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  No crowd had gathered in the convenience store parking lot yet. Thank God for small favors, Officer Dale Walker thought, drawing his service revolver and gesturing to his partner. She nodded, her pistol already out and ready, and edged closer to the door. He moved in quickly, gun held at waist height, covering the entrance to the QuickStart. Anne followed him in a moment later. He stepped over the bodies lying near the doorway, pushed the rifle away from the unconscious man in the long coat, then carefully bent to pick it up by the strap. Anne slipped past him, the petite red-haired woman checking through the rest of the store to make sure there was no one else in the building. He glanced behind the long counter: one motionless body, not a threat. She rejoined him at the entrance. “All clear, Dale,” she reported, and hearing that there were no immediate dangers, he took a genuine look at the bodies for the first time.

  “Damn.” The woman was obviously dead. The young man behind the counter must have died almost instantly—a bullet had caught him in the throat. He had a surprised look frozen on his face, a look he’d carry with him to the city morgue.

  A few feet away, Anne Houston knelt next to the man in the leather coat, touching his throat for a pulse. Two kids were sprawled on the floor beside him. Walker swallowed painfully; the kids couldn’t have been older than fifteen, maybe sixteen. Too young to be caught up in whatever had happened here tonight.

  He crouched down next to the kids, checking them quickly. Both were covered with blood, and the boy … there was a wound in the boy’s leg and a bullet hole in the boy’s jacket, and a lot of blood stains, but no apparent wound there. That doesn’t make any sense, he thought. Maybe the kid moved after the first shot, fell into his own blood from the other wound, but it’s unlikely… .

  He pushed that thought aside, concentrating on his work. The leg wound was bad but not life-threatening, and could wait until EMS arrived on the scene in a couple minutes. He turned to the girl, hearing the sirens as the ambulance pulled up in the parking lot outside.

  As he leaned over her, the girl opened her eyes, blinking up at him. “You’ll be all right,” he said, smiling reassuringly. She looked up at him, dazed and uncomprehending.

  “Dale,” Anne Houston said, her voice sounding shaken, “This is too weird for words … the guy’s covered with blood and there’s a hole in his jacket, but there’s no bullet hole in him!”

  * * *

  “Just shock,” someone said directly above her. “I didn’t find a head injury … she probably fainted during the attack.”

  Everything hurt. That was her first thought when she opened her eyes: her entire body felt like one big bruise, like she’d gone through the tumble-dry cycle on a clothes dryer. Someone was looking down at her, a tall man with graying brown hair, wearing the dark blue uniform of the LAPD.

  “Thanks, Randall,” he said to someone out of her sight. He smiled at her, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners, then looked up sharply as a woman shouted, “Dale, grab him!”

  Kayla blinked and sat up, then wished she hadn’t. Everything spun around her, and she felt like she was falling. Someone fell on top of her, and she screamed. It was the man in the leather coat, his face only inches from hers. “Got him, Anne,” the police officer said, and hauled the man in the leather coat up against the magazine rack, twisting his arms behind him and slapping on a pair of handcuffs.

  “Do you know this guy, kid?” the female officer asked.

  Kayla found her voice. “I’ve never … never seen him before. But he … he killed those people. He would’ve killed all of us.”

  The gunman grinned at her, licking his lips. Whatever had been human in his eyes, for that brief moment when he’d pleaded with her to save his life, was gone again.

  She tried to sit up, and everything went blurry again. When her head cleared, she saw two paramedics carefully moving Billy out of the store on a stretcher. The blonde woman’s body was still lying by the counter, but someone had placed a blanket over her face. The policewoman was reading Miranda rights to the gunman, two other police officers holding the man by his handcuffed arms. The brown-haired policeman was next to her, watching her intently. “Do you feel up to a trip to the station, kid?”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  “Good.” He helped her stand up. Her knees were so wobbly, she had to hold onto his arm for support. “You’re a tough kid,” the cop continued. “You survive this, you’ll survive anything.”

