Elizabet turned on the Volkswagen's radio, listening to the light jazz that was playing on KWAV. The traffic wasn't bad at all, as she headed down Laurel Canyon into Hollywood. At 9 A.M. on a weekday morning, it would've been another story, with cars backed up all the way to Van Nuys. But now, it was quiet enough that Elizabet could let her mind drift as she drove down the narrow, winding road.
Kayla. She was still uncertain about the girl, very uncertain whether she'd still be at the house when Elizabet returned after work. It wouldn't surprise her to find that the child had left and taken all the valuables she could carry. She hoped the girl had better sense than that; Kayla was a danger to herself and everyone around her right now, with that bright pool of magic simmering inside her. Serious magic, more than Elizabet had ever seen in one person before, and of course the child had no idea how to use or control it. . . .
Thinking about Kayla's magic, it was several seconds before she noticed the sensation of power in the hills behind her, a magical flare that was suddenly too bright to ignore.
"KAYLA!"
The girl was doing something with her magic, Elizabet couldn't quite tell what. In half a second, she made a snap decision and yanked the steering wheel hard, the Volkswagen skidding in a sharp 180-degree spin. Car horns blared, and she thought she could hear someone shouting at her, as she floored the accelerator and drove at top speed back toward her house.
She could feel the rising levels of power and a sense of desperation. Something's wrong . . . something's very wrong. . . . Elizabet hit the brakes as she came up behind a large truck, moving slowly up the road. She wanted to scream in frustration, but instead watched carefully for a break in the traffic on the other side of the road and made a quick illegal crossover of the double yellow line to get ahead of the truck. But that had wasted valuable seconds, and already she could feel the magical power fading, dying away. . . .
They shoved her into the back seat of one of their cars. She lay on the seat, trying to catch her breath and pull free from the dizziness that made it impossible for her to think straight, let alone run or fight. To make things worse, her head was pounding again, the same awful headache.
When she could sit up, they were already driving over the top of the crest of Laurel Canyon. In the last moments of fading sunlight, the lights of the San Fernando Valley were flickering into life, like a million bright jewels scattered over the valley and surrounding hills. She leaned her head against the window, wincing every time the car bounced over one of the many potholes in the road.
"Are you all right?" a soft Chicano-accented voice asked, startling her enough that she opened her eyes. "Are you still in pain?"
It was the young man now driving the car. In her dizziness and pain, she hadn't noticed who was in the vehicle with her. She shook her head, not wanting to answer. The young man spoke again, saying something in Spanish to the man in the front seat next to him. They talked for a few minutes in that musical language, then it was silent in the car again.
They drove down from the last hill, into the flat urban maze of the San Fernando Valley. Kayla thought about leaping out of the car and making a run for it as the Chevy paused at a stop light, then thought better of it. I don't think I can walk real well right now, let alone outrun these guys. I'll have to wait, find a better opportunity to run like hell. . . .
God, why are they doing this? Kidnaping me. I can't believe this nightmare is really happening to me, I can't believe it. . . .
The young man parked the car in front of an old apartment building, on a quiet street with young children playing among the dead cars and garbage cans. The other man had to pull her from the car; her legs didn't seem to be working right yet, and she would've fallen but for his hands holding her up. Leaning on his arm, she managed to stay on her feet. The two men walked her into the apartment building and up three flights of stairs.
Kayla was certain she was going to die by the time they reached the top of the stairs; her insides felt like they were on fire, every movement ripping pain through her. The young man unlocked the door of an apartment and helped her walk through.
Inside, the living room was sparsely furnished with an old sofa and kitchen table, rock star posters on the walls, a television on a low table across the room. Someone had left a radio on, playing Spanish pop songs.
Down a short hallway was a bedroom. The men let her fall onto the large bed in the corner of the room. She just lay there for a few minutes amid the rumpled sheets and blankets, remembering what it felt like to breathe without pain. Several minutes later, she felt like she could sit up again without dying. She still felt awful, but at least it wasn't as bad as it had been.
The young man was standing at the doorway, watching her. Why did they bring me here, what do they want with me? She stared at her feet, not speaking, then glanced up at him.
