Sunset Boulevard was a blur of lights and noise, too many radios and car stereos, too many people talking and shouting and laughing. Kayla jammed her hands in the pockets of her denim jacket and wished all of it would just go away.
At midnight, it seemed like everyone was on the street, all the weird and lonely and “professional” residents of Los Angeles: the punks and the pretty boys in tight black leather, the women in brightly colored miniskirts, the dealers with too many gold chains beneath their open shirt collars. Ten feet away from where she stood, a nervous‑looking blond man traded cash for a little ziplock bag with a bored‑looking guy in a cowboy hat; both men stepped back into the shadows of the alley as a black‑and‑white LAPD patrol car glided past, like a silent shark prowling through the late night traffic.
Liane and Billy were twenty feet further up the sidewalk, gawking at leather jackets in a storefront window. She took her eyes off the panorama of the street around her, and joined them at the window. “Nice stuff,” she commented, looking at a tailored leather jacket with metal studs. The price tag said $249 . . . but it might as well have been a million dollars, she still couldn't afford it.
She leaned against the cold metal bars over the glass and thought about stealing some aspirin. Just the same as every night for the last few months, it felt like someone was pounding on her skull with a hammer. The noise from the traffic only made it worse. “Guys, okay if we stop someplace for some more aspirin?”
“Another headache?” Billy asked.
“It's nothing,” Kayla lied.
“You've been having headaches every day for weeks now,” Liane said. “Maybe we should take you to a doctor. What if this is something serious?”
“It's nothing, guys. I'll get some aspirin, it'll go away. There's a QuickStart down the street, we can stop there.”
A red convertible slowed on the street next to them, the man in the driver's seat calling out to them. “Hey, chickies, want to party?”
Billy glared at the driver until he shrugged and looked away. The convertible pulled away back into the traffic.
“We could've just let him buy us some dinner and drinks,” Liane said softly. “Nothing more than that.” Liane had a hungry look in her eyes, the way she stared wistfully after the fancy red convertible.
Kayla thought about the man, and that he had a hungry look in his eyes, too. A different kind of hunger.
Billy shook his head. “He'd want something for his money, wouldn't he? And then we'd end up in a situation like last weekend with you and Nick.”
Liane, already pale under the streetlights with her white‑blond hair and very fair skin, turned even paler. That had been an awful night, one that Kayla thought they wouldn't survive. Nick, a local “businessman,” had been watching Liane for a few days. When Kayla and Billy were busy buying Cokes from a street vendor, Nick told Liane that he wanted her to work for him. Billy and Kayla weren't his style . . . Billy was too mean‑looking, with that knife‑scar on his chin and that cold blue‑eyed “Don't mess with me” look, a trick that he said he'd learned from his old man, who was currently up for armed robbery in Folsom. Not at all like the pretty boys on Melrose Avenue. And Kayla, with her long brown hair and green eyes that were too big for her face, knew she just wasn't cute enough for the chickenhawks, either.
Liane, on the other hand, was drop‑dead gorgeous, blond and with the face of an angel. And she attracted men like a magnet. Especially slimeballs like Nick.
Maybe Billy telling Nick to go sit and spin wasn't the best idea, she thought. Billy and Nick had screamed at each other for fifteen minutes. Nick had stormed away, and they were walking down the street two hours later when he and some friends had pulled up in Nick's blue Chevy, waving a pistol at them. It'd been a fast run through the back streets of Hollywood, with Nick screaming curses in two languages at them, until they'd managed to lose him by climbing over several fences and hiding in a gardening shed in someone's backyard.
But, even after a night like that, she knew that getting out of that latest foster home had been a good idea. The lady who ran the place was nice enough, but her husband was slime, and he'd already started hitting on Liane, not even two days after she arrived there. True, every straight guy with hormones tried to hit on Liane, she was just too pretty for her own good, but this place was a foster home. It was supposed to be safe. Especially for someone like Liane, who was just a little too quiet, too easily spooked by people yelling, and scared of crowds and people standing too close to her.
