. "And what else are you?"
"I am An Caillach Beara, The Hag of Beara," the old woman said, straightening slightly from her bent-over position. "I came here from Ireland hundreds of years ago, like many of the Wee Folk and the Tuatha De Danaan. And who are you who comes so boldly into my parlor?"
"I'm Elizabet Winters," the black woman said quietly. "I'm a witch and a healer and guardian of this young girl. I've spent weeks chasing down any trace of magic in the city, trying to find her."
"But I've spent time and magic on her as well," the old woman said, smiling. "It was my magic that called her here, reaching out to her across the city. Who, then, has the greater right?"
"Uh, can I . . . I mean, I didn't . . ." Kayla could feel the currents of power rising between the two women, like the smell of rain before a storm. "Listen, Elizabet . . ."
"Be silent, child," Elizabet said, not unkindly. Her eyes never wavered from Beara. "So, old woman? What will it be? You may be a powerful Irish ogress, but there are two of us, and we can't be discounted that easily."
The old woman stared back at her. "For five hundred years, no one has dared threaten me."
"Get used to it, lady." Elizabet's voice was tight.
"I'm really not that much of a villainess," Beara said, looking away. "Yes, I feast upon the mortals, but only the worst of them—the thieves and muggers and punks who would prey upon a helpless old woman. The predators, the ones who laugh at me and my magic. They chased me out of Ireland, those ones, and so I came to this New World. The land of the free, the home of the brave. Even here, they hound me." She sighed. "It's just as well, I suppose . . . one still has to eat. Still, if I let you go, then I'll have to deal with the police. . . ."
"I'll make you a deal," Elizabet said quietly. "Let us leave now, unharmed, and we won't interfere with what you do."
"What?" Kayla said, and stopped as Elizabet put her hand on her shoulder, holding her back. What's she saying? This lady is a murderer, a cannibal, an ogre, God knows what else! We can't just walk out of here and let her keep doing this!
"So, old woman, what do you say?"
"We are alike in many ways, you know," the ogress said. "You've learned what it took me many years to understand: any woman with power is to be feared and hunted. At least we should not hunt each other, eh?"
"They don't burn witches these days, but they sure don't invite them to join the P.T.A., either," Elizabet said with a faint smile.
I don't understand this. She's acting friendly with this—this thing! "Elizabet—" Kayla began.
"Shush, child," Elizabet said without glancing at her. Kayla realized that Elizabet's gaze had never wavered from the ogress for a moment, not even when she was smiling.
"I would enjoy speaking with you again, Elizabet," the hag said. "You are a woman after my own heart, reminding me of my long-lost sisters."
"As long as you're not after my heart," Elizabet said. "I don't think I'd like to come over for dinner, thank you very much."
"Oh no, we'll have high tea with scones and crumpets," the hag said with a chuckle. The old woman's smile faded. "I have a small truth to confess. I knew I couldn't harm this girl from the moment I saw her. Even though I was very tempted, when she picked up one of my knives. . . ."
Kayla suddenly remembered the knife in her hand. A little self-consciously, aware of the raised-eyebrow look that Elizabet was giving her, Kayla put it back on the counter.
"But there is a danger for all of us on the horizon: a black cloud on our future, a danger to the magic in this place and all who need that magic to live," the hag said. "In six moons' time," she continued. "Whatever is going to happen, it will happen in six moons' time. You have that long to prepare this young one to help counter it." She pointed at Kayla. "Her skills will be needed. You have six months to teach her what she needs to know."
"I don't want to think about six months from now," Elizabet said wryly. "I'm just worried about getting Kayla through the next two weeks."
"Gee, thanks a lot," Kayla muttered.
"Nothing happens by accident, young healer," the hag said, gazing directly at Kayla. She looked down, not wanting to see the dangerous power that burned behind the old woman's eyes. "Not magic, not this meeting, not you wandering across my doorstep." Beara turned away, hobbling back toward the other room. "You should go now. I still need to put supper on the table, and there are more of those young thugs on their way here."
"We'll leave," Elizabet said.
"No problem," Kayla said under her breath. "I've been ready to get out of this place since the minute I walked in."
"Quietly, child," Elizabet said in a low whisper. "We'll talk more when we're safely out of here." Elizabet waited until the hag had left the hallway, then quickly pushed Kayla out the door. Kayla flinched back on the doorstep, seeing the lifeless face of a young man, his eyes dimly lit by the light from the window, his body lying on the pavement a few feet away from her. Another boy lay facedown several feet further away.
"Walk, Kayla," Elizabet murmured behind her. "Start walking. We have to get out of here."
Kayla didn't need any encouragement. Walking quickly, they left the shadowed alley, stepping out into the bright, welcoming light of the streetlights.