He was still standing there, just looking at her. He wasn't as handsome as the older guy, who was breathtaking in a Hollywood star kind of way, like a twenty-year-old Richard Gere with wavy black hair. And a real bastard, too. This younger guy's black hair was very curly, looking like he'd never really succeeded in combing it down. His dark eyes were thoughtful when he spoke. "Rest now, querida. Carlos and the others will be here soon."
He started for the door, then stopped. Walking across the room, he unplugged the telephone on the wooden dresser and took it with him, closing the door behind him. Kayla lay back on the bed, thinking: I don't want to rest. I want to get the hell out of here. . . . Her eyes closed, and she drifted off to sleep to the sound of the Spanish music playing from the other room.
The Volkswagen's brakes squealed as Elizabet pulled up in the driveway. She was out of the car a split-second later, heading for the front door.
The door was slightly ajar, and Elizabet saw the ripped wood where someone had forced the lock and felt a chill run through her. Very quietly, she slowly pushed the door open.
She listened, hearing nothing but the faint sound of traffic from down the hill, and stepped into the room. The first thing she saw was the broken glass sculpture on the floor. She skirted it carefully, looking around the living room.
There was no sign of Kayla.
She walked to the open guest bedroom door and saw the pile of pillows and blankets, and the abandoned book. She turned back to the living room and saw the blood on the floor near the window.
Fighting the impulse to panic, Elizabet knelt beside the pool of wet blood. Someone had been badly hurt here, or possibly died; she tried to hold back the terror, forcing herself to concentrate. She held her hands out over the blood staining the wooden floor and closed her eyes.
Another person's emotions flickered through her mind, flashes of pain and terror. Kayla, lying here on the floor, her life bleeding away. Then the bright fire of magic and more terror. Images of faces, a darkly handsome man in his twenties, and being lifted, carried away somewhere.
She's survived it, Elizabet thought with a wave of relief. Whatever they did to her, she survived it. And then they—whoever "they" are—they took her away.
She straightened and crossed to the phone, dialing with shaking hands. "Detective Cable, please." She waited for an endless several seconds, until she heard the police officer's voice answer on the other end of the connection. "Nichelle, this is Elizabet. Someone's kidnaped Kayla. I don't know exactly what's happened but she's gone. . . ."
She was standing in a park with Elizabet, in a meadow bright with early morning sunlight and colorfully costumed people. All of the people were strange, wearing glistening metal armor and odd clothing. And there was something else about them, something she knew but couldn't quite remember, about who they were and what they were doing here. It was something important, she knew that, she just couldn't remember exactly what it was. . . .
A group of musicians were standing together on the damp grass, playing strange melodies. It was a kind of music she'd never heard before, wild and haunting.
Elizabet was with her, which meant that everything was all right, she was supposed to be here.
:Of course we're supposed to be here,: Elizabet said silently. :It's what the An Caillach Beara told us, that we needed to be here. That we needed to meet these people at the Whoopie Donuts shop at precisely 7:15 A.M. That if we weren't here, something awful was going to happen to all of Los Angeles. That it might happen anyhow, but if we were here, there was a better chance that it wouldn't.:
:Why can't people read the future as something more concrete than a lot of "What ifs?": Kayla asked. :I mean, you'd think that the ogress would be able to read the future like the Sunday L.A. Times sports page, wouldn't you? I hate all that mystical bullshit.:
"Shhh, child," Elizabet said aloud. "They're starting now."
Something really strange was happening, that was for sure. She could feel it, the gathering of power like a rising wind, a hurricane building from a deceptive calm—and the long-haired guy with the flute, he was the center of all of it, silently calling the forces of nature to this spot. She could see it reaching from him, touching all the magic around them and drawing it in, creating something from nothingness, a focus point of simmering magic. . . .
"Carlos, I don't want her here!"
The loud female voice broke through Kayla's dream, startling her awake. She opened her eyes sleepily to see two people standing in the doorway. One was a young woman with long dark hair and full red lips accented by bright lipstick. Those lips pouted as she looked at Kayla. The other was the handsome guy, Carlos. The guy who tried to kill me, she remembered.
The young man spoke in a placating tone, but Kayla could hear the steel underneath it. "Roberta, querida, she has to stay somewhere. It's only for a few days, until we find a permanent place for her."
"But there's no room for her! You have to take her somewhere else. . . ."
They were ignoring her. They were standing right in front of her, arguing, and it was like she wasn't there at all. Kayla's initial terror gave way to anger. "Look, I don't know who you are, but—" she began.