Liane was quiet and shy, and it had surprised Kayla that the blonde girl had been the one who'd first talked about running away, about how she, Billy, and Kayla could go out on their own. It had started out easily enough, stealing enough money to take the bus from Orange County to downtown L.A. From there, they went to Hollywood, mostly because Liane wanted to see the Chinese Theater. It was Kayla who'd spotted the abandoned office building across the street from Mann's Chinese, and now Suite 230 (formerly an insurance agency, by the stationery they'd found in a closet) was their new home.
It wasn't bad: running water, though no showers or bathtubs, and plenty of old carpet padding to use for blankets. Kayla just wasn't certain how long all of this could keep working out for them, though—she knew they were balancing on the edge, with too many people like Nick waiting around to catch them if they fell.
Billy was the one who kept them together. Billy, who knew all about shoplifting and jimmying locks and using Sterno to heat up cans of chili. He treated them like his kid sisters, though sometimes Kayla caught him looking at Liane in a way that wasn't very brotherly. Kayla knew that she and Liane would never have made it on their own without him. We're lucky he was at that foster home, too, she thought. I don't think I would've been brave enough to leave there without him. . . .
Billy's words broke into her thoughts. “Hey, Kay, there's the QuickStart. Didn't you want some aspirin?”
“Yeah, sure.” Though she was sure that it wouldn't help. Nothing seemed to help, not anymore. “You guys hang around up front, I'll get the pills.”
The headaches weren't the worst of it; she could live with the pain, not a problem. It was the weird dizziness that hit her every so often, making her feel like she'd touched a live electrical wire. She was sick with something, she knew that, but it didn't pay to worry about it . . . there was no way she could go to a doctor, at least, not now.
They walked into the store, a brightly‑lit building with rows of metal shelves, past a cheerful woman who was chatting with the store clerk, a quiet‑looking young man with shoulder‑length blond hair. Liane and Billy started looking through magazines near the front counter, and Kayla moved to the back of the store. In the last few weeks, they'd refined shoplifting to an art, running interference and distracting the people so one of them could walk out with enough food for dinner. It was a lot easier than other kinds of theft. Kayla smiled in spite of herself, remembering how Billy had climbed through an open apartment window only to find the occupant, a fat middle‑aged man, up to his neck in bubbles in his bathtub with several rubber ducks floating around him. He'd yelled and Billy had practically fallen out the window, terrified but still unable to keep from laughing.
The three of them still laughed about that one, but the time when Billy had gone through an open house window and another guy had reached for a handgun next to his bed, that hadn't been so funny. Fortunately for him, the gun hadn't been loaded, and by the time the guy had managed to put some bullets in the revolver, Billy, Kayla, and Liane were already two blocks away and still running.
Since then, Billy had said that they'd have to get by without any more breaking‑and‑entering. Shoplifting, that was a good trick, though Kayla was getting very tired of pork‑and‑beans heated in the can, chili, and stew. Sometimes she caught herself fantasizing about fresh‑cooked food, something that didn't come out of a can: baked potatoes, pancakes, or even bowls of oatmeal. Anything but canned spaghetti.
She found the brand of aspirin she was looking for and checked the overhead mirror to make sure the clerk wasn't watching—those mirrors worked both ways, if you knew what you were doing—and slipped the package into her jacket pocket, smiling to herself. It was a quiet night, all right, and once she took some pills to get rid of the headache, she'd be feeling fine. . . .
Gunshots shattered the silence.
Liane screamed a moment later, a sound that echoed through the store. Kayla didn't even think about it; she ran toward the sound of Liane's scream and skidded around the corner of the row of shelves, stopping short at the sight before her.
The woman was lying very still in a pool of her own blood, sprawled across a small potted palm. The clerk's body wasn't in sight, but Kayla could see more blood sprayed across the wall behind the counter. A man wearing a long leather coat stood near the doorway and smiled at her, a military assault rifle clenched in his hands.
Not three feet away from her, Billy held Liane in his arms, both of them frozen with terror. The man brought the assault rifle up, aiming at the three of them. Kayla brought up her hands instinctively to shield her face.
Nothing happened.
He isn't going to kill us, Kayla thought with a faint wave of relief, and opened her eyes.
The man was staring at her. Directly at her, not at Billy, not at Liane. A split‑second later, she realized why: her hands were on fire. No, not exactly fire . . . it was a blue light that flickered over her hands, lines of light that weaved and danced around her fingers.
