"Are you certain of it?" Nataniel asked.
The dark-haired young woman, dressed in a black mini-skirt and silk blouse, who looked to be maybe twenty years old but was closer to two hundred, nodded seriously. "As certain as I can be. There's a new magic in Los Angeles. I felt it two days ago, and again, yesterday afternoon. It's young, strong, and glows like the lights on the Strip."
"Are you sure it's not one of the local elves?"
"They're all dead or Dreaming, even Prince Terenil. No, this one's human. Not a Bard, but still dangerous. I say we kill it before it becomes a genuine danger to us."
"You would say that, Shari." Nataniel turned away from her, looking out of the window at the lights below, at the brightness that turned night into day on the Las Vegas Strip. Even here, in his office on the top floor of the hotel, he could feel the vibrancy of life from the street below, the heat of human emotions. He savored the taste of it; this was his realm, this high tower and all within it. But it was not enough, it would never be enough. He always wanted more, always. "No. You won't kill it, Shari. You'll track it, report what you find, and then we'll make arrangements to capture it and bring it here."
"Why?" Sharanya's fine, dark eyebrows drew together in puzzlement.
He kept the hint of irritation out of his voice. "Because it could be useful to us, Shari. Because I want it. Isn't that enough?"
"Of course, my lord." She bowed elegantly, but not before he saw the anger in her blue eyes. Have I deprived you of a choice Hunt, my dear? he wondered. Is that what you wanted, to hunt down this human mage and kill it?
"What of Perenor, the Seelie Lord? If he finds it first, you know he'll kill it."
A good question. He considered it thoughtfully. "Perenor is not of our Court, but he has been a valuable ally to us. I would dislike seeing our business relationship damaged because of this. Does he know of this new source of magic?"
Shari shrugged. "He's not blind or stupid. This one burns like a flare in the sky. He's probably hunting for it already. He might kill it before we can track it down."
Nataniel steepled his fingers together. "That would be unfortunate. So . . . we'll recruit him to our side. I have other coin to pay him with, other than a human mage's blood. Do you think he'll be able to track it that quickly?"
She shook her head. "It will take him some time. A human Bard, as you know, is obvious all of the time. This talent, however, seems to come and go. I can only follow the human when it is using magic, which makes finding it a rather difficult proposition."
"Then you'd best get started. You still have time to catch the 2:15 flight to Los Angeles . . . call me tonight with your report." He smiled slightly as he saw her face go pale; flying in a jet aircraft, while not physically dangerous to their kind, was close enough proximity to a great deal of Cold Iron to make for a very uncomfortable trip. From the look on Shari's face, Nataniel could see she knew this was her punishment, but also that she wouldn't dare to defy him on this. At least, not yet.
She bowed again and left the office. Nataniel sat back in his leather chair, propping his feet on his desk. This was an unexpected but marvelous opportunity. He'd had a notion for some time about using a human mage for an unusual experiment. A young, untrained mage would be perfect. It was not that he needed any more magical power . . . after all, he was already the most talented mage he knew, short of that drunken and Dreaming wreck of a Prince, Terenil, in Los Angeles. He suspected that he could take even Lord Perenor in a fight, though that opportunity had never presented itself. But eventually, when Perenor was no longer useful to him . . .
You could never have too much, that was Nataniel's philosophy. True, he was the Prince of this Unseelie Court, as well as a very rich owner of some of the best businesses and property in Las Vegas. Not to mention a powerful mage and skilled swordsman, with more human money and political influence than he could spend. But you could always want more. Always.
She was standing on a grassy hillside, seeing the stars above, the moonlight shining down upon her. Someone stood beside her, a guy with long dark hair and wild eyes. To her eyes, he glowed like a torch, bright with life and power. Around them swirled the creatures of night, living shadows that flickered and laughed silently. She held back a scream, feeling their hatred and their hunger. They wanted her, and the guy, in a way that chilled her blood. It took everything she had just to stand there, when she could feel them drifting closer and closer to her, reaching out to rip her apart . . .