  Will I? she thought.

  “She’s magic!” the gunman shrieked suddenly, trying to wrest free from the policemen. He struggled briefly, staring at Kayla with insane eyes. Beneath the leather coat, his shirt was still wet with blood. “She healed me, she has the Devil’s power! I saw it, she has the Devil in her!”

  “Jesus, get him out of here,” the policewoman said in an exasperated tone. The other officers complied, wrestling the man through the door.

  “I’ll take you to the station now,” the brown-haired officer said. “Easy now, I know your legs aren’t working too great just yet. We’ll walk slowly, it’s okay… .”

  Easy for you to say, she thought resentfully. You didn’t just see these people get blown away in front of you, including your best friend almost dying, and then have that—whatever it was—blue light thing happen to you.

  They moved out through the doorway, and Kayla stopped short, momentarily blinded by bright lights.

  There were several camera crews aiming cameras at her, and a huge crowd of people gathered on the sidewalk, held back by several police officers.

  Kayla wondered if she ought to faint or throw up. Either seemed likely right now… .

  “Just a little more,” the policeman said in a gentle voice. His grip tightened on her arm, as though he realized that she was about to fall. Half-supporting her, they walked to a police car parked on the edge of the lot. The policeman helped her into the back seat; Kayla fumbled with the seat belt strap for a few seconds before the officer reached over to fasten it for her.

  There was someone already seated in the car next to her, a beautiful Chicano girl with feathers knotted into her hair. The girl gave Kayla a curious look. “Why are they not taking you to the hospital?” she asked. “I saw you lying there, I thought you were dead.”

  “Please, witnesses can’t talk,” the policeman said from the driver’s seat. “Neither of you can talk about what happened yet, okay?”

  Okay by me, Kayla thought. I don’t want to talk about it, anyhow. I don’t even want to think about it.

  The officer drove in silence through the brightly lit streets. Kayla leaned her face against the cold glass and tried not to think.

  Billy was alive. She knew that much, from the moment that her entire world had faded back from bright blue lights and hot electricity into normal reality again. She’d saved his life, somehow, and the life of the guy in the leather coat.

  I should have let that slimeball die, she thought, then shook her head. Even now, she knew she couldn’t have done that. It didn’t matter that the man was a murderer … even if he was slime, she couldn’t just sit back and watch him die, not when she knew she could do something to help him.

  Because she could. It didn’t make any sense—none of this made any sense, really—but she could do it, whatever it was that she’d done. She could help people. A people-helper, that’s what she was. The thought made her feel a little better, despite the awful headache and dizziness and pain.

  Except … except that wasn’t what the crazy man had called her. His words echoed in her mind: “She’s magic. She has the Devil in her.”

  Oh God, Kayla thought. I sure as hell hope not.

  Chapter Two

  Kayla sat on the wooden chair, feeling the sweat drip down the inside of her shirt, wondering how much longer they’d have to sit in this room. “Can I have a glass of water?” she asked Officer Walker.

  “Once the homicide detectives arrive, I’ll get you something to drink,” the policeman said. “Just be patient a li
ttle longer, Kayla.”

  “Okay,” she said, trying to find a more comfortable way of sitting on the hard wooden chair. All of this would be much easier to deal with if the chairs in the police station were a little more comfortable, she thought. Instead, she was stuck in this empty room with Officer Walker, who was a nice guy but didn’t want to talk very much. He’d said that to her when they arrived at the police station, that they’d have to wait in a separate room and not talk about what had happened at the convenience store until the homicide detectives from the Detective Headquarters Division arrived.

  The Hispanic girl was seated on a chair by the door, looking as though she wished she was somewhere else. Kayla understood exactly how she felt.

  The silence in the room was making her crazy, she decided. After all the noise of gunshots and screaming, the silence was more than she could handle. “Do you know who that guy was, Officer Walker?” Kayla asked.