She was too startled to do anything except stare at her hands and the pale blue light. A wave of dizziness hit her, and that strange feeling of hot power, like electricity running through her entire body—she could feel the hair on her forearms standing on end, her hands tingling faintly where the light touched her.
Oh my . . . oh my God . . .
The light faded away. She stared at her fingers, and through them, saw the gunman shaking his head slowly, as though he couldn't believe what he'd just seen.
Then she saw his hands tighten on the rifle and knew that in another split‑second he'd shoot them anyhow. . . .
Kayla didn't even think about it; she dived for him and that gun, sending both of them crashing into a rack of magazines. She tried to pull the gun out of his grip; he shoved her, hard, and she fell back against the blond woman's body, which gave way beneath her. She landed on the floor; her head hit hard against the linoleum. She blinked; the barrel of the gun was only inches from her face . . . she could see the man, smiling with delight, as his finger tightened on the trigger. . . .
Billy slammed into the gunman with a football tackle. The gun went off again, gunshots echoing through the small store. A bullet zinged past Kayla to impact the floor next to her.
She lay there for a moment, concentrating on breathing, then climbed unsteadily to her feet. Her legs were shaking so much she could barely stand as she moved to where Billy and the man were both lying motionless on the floor.
Billy was still alive, blood slowly staining through his shirt and jeans. She could see where the bullets had hit him, one in his leg, another in his shoulder. The shoulder wound was the worst, blood welling out in a wide stain down his side and onto the floor.
She wanted to scream, but knew there wasn't time for it. Billy was always the one who knew exactly what to do in a bad situation; she had to think the way he did, do something fast before all of his life spilled out onto the floor.
She tried to remember what first aid you were supposed to do for gunshot wounds. Applying pressure to stop the bleeding, that was the only thing she could think of. And shock—you had to cover them with a blanket or something so they'd stay warm. She didn't have a blanket, or anything to use on the wound . . . she pressed her hand against the ripped skin and shirt on Billy's shoulder. Blood flowed out around her fingers, more with every heartbeat.
This isn't working. . . .
She pressed harder. “It isn't working,” she whispered. She looked up suddenly at Liane, still standing by the candy racks. “Go get help, damn it!” she yelled. Liane didn't move: she was standing silently, staring at Kayla . . . at Kayla's hands . . .
. . . at the tendrils of blue light, twisting around her fingertips. The light brightened as she looked at it, radiating out from her hands, moving in rippling circles over Billy's shoulder and chest. Suddenly she saw Billy's wound beneath her hands, through her hands, as though she was a ghost. No, it wasn't exactly seeing . . . it was feeling, knowing, sensing the tears through the skin and muscle, the pressure of the tiny bullet lodged against the bone . . . so small, to do so much damage! The bullet, a little squashed piece of metal, was buried beneath a layer of muscle—she reached the part of her mind that was sensing all of this deep into the wound and tugged at the bullet, carefully working it loose.
It slid into her hand before she realized it. With a shudder, she flung it under the magazine rack, then turned back to Billy. There was more blood now, flowing from an artery that had been nicked by the bullet's passage. She touched the wound with unsteady fingers, and the blue light intensified, so incandescent that she had to close her eyes.
The light still shone through her closed eyelids, impossibly bright. Now she could feel the cut artery sealing itself, the muscles knitting together beneath her fingertips. She could feel the energy pouring out of her and into Billy, into the damaged tissue. And she knew this without seeing it, her eyes still tightly closed against the brilliance of the light. Somehow she knew how to help him, how to do whatever it was that she was doing, and it felt terrific. It felt better than anything she'd ever done before, exhilarating and electric, as though she was finally alive at last after being half‑awake for years. Then it was over; the light faded away, leaving her dizzy and light‑headed and as exhausted as though she'd been running for miles.
She opened her eyes to see what she'd done.
The bullet hole was gone. Billy's shirt was still soaked with blood, but the wound had disappeared, only a dull pink line marking where it had been. Her friend was still unconscious, but she could feel the life returning to his body, that the danger of immediate death was over. He was still in pain from another bullet in his leg, but even without looking at it, Kayla knew that she could close that wound as well. As soon as she took another couple seconds to catch her breath, she would . . . she would . . .