She opened her eyes, sweating and shaking. It was too warm in the apartment, even though all she was wearing was a nightgown and sleeping under a single sheet. She remembered Roberta helping her change into the nightgown, after . . . after . . . She remembered Ramon carrying her up the stairs, and Roberta . . . Roberta sitting next to her. Vague images flitted through her mind: a damp washcloth on her sweating face, Roberta rinsing the washcloth in a bowl of water. The taste of warm soup in her mouth, as Roberta held another spoonful to Kayla's lips, urging her to eat.
And the nightmares: dreams of awful shadowy winged monsters that chased her through a deserted city, a man with cold blue eyes who walked toward her with a glittering sword—a sword?—in his hands and raised the weapon to strike . . .
Maybe I've been a little sick, she thought, looking around the room. Someone had left a carved wooden cross on the table next to the bed, and there was an old black telephone next to it.
A telephone!
Kayla sat up too quickly; everything whirled around her, too bright and too fast. She fell back, closing her eyes and hoping that she wasn't going to throw up.
After a few seconds, she tried sitting up again, this time very slowly. She picked up the phone receiver and dialed 411 for Information.
"What city, please?"
"I'd like a home phone number," she said to the operator. "Elizabet Winters . . . she lives on Laurel Canyon, it's either Hollywood or maybe Van Nuys, I don't know. . . ."
"Please hold for the number."
"Yeah, thanks." Kayla listened to the mechanical voice reciting the phone number and repeated it to herself over and over as she dialed. Come on, Elizabet, answer the phone, answer the . . .
"Hello?"
Kayla wanted to cry with relief. "Oh God, Elizabet, it's me, please, you have to help me . . ."
"Kayla!" Elizabet's voice was sharp. "Tell me where you are. The street address, if you have it."
"I don't know, I'm somewhere in Van Nuys, an apartment building, maybe a couple miles from the courthouse. Wait, they wrote the phone number on the phone—it's area code eight-one-eight, seven-six-one . . ."
A hand reached past her and pulled the plastic plug from the telephone, breaking the connection. Kayla looked up with a sick feeling in her stomach. It was one of the nameless guys in plaid shirts. He took the phone receiver from her nerveless hand and left the room with the telephone under his arm.
Kayla lay back on the bed, hot tears of frustration stinging at her eyes. She had to get out of here, somehow. Somehow . . .
* * *
She awakened again to darkness and the smell of smoke. A few feet away, she saw the glow of a burning cigarette, just bright enough to illuminate Carlos' face. He was sitting on a folding chair and watching her.
She stared back at him as he slowly bent to crush the cigarette in a metal ashtray on the floor. "Are you well, girl?" he asked.
Kayla's throat was too dry; her voice squeaked on her reply. "I'm okay."
He shook his head. "You were very sick, and no one knew why. Do you know why you were sick?"
"I—I don't know."
"Mmmm." He gazed at her. "Why did you heal Jose?" he asked suddenly.
Kayla pulled the sheet tighter over her. "He was hurt. I didn't want to see him hurting."
"But he's one of us. One of the people who are making you stay here."
Kayla shook her head. "He was in pain. I couldn't help but feel it. So I had to—had to—"
"Good." Carlos smiled. "So you have to heal someone in pain, whether or not you like them? That's good." He stood up and walked to the door. "Get well, little bruja," he said, his hand on the doorknob. "Already we need your help. Ramon was hurt last night in a fight. He's out in the living room right now."
"Ramon? But—"
Carlos smiled at her, a flash of whiteness in the darkened room, and closed the bedroom door behind him. Kayla sat quietly for a long moment, then got out of the bed. Her legs wobbled slightly, and she grabbed the night table for support.
When her legs steadied, she began searching the room for something to wear. After a few minutes, she found the bag of clothes that Ramon had bought for her, lying on the floor near the foot of the bed. She dressed quickly in a pair of jeans and the white blouse, then left the bedroom.
In the living room, she saw Carlos and Ramon sitting on the couch, talking in Spanish. Ramon looked up as she walked into the room and smiled. "Good morning, querida."
"Carlos said you were hurt," she said. "What happened?"
Ramon shrugged. "I didn't move fast enough, so one of those city boys cut my shoulder with a knife. It's nothing."
"Take off your shirt and I'll see what I can do about it," she said.
Carlos stood up and walked to the door. "I have to meet Roberta at the pharmacy," he said with an odd little smile. "I will call you later, Ramon."