  “Kayla, I’ve already said that we can’t talk about it, not until the detectives arrive. Please, no more questions.”

  She sat with her arms folded on her knees, curled up on the chair, until the door opened again. Two more police officers walked in, a blonde woman and a heavyset man. “So, Dale, what did you bring home today?”

  Officer Walker stood up. “Consuela Rodriguez was the first person to arrive on the scene, and she called the police. Kayla here was in the store when it happened. She wasn’t hurt; none of that blood is hers.”

  “I’ll start with the kid,” the woman said. She gestured for Kayla to follow her. Kayla did, wondering what was going to happen next.

  They walked down the hallway to another office. The policewoman closed the door after them and turned to a small table with a coffeepot, cans of soda, and paper cups. “Here, take a couple of paper towels; let’s get some of that blood off you. Dale didn’t even let you wash, did he? Would you like something to drink?”

  “Anything with sugar in it,” Kayla said, reaching for a can of Pepsi. She opened the bottle of aspirin that she’d lifted from the convenience store and swallowed several of the pills with some soda, then carefully wiped her face and hands with the paper towel.

  The woman poured herself a cup of coffee and glanced up at the clock on the wall. “One A.M. Well, this will certainly be a long night. Have a seat, young lady. I’m afraid you’re going to be here for a while, and I can’t let you talk to anyone else just yet, not even your parents. By the way, I don’t think I introduced myself. I’m Detective Cable. You can call me Nichelle, if you’d like.”

  Kayla gingerly sat down on one of the chairs. Detective Cable set a small tape recorder on the table next to them and took out a small stack of paper forms and a pencil.

  Then the questions began.

  Forty-five minutes later, Kayla was trying to stay awake as she explained for a second time how she hadn’t seen the gunman actually walk into the store, how she hadn’t seen anyone outside the store who could’ve been with the gunman, and that she hadn’t heard the gunman say anything until after the police arrived.

  I wish Billy was here. He’d know what to say, how to handle this.

  “All right,” Cable said, stifling a yawn. “Let’s go over what happened when your friend Billy was shot. You said you jumped the guy, he knocked you down and you fainted, and … ?”

  ” … and I woke up when Officer Walker was asking me if I was okay,” she said, not saying anything about the entire “blue lights” situation. They’ll lock me up in a padded cell in five minutes if I start talking about that, she thought.

  To Kayla’s relief, the policewoman switched off the tape recorder. “Thank you, Kayla,” she said with a tired smile. “Thank you very much. Now all I need is for you to fill out some paperwork, and then I’ll give you over to Elizabet Winters, our resident psychology therapist, specializing in juvenile psychology. She’ll want to talk to you a little, make sure that you’re handling all of this okay. I know it’s been an awful night for you, and you seem to be dealing with everything just fine, but we have to be certain. Elizabet will also call your parents and make sure you get home all right. I’m sure they’re worried about you, and will want to know where you are.” She set a form and a pen in front of Kayla, then walked over to pour herself another cup of coffee.

  Call … my parents? Kayla thought in dismay. She looked down at the form and at the second line, where she was supposed to write in her address. What am I supposed to do now?

  Maybe if I just fill it out quickly, then I can ask to go to the bathroom or something and get out of the building.

  Then I’ll find Liane, and we can find Billy at the hospital. He’ll know what to do, he always does.

  Good plan.

  She wrote in carefully: 6925 Hollywood Boulevard. Hollywood, California.

  The other questions were just as bad; she put down fake names for her parents, grandparents, school, and everything else.

  Cable took the form from her, scanning it quickly. Kayla sat and waited, trying not to look nervous. The policewoman walked to the door with the form still in her hand. “I’ll be back in a minute, Kayla,” she said, and left the room.

  Maybe I should try to get out of here now, Kayla thought, then decided against it. Somebody would probably stop her before she could get to the front door. No, waiting until the right moment, that was a better idea—wait until someone was taking her home, she could just walk away and then head back home, to Suite 230.