Dizziness and nausea hit her like a fist, and she fell back against the magazine rack, closing her eyes and concentrating on breathing.
This isn't real, she thought. People don't just wake up one morning able to seal up bullet holes in their friends just by wanting it to happen. Something is going on here, something weirder than anything I've ever heard of in my entire life. . . .
She heard a choked noise behind her and turned. Liane was still standing there, visibly trembling, making odd gasping sounds like she couldn't get enough air to breathe. Without saying a word, she ran for the door, flinging it open. The noise of the street outside was deafening in the deathly silence of the store.
“Liane, wait!” Kayla shouted. Not even glancing back at her, Liane ran through the doorway and out into the street.
Kayla tried to get up and follow her, but another tide of dizziness washed over her. She slumped back against the magazine rack.
“ . . . help me . . .” a weak voice whispered, very close to her. “ . . . please . . .”
She looked around for the source of the voice, then realized, with a tiny start of fear, who it was. She stared at the gunman, lying on the blood‑stained floor not quite three feet away from her. “W‑what?”
“Heal me,” he whispered, his face contorted with pain. “I know you can do it, I saw you help the boy. Please.”
She edged away from him, shaking her head. He grabbed for her hand, pulling her close. “Please . . .” His face was very pale, his lip bleeding where he'd bitten it in pain. He placed her hand on his chest, rising and falling with each painful breath, against the torn flesh and warm wet blood.
He killed those two people, she thought. And he nearly killed Billy. And he would've killed me and Liane, too, but now . . .
Now his eyes were human again, not smiling inhumanly at something she couldn't see or understand. She could feel her hands tingling again, that strange feeling like something was going to happen.
I should help Billy, he's still hurting, his leg is still bleeding. I shouldn't help this guy, even if he is dying. . . . She could feel, somehow, the sensation that his life was fading away in front of her eyes.
This time she called it to her, that strange cold blue fire, and felt it wreathe around her hands and flow down through her fingertips. The man made a faint noise, something between a whimper and a moan, as the light coursed over his chest. She worked slowly and methodically, drawing the bullet out and sealing the wound shut. It was easier this time, in a way, though she could feel the exhaustion and dizziness pulling at her, a wave of darkness threatening at the edges of her mind. She fought it off for as long as she could, trying to concentrate on the man's wounds, but everything was moving too fast, whirling around her. . . .
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.
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 little 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. . . .
The child has magic!
Elizabet opened the door and walked into the office. The girl looked up from where she was seated with her elbows propped on the table. She didn't look like much, just a street kid wearing jeans and a denim jacket over a stained T‑shirt, long tangled brown hair, and large green eyes. Those eyes followed Elizabet as she draped her blue suit jacket over the back of the chair and then sat down across from her.
“I'm Elizabet Winters,” she said. “Elizabet is a mistake on my birth certificate that I've lived with all these years. You're Kayla, right?” She extended her hand. The kid didn't move, just sat and watched her with those terrified eyes. Elizabet withdrew her hand, wondering how to handle this.
“Who are you?”
The girl's voice was surprisingly soft, Elizabet thought. “I'm a psych therapist working with the police department,” she said. “Usually I help the relatives of victims of crime, or work with people who have been through a traumatic experience. Like what you went through tonight. Do you want to talk about that?”
Yes, I'd like to talk about it, but I also don't want to spend the rest of my life in a padded room, Kayla thought, looking at the woman across from her. Elizabet Winters was a beautiful black woman in her fifties, black and silver hair coiled up in a braid. She sat silently, apparently waiting for Kayla to say something.
What am I supposed to say? That some guy killed two people in front of me and shot my best friend, and I created this weird light show to get rid of the bullet holes? No way.
“I've—I've had a bad night,” she said at last, choosing her words carefully. “I'm okay, but I'd like to go home.”
The older woman nodded. “That's a problem, unfortunately. Detective Cable wanted me to lock you up here for the night and maybe send you to Juvenile Hall in the morning, since it's a little impractical to take you back to the foster home in Orange County in the middle of the night.”
“What?” Kayla sat upright in shock.
“I think I have another alternative,” Elizabet continued, “since neither a midnight trip to Orange County or a night at Juvenile Hall seems to be the appropriate answer.”