Kayla helped Ramon remove his long-sleeved shirt, and winced at the sight of the long cut across his shoulder. She went to the bathroom to search for anything she could use, and returned a moment later with a plastic bottle and several washcloths in her hands.
"It's nothing, querida, only a scratch . . ."
"Hold still, this won't hurt," she said, tilting the bottle of medicinal alcohol to dampen the wadded washcloth. She put the cap back on the bottle and set it to one side, looking thoughtfully at Ramon's shoulder. Ramon watched her with a look of trepidation in his eyes, especially as she put on her best "soap opera physician" look and said, "Don't worry, I know what I'm doing."
She wiped his bared shoulder, and the long, shallow cut, with the wet washcloth. It really wasn't a bad cut, but it needed to be tended properly. . . .
"Madre de Dios!" Ramon leaped up, knocking her and the bottle of alcohol onto the floor. "That hurts!"
"Don't do that, you'll just make it worse!" Kayla protested as he grabbed his shirt off the back of the couch and rubbed his shoulder with it.
"But it hurts!"
"Okay, I'll just wash it with soap and water," she said. She walked a little unsteadily to the sink and squeezed some dishwashing soap onto a washcloth, wetting it under the faucet.
"Are you okay, querida?" Ramon asked, a concerned look in his eyes.
"Just a little dizzy." She leaned against the sink for a couple seconds, until her head cleared. "I've only been out of bed for less than ten minutes, so I'm doing okay, I guess."
"You were very sick," Ramon observed, as she walked back with the wet washcloth. "I wanted to take you to the hospital, but Carlos said that we couldn't. I'm glad you're okay now."
She carefully dabbed at the wound with the corner of the soapy towel, then wiped it dry with another cloth. "There. It's clean now. I'll see if I can do anything more for it. . . ."
She had never called the magic to her before—it had always happened on its own, never by her will. She thought about how to do that now, imagining the hot fire running over her hands, the bright blue sparks dancing.
Nothing happened.
She concentrated then, focusing on the cut on Ramon's muscular shoulder, marring his tanned skin. She could feel it, the dull ache of pain, and reached to it. . . .
Everything went white for a long moment, and she felt like she was falling, falling . . .
She blinked, looking up into Ramon's eyes. He was holding her . . . how had she ended up half-sprawled across his lap? She blinked again.
"Are you okay?" Ramon asked, concerned. "I saw the magic fire in your hands, then it faded away and you fainted."
"I feel awful," Kayla said from her awkward position in his lap.
"Maybe it's the magic? Maybe that's what happened, the magic is making you sick?"
"Let me up," Kayla said, trying to sit up and falling back onto his lap. She was acutely aware of his bare arms holding her. All she was wearing was a light cotton blouse and jeans, but it suddenly was too warm in the small living room.
"Rest for a moment, querida, until the sickness passes," he said gently.
"I'm okay, really!" She gave up trying to sit up; he wouldn't let her, so she just let herself lie back against him. "Ramon, I never—" she began awkwardly, then started again. "Listen, you saved my life, back there in the alley. I just wanted to say thank you for that."
"You're welcome," he said gravely, then grinned. "Though I have to admit, I was thinking more of how Carlos was going to kill me when I came home, if anything had happened to you. I'm glad you weren't hurt."
"Yeah, me too." She shifted slightly, so she could look at him better. He was very handsome, she decided, though not as handsome as Carlos. Then again, he wasn't a bastard like Carlos, either. There was a funny little scar on his cheek, an old cut mark. Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed him there.
Ramon jerked back as if he'd been burned. "Kayla!"
She laughed at the shocked expression on his face. "Ramon, I was just saying thank you," she said. "I mean, if I really wanted to kiss you, I'd do this . . ." She leaned forward again, kissing him on the mouth.
His arms suddenly tightened around her, pulling her closer against him. Then he pushed her away abruptly. "No, it's too soon, we can't . . . Madre de Dios, this isn't fair!" he wailed, looking upward.
Kayla caught his hand with hers, holding it against her cheek. "Why not?" she asked.
"Because . . . because . . ."
The sound of running footsteps on the stairs outside the apartment made them both look up. Carlos burst back into the room, the apartment door banging loudly against the wall.