Both the man and the woman continued to ignore her completely. "Roberta," Carlos said, "No more arguing about this, please. She stays here for tonight, and that's final. I'll try to find another place for her tomorrow." The man glanced at Kayla for the first time. "If you're hungry, Luisa is cooking dinner for everyone."
The two walked away, the woman still trying to argue. Kayla looked out the window, wondering whether she ought to jump. Better to wait until I can get out of here without risking breaking my neck, she thought, and realized with a start that she was hungry. And her head wasn't hurting anymore, though her gut still ached—a faint reminder of the knife wound. What she did feel was exhausted, with every muscle in her body aching like someone had pounded on her for several hours with a brick. And hungry. Very hungry. The smell of hot food wafted through the open door, enough to make her want to ignore her fear of these people, and whatever it was that they were going to do with her, enough to brave the world outside the bedroom.
She stood up a little unsteadily, then walked out to the living room, now overflowing with men and women and loud rock music. Most of them were helping themselves to the plates of food laid out on the counter, while a couple of the younger kids sat playing video games in front of the television. She felt like a stranger at a wedding, surrounded by people she didn't know, in a place she didn't want to be. Most of them seemed to be ignoring her, too—maybe she could just go to the door and walk right out of this place? She glanced at the door, where a big man in a plaid shirt and green bandanna, dressed like so many of the other guys, was standing guard. He met her gaze squarely. No, she wasn't going to be able to walk past that guy, at least, not very easily. . . .
But I'm tough, I can handle this. These guys won't see me cry, that's for sure. I've been in bad situations before, like a couple of those awful foster homes. And I survived on the street just fine; no bastards made me cry then. So now these crazy people have kidnaped me, I don't know why. But I'll survive it. I'll get out of this, they'll see.
"Are you hungry?" a voice asked from beside her.
She turned to see the young man, the driver who had brought her to this awful place. She looked down at her sneakers and nodded.
"I'll get you some dinner." He elbowed his way past a couple of the others and quickly filled a plate with a large burrito and several tamales. Some of the people were looking at her strangely; the young man said something fast in Spanish. Kayla caught the word "brooha" mixed in with other words too fast and foreign to understand.
"Here." He handed the plate to her. "Do you want a soda? Maybe a beer?" He tilted his head to look at her, and a grin flashed across his face, like a burst of sunlight from behind a cloud. "You can talk, can't you?"
"I can talk," she said, not looking up at him.
"How old are you, querida?"
"Fifteen," she said, surprised by the question.
"I'm seventeen," he said. "I didn't think Carlos' bruja would be so young."
"What—what's a brooha?" she asked.
He smiled. "A witch, a magician. Someone who can do what you did tonight." He shook his head, as though he still couldn't believe what he'd seen. "I never dreamed that could be possible, until I saw the magic in your hands. Carlos was right, we need you here." He gestured at her with the glass in his hand. "So, what do you want to drink?"
"Soda's fine, thanks," Kayla whispered, glancing at the door. Everyone seemed to be ignoring her except this kid and the guy at the door; maybe she could take a seat by the door and just slip out when the door guard was getting his dinner or something. It would take her a while to steal some money for bus fare, but eventually she'd be back at Elizabet's. . . .
"Who's this, Ramon, your new girlfriend?" a short boy with greased black hair asked.
To Kayla's surprise, the young man blushed. "No, Carlos found her—she's the bruja he was talking about. Her name is . . ." He stopped and looked at her, smiling a little. "I'm afraid I don't know your name, querida."
"Kayla," she said. "Kayla Smith."
"Ah. A pretty name, Kayla. I'm Ramon Hernandez. That's Carlos over there, my brother. Roberta's his girlfriend, she and her sister Luisa live here, and two of their cousins . . ." He continued on a mind-numbing list of names, rattling off information about everyone in the apartment. She bit into one of the tamales and pretended to listen, keeping an eye on the front door. Maybe later she'd have a chance. . . .
The tamale was hot, spicy, and very oily. Kayla took one bite and decided she wasn't that hungry after all and set the plate down on the closest table. The young man watched her with an odd expression in his eyes. He seemed about to say something, then turned away to talk in rapid-fire Spanish with one of the other men.
"Roberta, please, I don't want to argue this anymore. . . ."