“Terrific,” Kayla said, and slumped back down in her chair. “So are you going to send me back to Mr. and Mrs. Davis? I know it doesn't matter what I think, but I don't want to go.”
“Obviously, or you wouldn't have run away from them.” The black woman smiled. “Kayla, if you could do anything, what would you do?”
“I—I don't understand,” she answered uncertainly.
“I'll rephrase this. Pretend for a minute that you don't have to go back to that foster home, or Juvie, or anything like that. If you could choose where you wanted to live, what you wanted to do, what would you choose?”
Who is this lady? Kayla wondered. She isn't like any cop or social worker I've ever met before. “I don't know. I guess . . . if I could have anything, I'd want to live with my parents again. But that won't ever happen, I know that.” At Elizabet's questioning look, she added, “They disappeared when I was twelve years old. I was at school, Mom never showed up to take me home.” The memory of that afternoon was still burned into her mind: how she'd waited and waited at the school, then walked home, to find the police at her house. “Nobody knew how to find any of my relatives, so I ended up in a foster home.” She thought about it for a few moments longer. “If I could do anything, I'd want to live with people that understood me. Good people, not like Mr. Davis. People who like to talk about real things, and treat people right, and . . . and read books. People who do more than sit around drinking beer and watching TV.”
“You like to read?”
In spite of herself, Kayla blushed. “I love reading,” she said, looking down at her sneakers. “Sometimes it's the only way to escape, get away from everything.”
“Have you thought of going to college?” Elizabet asked.
“Yeah, sure, but there's a snowball's chance of that, you know? You have to graduate high school before they'll let you go to college.”
“Maybe I can help you with that.” The woman stood up, pulling on her blue jacket and picking up her briefcase. “Time to go, child.”
“To Juvie?” Kayla's voice quavered, and she hated it for that. She clenched her fists, trying to keep her voice steady. “Is that where you're taking me?”
Elizabet Winters smiled. “No, I have another idea. I'll need to find Lieutenant Simmons first, but I doubt he'd have any objections.”
Curious, Kayla followed Elizabet out of the office. Elizabet led her through the corridors and open office rooms of the police station.
“The lieutenant's downstairs with our new psychopath,” one officer told Elizabet, and she led Kayla down a flight of stairs to a brightly lit row of holding cells. A sandy‑haired policeman stood a few feet back from the rows of concrete‑walled rooms, from which Kayla could hear someone screaming curses and obscenities. There was one small iron‑barred cell next to the larger holding cells that had several prisoners in each, men that were mostly sitting around quietly. In the smaller cell was the man from the QuickStart, wearing a stained white shirt and jeans instead of the long black leather coat.
In spite of herself, she stared at the killer. Another man, wearing jeans and a plaid shirt and seated quietly on a bench in the next cell, was watching her through the open bars. She avoided his curious eyes, looking instead at the man who'd tried to kill her.
There was something wrong with him, she could tell, even at this distance. Something broken inside that made him crazy this way. Her hands tingled, and she glanced down quickly, making sure that her fingers weren't glowing again. They weren't, fortunately. Kayla looked back at the crazy man, wondering just how one would fix something wrong inside somebody's head; it wouldn't be like fixing a gunshot wound, that was more like patching things back together. No, this would be like reaching inside and changing something. . . .
Elizabet began speaking in a quiet voice to the policeman; with the lunatic screaming at the top of his voice, Kayla couldn't hear what she was saying.
“Hey, chickie.” The gunman's voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. “I know who you are, I know what you did.”
Kayla moved closer so she could hear him. “What?”
“It's magic, did you know that? I've seen magic, and that's what you did.”
Elizabet spoke sharply from behind her. “Kayla! Get away from—”
The man reached out and grabbed Kayla's arm, yanking her toward him with inhuman strength. “Devil!” he screamed. Kayla was pulled hard against the metal bars, struggling to get free. The man's other hand clamped onto her throat, tightening painfully.
Elizabet's hand was on the man's arm, trying to pull him away from Kayla. A split‑second later, Kayla felt a shock of hot fire go through her hands, a sudden pain like a knife. The man yelped and leaped back, falling onto the floor of his cell.