Carlos asked something in Spanish, and Ramon looked quickly from Kayla to his brother, his eyes wild. He answered in Spanish and pulled his hand free from Kayla's. They spoke in rapid-fire Spanish for another few seconds, then Ramon turned to her and spoke quietly. "Kayla, Carlos wants to know . . . are you a virgin?"
"What?" She felt herself blushing. "What does he care?" And why does he want to know? Sudden fear tightened around her throat. My God, what's he planning to do?
"He says it's important. Are you a virgin?"
Kayla bit her lip, looking down at her bare feet, and decided that maybe truth was the best answer right now. I hope. "Well . . . yes."
Carlos said something in Spanish to Ramon, who stood up and replied angrily in the same language. For a moment, Kayla thought Ramon was about to punch Carlos. Then he sat back down again, his hands clenched into fists.
Carlos gave Kayla a stern look. "Listen to me, girl," he said in tones like ice. "I was talking with my grandmother. She said that in the legends, sex and magic are very closely linked. If you really are a virgin, we're going to make sure that you stay that way. I will make sure there are always two people with you, to protect you and your . . ."
Carlos looked away briefly, and Kayla thought she saw him flush slightly with embarrassment. "Jose is married, he would be good for this," Carlos continued, picking up the telephone receiver. He dialed the phone and spoke into it in Spanish. Every few seconds, his eyes flickered to Ramon, who was now seated stiffly on the couch, as far away from Kayla as he could be.
Damn, Kayla thought. Damn, damn, damn . . .
That evening, Kayla sat at the edge of a circle of chattering women in the living room of Roberta's apartment, feeling about as miserable as she could. No one seemed to speak anything but Spanish, and while she was learning to pick out a few words here and there, she didn't understand most of what was being said. She knew they were talking about one of the women's little baby, though, just by the way everyone kept pointing and gesturing at the kid. The baby was cute, a little round-faced kid with tufts of black hair who made all these funny cooing and giggling noises. She would've enjoyed playing with the kid, but the women had given her cold looks when she tried to get closer to the baby.
Ramon had left the apartment, a few minutes after that awful scene with Carlos. Carlos had waited until Jose and another equally silent young man had shown up, then left as well. Jose and the other guy had sat around reading the newspaper and talking between themselves in Spanish, while Kayla sat in the bedroom, slowly going stir-crazy. Then Roberta and all of these women had shown up, filling the apartment with loud conversation and the smell of spicy hot chocolate. At least that had been good . . . thinking about it, Kayla went to the kitchen to refill her mug with the rich chocolate drink. And Jose had left after a few minutes, probably figuring that Kayla would be safe, surrounded by all of those older women and one sullen-faced young man sitting near the front door.
In the kitchen, Roberta and another girl were talking in Spanish. Kayla slipped past them to ladle more chocolate into her mug. As she left the kitchen, she saw Roberta say something to the other girl, who laughed.
The hell with you, Kayla thought. She sat down in her chair and leaned against the window, looking out. She could see the mountains in the distance, dusted with a light cap of snow. In the street below, some kids were playing with a football, tossing it back and forth.
"Kayla?"
She looked up as Roberta sat down next to her. "What do you want?" she asked.
"I wanted to give these back to you." Her hand closed over Kayla's, dropping something into her palm. Kayla looked down to see her silver earrings lying in her hand. "I'm sorry I was so angry. I thought you were Carlos' new girl, and I was very jealous. He explained everything to me, and I wanted to say something to you, but then you were so sick . . ."
"Th-thanks." Kayla's fingers reached up to unfasten the safety pins in her ears and replaced them with the silver rings. "Thanks a lot."
"Why are you sitting here by yourself<W1%30><|><D%0>?" Roberta asked. "Don't you want to talk with anyone?"
Kayla shrugged. "I can't speak Spanish."
A quick smile brightened Roberta's face, and for the first time, Kayla understood why Carlos might find this girl attractive. "And they don't speak any English. Well, there's someone here that doesn't speak any language yet at all. . . ." She gestured for one of the women to give her the baby, which she placed in Kayla's arms. "Do you like babies? I saw you looking at her earlier. Her name is Juanita, and she's two months old."
