"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. . . ."