Elizabet pulled her back from the cell, blocking the lieutenant's view of Kayla with her own body. Kayla glanced down, and saw why: a handful of blue sparks, flickering like fireflies on a Southern night, were fading from her own fingertips as she watched.
“Are you all right? Did he hurt you?” Elizabet asked urgently.
Kayla shook her head. “I'm okay, really.” She looked at the man cowering in his cell, clutching his left arm. “Did he—?” She turned quickly to look at the police officer, hoping he hadn't seen anything.
“Good use of pressure points, Elizabet,” Lieutenant Simmons said, motioning for them to stand further back from the cell. “I've seen Ms. Winters do things like that before,” the police officer continued. “It's some Japanese martial art, isn't it?”
Elizabet's eyes never left Kayla's. “I know a few useful tricks, Jeff,” she said.
“Yes.” The police officer nodded. “In any case, Elizabet, my answer is yes. I don't see why you can't foster this girl for a few days until a judge figures out what to do for her. Just make sure the correct paperwork ends up on the captain's desk.”
“That's what you were asking about?” Kayla asked, her eyes wide.
“Only if you don't mind, child. If you'd rather go elsewhere, we can make other arrangements,” Elizabet said.
“No, that's okay by me.” Kayla didn't know what else to say. She thought about being locked up in Juvie, and decided that it would be a lot easier to get away from this lady than the cops at Juvie. Because all she could think about right now was running away, running as far away from all of everything that had happened tonight, until she didn't have to think about it anymore.
Then she thought about a warm bed, and maybe a chance to take a shower, maybe even get some clean clothes. I'll see what her place is like, Kayla thought, And then I'll decide. Maybe I'll want to stay there tonight, maybe I can steal some stuff that I can get some cash for . . .
Maybe this lady is all right. I mean, she saw what just happened, and she didn't freak, or even say anything about it. Maybe she can answer some of these questions . . . maybe she can explain what in the hell is happening to me.
She followed Elizabet out of the holding cell area, making a wide berth around the crazy man's cell. When they were outside the police station, she couldn't hold back the questions any longer. “You saw, didn't you? Why didn't you tell the cop? I don't—”
“Not here,” Elizabet said. “We'll talk at my house.” They walked to one of the few cars left in the parking lot next to the station, an old white VW Rabbit convertible. “We can stop by Cedars Sinai Hospital and check on your friend Billy if you'd like,” she offered.
“We don't have to. I know he's okay,” Kayla said without thinking.
Elizabet smiled at her. “Yes, you would know that, wouldn't you? All right, then we'll just go straight to my house.”
She knows! Kayla thought. She knows exactly what happened!
“Bitch!” the man screamed as the police lieutenant left the room. “She's an evil bitch, she's the Devil's daughter!”
Carlos Miguel Hernandez listened to the man's raving for another few minutes, then uncurled from his position on the jail cell's wooden bench and moved to the corner of his cell, as close as he could get to the other man. “Why do you say that little puta is the daughter of the Devil?” he asked conversationally. “She's just a child.”
“I saw it, kid!” the man shrieked. “I saw it, I saw it!”
“Please, amigo, calm down. Tell me what you saw.”
Carlos listened intently to the man's descriptions of the evening's events, and nodded thoughtfully. “Can you prove that this happened? Do you have proof?”
“I'll show you, kid, but you have to give it back to me, you have to promise!” the other man said shrilly.
“I promise, I promise,” Carlos snapped impatiently. “And do not call me kid,” he added. “I'm nineteen years old, I'm a man.”
For an answer, the man's hand reached out through the bars, holding out his shirt. Carlos pulled it into his cell and looked at it curiously.
“Look on the right side, you'll see the mark,” the man said.
Carlos turned the shirt in his hands and saw the bullet hole. The bloodstains around the hole were fresh, not yet darkened to the red‑brown color of old blood. He brought the shirt closer to his face and sniffed. Yes, fresh blood.
“I have a hole in my jacket, too,” the man said. “But no bullet wound. She healed me, she's the Devil's daughter!”
“I believe you,” Carlos said. “If you were still hurt, you would be in the security ward of a hospital, not here in county jail.” How remarkable, he thought, And how very useful. Though if that child is the Devil's daughter, it is a kind and gentle Devil who would save the life of someone trying to kill her.