Kayla gingerly held the baby in her arms. Juanita giggled and drooled on Kayla's shirt. "She's really cute," Kayla said, looking into the baby's large brown eyes. Those eyes looked back at her very solemnly, then her mouth curved into a big, toothless grin.
"She likes you," Roberta said, smiling.
A shrill voice shouted in angry Spanish from across the room. Kayla looked up as the baby's mother hurried towards her. Roberta intercepted her, talking quickly in Spanish, with occasional glances and gestures at Kayla and the baby.
"What is she saying?" Kayla asked.
"She doesn't know who you are, so she doesn't want you holding the baby. I'm telling her that you're a bruja, and that you healed Jose's gunshot wound. She doesn't believe me."
More of the women joined into the argument, voices clamoring loudly in Spanish. Kayla shrank back in her chair, holding the baby close against her, as the argument became more and more heated. Roberta was able to yell louder than any of them, Kayla noticed.
As the argument continued, Kayla decided to play with the baby and pretend to ignore it all. Juanita had a good grip, she discovered, as the baby clutched at her fingers. Though she was best at drooling . . . probably because she doesn't have any teeth yet, Kayla thought.
"I'll take the baby now," Roberta said, and Kayla realized that all the arguing had stopped, and that everyone was looking at her now, some with curiosity, others with distrust.
"Okay," she said, lifting the baby into Roberta's arms. "She's a great kid."
"She's my cousin," Roberta said fondly, rubbing her finger against the baby's cheek. "You need to do some magic now," she added.
"What?"
"I said that you'd show them some magic, show them how you healed Jose, so they'd see that I wasn't lying. You have to do magic now."
"Roberta, I don't know if I can—"
"Just try, okay?"
It was getting easier, she realized, as she called the fire to her hands. There was no dizziness or headaches, only the sheer joy of it, feeling the tendrils of power weave around her fingertips. The blue light was very bright in the small living room. She let it die away a couple of seconds later.
There was a stunned silence in the room, then all of the women began talking at once. One of them, a quiet girl with long dark hair, hesitantly touched Kayla's hands, as if expecting them to burn her. Another woman placed her hand on Kayla's chin and tilted her face upward, studying her eyes . . . for something? Kayla didn't know. Juanita's mother took her baby from Roberta and gave her back to Kayla to hold. Then she gestured for Kayla to sit next to her, in the circle of folding chairs. Kayla smiled and joined her there, listening to the musical flow of Spanish around her as Juanita did her best to eat Kayla's shirt.
One of the women addressed her directly in Spanish; Kayla smiled and shook her head. The woman called to Roberta, who sat down next to them. "She wants to know if you can help her husband, the way you helped Jose," Roberta translated for Kayla.
"What's wrong with her husband?" Kayla asked.
"Cancer. He came home from the hospital three days ago, after another surgery. They don't think he's going to live much longer."
"I don't know," Kayla said. "I mean, this is as new to me as all of you guys. A few days ago, I couldn't do any of this at all. Maybe I can do it, maybe I can't. I still have to learn how to do this. I just don't know."
Roberta spoke with the woman in Spanish, then in English to Kayla. "She says that any help would be good. She says that you're still young, maybe you can learn quickly."
"Maybe." The naked hope in the woman's face frightened Kayla, hurting her as much as someone's physical pain. She looked down at the baby in her arms, not knowing what to say.
The telephone rang, a shrill sound from the kitchen. Roberta rose to answer it. A few seconds later, Roberta spoke quickly in Spanish to the young man at the door, who nodded and ran out of the apartment a moment later. Roberta spoke to Kayla in English. "Quickly, put your shoes on, we must go."
"What's going on?"
"Some of the boys have been hurt. Hurry, hurry!"
Kayla gave Juanita back to her mother and ran to the bedroom, pulling on her tennis shoes and grabbing her leather jacket. Roberta ran with her down to the street, where the young homeboy was already waiting with the car, engine running. "Come on, come on!" he urged them as they piled into the car.
"Who was hurt?" Kayla asked Roberta.
"I don't know!" Roberta's hands twisted in her lap. "Carlos didn't say who, just that some of them had been hurt. I don't know, I don't know. . . ."