  Home. Once upon a time, that had meant something better than an abandoned office building in downtown Hollywood. She thought about what the policewoman had said about calling her parents and fought back the sudden tears that threatened to escape from her eyes.

  I wish you could call my folks, lady, she thought. I just wish you could.

  Elizabet Winters set down the case folder, rubbing at her eyes with a tired hand. Too many blank pages left to fill out … the file on that last runaway child would keep her here for another hour, when all she wanted to do was go home and get some sleep. At least there’d been a happy ending to that story, unlike most of them. She and Lieutenant Simmons had escorted the boy to the LAX airport, where she’d seen him off on the midnight plane to Chicago, knowing that the boy’s anxious parents were waiting for him on the other end of the line.

  Sometimes these things worked out.

  Sometimes they didn’t. Elizabet didn’t want to think about Marie, a lovely sixteen-year-old who’d been brought in to the station for child prostitution at least five times. The last time, they’d taken her to the county morgue instead, with five knife wounds in her. No suspects in that case yet, and Elizabet doubted they’d ever find any.

  “Hey, Elizabet, you got a minute? I need some help.”

  Elizabet looked up, to see Nichelle Cable from Detective Headquarters Division. Nichelle looked just as tired as Elizabet felt. “What’s up?”

  “I have a girl who witnessed a double homicide tonight on Sunset Boulevard. I didn’t think there was anything unusual about her until she gave me this.” Nichelle held up the witness identification form and pointed at Line 2.

  “So, she lives on Hollywood Boulevard? What’s strange about that?” Elizabet asked.

  “I wouldn’t have thought anything was weird about it, except that when I was in high school, I worked in a particular movie theater for a few months. This girl gave me the address of Mann’s Chinese Theater.” Nichelle smiled. “I ran her name through the runaway database, and it came up cherries. Kayla Smith, state ward. She’s been in Juvie twice for shoplifting and is currently reported missing from a foster home in Orange County. She ran away two months ago. God knows what she’s been doing since.” The homicide detective dropped the form on Elizabet’s desk. “She’s all yours, Elizabet.”

  “Thanks,” Elizabet said with a wry smile. “Anything else I should know about this child?”

  “She’s bright and obviously thinks fast on her feet. Doesn’t look like she does drugs, though she’s wearing a half-trashed denim
jacket that would cover any tracks. No terminal case of the sniffles or jitters, anyhow, so I doubt she’s a crackhead. Maybe you can do something for this one.”

  “Maybe.” Elizabet stuffed the case folder in her briefcase. “Is she in a holding room or one of the offices?”

  “Simmons’ office. There’s still some fresh coffee in there, if you need it.” Nichelle yawned and stretched, smiling tiredly. “I’m calling it a night. You might want to buzz Collins and get him ready to process this kid. I doubt anyone would want to drive her over to Juvie at this hour.”

  “You’re probably right about that. Thanks for the coffee, Nichelle, I’ll need it. Good night.”

  “Good luck,” the policewoman said with a grin.

  Elizabet picked up her briefcase and her jacket and headed over to Simmons’ office. Ten feet away from the office door, she stopped, closing her eyes for a brief moment.

  She knew.

  She’d felt it earlier, an “incident” in the city, magical power like a flare going off, as someone called down magic with all the subtlety of a high-explosive rocket. She’d wanted to go investigate, but with the boy to escort to the airport, there had been no chance. But now …

  It was this girl. She could feel it already, even though she couldn’t see the girl through the closed office door. But even at this distance, the sensation of power sparked around her, tingling and alive. Whoever this girl was, she was a little powerhouse, and probably remarkably dangerous because of it.

  Maybe she was the cause of the double homicide?

  No … she could sense the child’s power, and it burned clean and incandescent. The girl was bright with power and promise, with no taint of death around her. Instead, it was something else that she sensed, something that she only saw dimly sometimes when looking in the mirror, moments when she could see herself and her own magic glowing within her… .