I want to see this miracle for myself, this child who heals friend and enemy alike.
“Do you know who she is?” Carlos asked. “Do you know where she lives?”
The other man mumbled a negative. Carlos pushed the shirt back through the bars of the cell into the other man's grasp and sat down on the bench to consider what he had learned.
She could be very useful indeed, this healing child. Tomorrow morning, he would stand in front of the judge and pay his fines to leave this place. After that, he could begin searching for this child. Somehow he did not doubt that he or one of his homeboys, the Tyrone Street Boys, would find her, one girl in all of the city of Los Angeles. He stretched out on the bench and listened in silence to the incoherent words of the man in the cell beside him. Tomorrow, he would find her. . . .
“Nice place,” Kayla muttered, looking up at the darkened house. She glanced at Elizabet. “How much does the police department pay you, anyhow?”
“I also have a private practice,” Elizabet said, unlocking the front door. “Besides, child, I bought this house fifteen years ago, before the rich folks decided that Laurel Canyon was the perfect place to build a fancy house. You'll see, it's not much on the inside.”
Maybe you think so, Kayla thought, walking into the wood‑paneled room, But I can sure spot a few things that would get me some good bucks at Mel's Gun and Pawn. She paused to look at a collection of crystal dolphins on a shelf in the hallway. I wouldn't even think of hocking those—they'd probably break when I was carrying 'em out. But the VCR, that looks like it's new, and it's one of the better brands . . . that could be worth something. . . .
A moment later, she noticed something else: the house was quiet. Not just from noise, but from the jangling pressure she'd felt for the last months, the sensation that the world was tightening down on her and making her crazy. Her headache faded as she looked around in surprise. Totally weird.
“I'm getting something to drink from the fridge. Would you like anything?”
“A glass of milk would be great,” Kayla said, and Elizabet walked away. Kayla studied one of the crystal dolphins; it seemed to float in midair, caught forever in a leap out of the water. Only the tip of its tail touched the cut‑glass water, the dolphin sculpture delicately balanced on that point.
“Do you like that one?” Elizabet asked, walking up behind her with two glasses of milk. “I like to think of it as a representation of life, balanced perfectly at a single moment.”
Kayla took the offered glass from Elizabet's hand. “Thanks.” She sipped the milk, then looked wistfully in the direction of Elizabet's kitchen.
“Of course, you must be hungry, child. I probably have some sandwich fixings in the fridge. I'll show you where everything is.”
Kayla followed her into the kitchen, and as Elizabet took out a plate and silverware from the cupboards, she asked, “Why did you say, `of course'?”
Elizabet was silent for a moment. “Make yourself whatever you'd like to eat, then we'll sit down and talk.”
“Yeah, sure.” Kayla decided not to be polite about the fact that she felt like she hadn't eaten in weeks, and made a huge sandwich out of a whole wheat roll and several different kinds of cheeses. She sat down across from Elizabet at the kitchen table, alternating quick bites of the sandwich with swallows of milk. The older woman watched without speaking as Kayla finished the sandwich. “So, what did you want to talk about?” she asked hesitantly, uncomfortable with Elizabet's long silence.
“We have a few things to discuss,” Elizabet said thoughtfully. “Like what happened to you earlier this evening.”
“You read Officer Cable's report,” Kayla offered. “It has everything in it. Did you want to know about something else?”
Elizabet lifted her hand; white‑gold light flickered over her fingers, glittering in the cold light of the kitchen.
“This is what we have to talk about,” Elizabet said, the light brightening around her hand as she spoke. “This is magic.”
“I don't want to talk about it,” Kayla said. Her eyes darted to the door out of the kitchen; she was certain that Elizabet couldn't run as fast as she could, especially if Kayla had a head start. Maybe she could get out of this house and away from this crazy woman, make it back to Hollywood before the police could catch up with her.
“You're not going to run anywhere, not in your current condition,” the woman said, watching her closely. “I think you nearly killed yourself tonight, and it'll take time to recover from that.”
“I didn't . . . how did you know about that?” Kayla demanded.
:Trust me, child, I know.:
Kayla stood up quickly, and her chair tilted and clattered to the floor. She backed to the door. “Stop that!” she shouted, her voice very loud in the small kitchen.