Don't those two ever stop? Kayla wondered, as Carlos and Roberta's argument increased in volume to the point where she could hear it over the other conversation in the room. The two of them were walking toward her. Kayla looked around quickly for a place to hide.
"Just let her stay here a few days, and I promise I'll do anything you want, buy you some new clothes, jewelry, whatever." They stopped in front of Kayla, who felt all the eyes in the room moving to her.
Roberta gave Kayla a long, hate-filled look, then suddenly smiled. Kayla decided instantly that she didn't like that smile at all.
"I want her earrings," Roberta said.
Kayla stared at her in shock. She had to be kidding—the earrings were hers, Elizabet had bought them for her just a few hours ago. It wasn't like they were expensive, or even unusual. And they were hers. "'Berta, you have lots of jewelry; I buy you more all the time. . . ." Carlos said.
"I want her earrings, Carlos," the woman insisted.
Carlos glanced at Kayla. "Take off your earrings, girl," he said.
Anger overrode the terror that had haunted her since these people had forced their way into Elizabet's house, stabbed her, and then carried her off like a piece of meat. "Like hell, you bastard!"
The man's hand clamped down painfully on her arm. "Take off the earrings. Now."
Kayla started to protest and then saw the look in his eyes. It reminded her of the look he'd had at Elizabet's house, the same tiny smile that had been on his face . . . just before he tried to kill her. It was a smile that said that he was enjoying this, and whatever was going to happen next.
Her hands shaking, Kayla removed the silver earrings. She held them in her hand for a moment, then tossed them onto the floor. They rattled on the worn linoleum. "Here, take 'em, they're yours," she said tightly.
Carlos' eyes narrowed even more dangerously. "Pick them up and give them to Roberta."
"The little bitch can pick them up herself—"
"Pick them up and give them to Roberta," he said in a voice like ice.
Kayla knelt and picked up the silver loops, handing them to Roberta. With all the dignity she could muster, she walked down the hall to the bedroom.
She sprawled facedown on the bed, trying not to cry. She couldn't stop the first few tears and angrily wiped them away. I don't know what's going on here, I don't know what they're going to do with me, but I'll be damned before I let them see me cry!
"Kayla?"
She rolled over to see Ramon at the doorway. "What do you want? I don't have any more jewelry to give away, sorry . . . how 'bout my sneakers? They're new too, Elizabet just bought them for me. . . ." She saw that he was holding the plate that she'd left on the living room table. "Go away, I'm not hungry."
He sat down at the end of the bed, setting the plate down next to her; Kayla edged back, closer to the wall. "I know it's difficult for you," he said awkwardly. "I know you don't want to be here. But you'll see, it'll get better. You'll be happy here, one of the homegirls. You have to understand, it's hard for Carlos and the rest of us, too. We're not used to anything like this, bringing someone like you here to our barrio. . . ."
"You mean, you don't go around kidnaping people all the time?"
He smiled. "No, not usually. Though there is a great family tradition of kidnaping our brides . . . of course Carlos is so handsome, he'd never have to do that. The women just fall at his feet, all the time." He looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap, then back up at her with those dark eyes. "We need you, querida. We need you to help us with your magic. Carlos should have told you why we need you, then you'd understand. It's a matter of life and death for us: if we lose, they'll kill us all. That's why we brought you here."
"Carlos should have told me this, instead of trying to kill me! He stabbed me, remember? I could've died!" Kayla's gut twisted, remembering. It still ached where the knife wound had been, a dull counterpoint to the exhaustion and secret terrors.
She saw the troubled look in his eyes before he hid it behind a smile. "But you healed yourself, didn't you? Carlos just wanted to prove that you could do it. You're fine now, it didn't do any real harm to you . . ."
"What if he'd been wrong? What if he'd picked the wrong house, stabbed the wrong kid?"
"But that didn't happen." Ramon shook his head. "It all worked out fine."
"Listen, please, I just want to go home, all I want to do is go home . . . can't you let me go?" She felt the tears threatening again, and bit her lip to hold them back. I just want to be gone, be out of here, go back to Elizabet's. . . .
"What, you don't want to be here with all of these handsome homeboys? Like me, Ramon, the handsomest of them all?" He brushed back his hair with one hand, giving her his most appealing look. In spite of herself, Kayla smiled.
