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 . . ."