Bedlam Boyz(19)

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.