"It'll be all right, querida," Ramon said reassuringly. "You'll see, everything will be all right." He picked up the plate of food and held it out to her. Reluctantly, she took it from him. "Eat some dinner, you'll feel better," he said. "Maybe tomorrow Carlos will let me take you out into mi barrio, show you our home. And I'll explain why we need you here."
He left the room, and Kayla lay staring at the ceiling for a long time. Her thoughts were moving too fast, racing through her mind, all the words blurring together.
They were going to keep her here, maybe forever. That thought hurt more than everything else. They'd keep her a prisoner here for the rest of her life, if they thought they could get away with it.
She crossed to the door and listened. It was silent in the hallway beyond. Maybe everyone had left the apartment, and she could just sneak out, get to a telephone and call Elizabet. . . .
Quietly, she opened the door. A man she didn't recognize was seated on a folding chair by the bedroom door. He watched her silently as she walked to the bathroom. Inside, she checked the window. It was the same situation as the bedroom, no way to climb down and too far to jump. She splashed some cold water on her face and walked past him again into the bedroom.
With the door carefully closed against the watchful eyes of the man in the hallway, she lay down on the bed and wondered how in the hell she was going to get herself out of this situation.
I want to go back to Elizabet's, she thought. I want to go home, I want to go home . . .
:Kayla, can you hear me? Kayla, child, where are you?:
She sat upright in bed. "Elizabet?"
:Where are you? Tell me where you are . . . :
The words tumbled from her, she didn't care if anyone outside the bedroom could hear. "Elizabet, they've locked me up in an apartment, I'm somewhere in the Valley, please, you have to get me out of here!"
:Kayla, where are you? Can you hear me?:
"Yes, I can! Please, Elizabet, they're going to keep me here forever, you have to help me! I can't get out, they won't let me leave, I'm locked in here—"
:Kayla, can you hear me? Kayla . . . :
Elizabet's voice was fainter now, moving further away.
"No! Elizabet, I'm here, please, help me! Don't go, don't leave me here! Elizabet!"
:Kayla, where are you—:
Elizabet's voice faded to silence, too distant to hear. Kayla curled up on the bed, one fist pressed against her mouth to keep her from sobbing out loud. "Elizabet, please, don't leave me here, please . . ."
The bedroom door opened, her impassive guard looking at her silently before closing the door again. She thought about trying to get past him and escape, maybe hit him with something and make a break for the door.
The first step, she thought, is to get organized. Make a plan. She angrily brushed the tears out of her eyes and began exploring the bedroom, opening every drawer in the dresser to look for anything useful. The top drawer was filled with pretty lingerie, all lace and silk. Beneath that were two drawers with jeans and folded blouses. Nothing useful.
The fourth drawer wasn't much better. It mostly held women's shoes: one pair of fancy heels and a couple pairs of cheap woven leather shoes. The jackpot was inside one of the shoe boxes: no shoes, just a small mirror, several razor blades, and a small bag of white powder. Kayla carefully picked up one of the razor blades, replacing everything else exactly the way it had been.
It's not much, but now I have a weapon, she thought, hiding it under the mattress of the bed. She checked the closet next, riffling through the dresses on plastic hangers and several cardboard boxes. She was hoping to find some extra bedsheets, envisioning herself tying sheets together to climb down from the window like a movie heroine. But the boxes only had some towels and notebooks written in Spanish inside. The sheets that were already on the bed wouldn't get her very far, though maybe if she ripped them into strips and braided a rope out of that . . .
Tomorrow. I'll do it tomorrow. She was tired, even after taking the nap earlier. Too tired to deal with anything right now. All of this craziness, and getting hurt, it felt like it had taken something major out of her. Kayla took the plainest nightgown she could find out of the dresser and changed out of her clothes.
In the bed, she tried to imagine a handsome hero arriving to rescue her—some handsome, blond guy with a flashy smile and lots of dimples. Wasn't that what all fairy-tale heroes were supposed to look like? And a white horse, he needed a white horse. He'd show up below her tower window—in this case, a third story apartment window—and climb up to rescue her. That's the way the stories always worked.
This time, I think I'll have to rescue myself.
I'll do it, she thought, drifting off to sleep again. I'm tougher and smarter than they are. I'll figure a way out of this. They won't keep me here forever, no way. . . .