“I didn't say anything,” Elizabet said mildly. She glanced at her hands; as if an afterthought, the sparkling lights faded away. :But you heard me, didn't you?:
Kayla whirled, looking around the room for the source of the words. This time she was certain of it; Elizabet's lips hadn't moved. “It's a trick, isn't it?” she said, her hand reaching behind her for the doorknob. “You're playing tricks with your voice.”
:You know I'm not. Why won't you listen to me?:
“Get out of my head!” Kayla covered her face with her hands, unable to stop the tears and hating herself for crying. “Stop it!”
“I'm sorry, Kayla. I didn't mean to frighten you.” Elizabet's voice was gentle. “But I wanted to prove something to you.”
“What's that?” She looked up angrily.
“That you still have a lot to learn.”
Carlos breathed deeply of the cool early morning air outside the police station, smiling despite the taint of automobile exhaust and street garbage. “It's good to be out, Manny,” he said.
His brother Manuel grinned at him. “I'm glad to see you outside the cárcel. But it was a little expensive, paying for your three speeding tickets.” His grin broadened. “Maybe next time I'll let you stay longer, until you learn to appreciate me more, eh?”
Carlos laughed and swatted cheerfully at Manuel. They walked together to the waiting car, Carlos' customized old Chevrolet. At least the policía didn't take my car, he thought. That would've been much worse than spending a night in a jail cell next to a madman.
Ramon was seated at the wheel, and he smiled and nodded respectfully to his eldest brother as Carlos slid into the seat behind him. “Mother will be glad to see you home,” Ramon said by way of greeting. “She was very sad to hear that you'd been arrested again.”
“Mama is saying that county jail is like your home away from home, Carlos,” Manuel joked.
“Heh, they haven't arrested me for at least a year!”
“Until last night,” Ramon observed from the front seat.
“Ramon doesn't mind, since he could make time with Roberta at the party last night.” Manuel smiled, then his smile faded at the cold look Carlos gave to Ramon.
“Is this true?”
The young man shook his head. “Roberta is your girl, Carlos, and everyone knows that. Maybe someday I'll meet a girl that I like, someone who isn't already in love with my handsome oldest brother.” He grinned. “Maybe she won't even like you! Wouldn't that be a wonderful joke!”
“Heh.” Carlos sat back in the seat, glancing out the window at the city. Ramon was driving carefully, even sedately, probably not wanting any more trouble than they'd already had. Soon they'd be on the 101 Freeway and out of Hollywood, which was good. He would never have admitted it to his brothers, but he had been afraid after being arrested in Hollywood. Outside of Van Nuys and the San Fernando Valley, and away from his own barrio, any other city gang boy could've tried to make points by cutting or killing him. That would've started a war, which he didn't want at this point—everything was going too well for his homeboys, and he didn't want anything that could cause trouble now. Especially not now, with what he'd heard from the madman in the jail.
“I have some work for you, Manuel,” he said. “There is a young girl I want to find. I only saw her for a few moments, and I don't know where she lives. . . .”
“Isn't Roberta enough for you, Carlos?” Manuel asked. “How many other women do you need?”
Carlos considered hitting his brother, then decided against it. Manuel would always be a joker, no matter how many times Carlos bruised his fists against him. “This girl is different, Manny. She was at the jail and is staying with a black woman who might be a policewoman. The girl's first name is Kayla, I don't know her family name. The black woman's name is Elizabet Winters. You will find out where she lives today.”
“What, today?” Manuel's voice held surprise and a hint of laughter. “You'll give me one day to find this girl in the entire city of Los Angeles? That's very generous of you, brother!”
“Why do you want this girl so much?” Ramon wanted to know.
Carlos thought about it for a moment, then decided to tell them. They were his brothers, after all, and there was no one in the world he could trust more than them. “She may be a bruja, a witch,” he said at last. “At least, that is what a crazy man in jail told me. If we find her, I will be able to know for certain.” He smiled. “If she is a witch, she could be useful to me. To the homeboys. We've had trouble with those bastardos from the city, trying to take over the drug selling near our barrio. With a bruja, maybe they would be more afraid of us.”
“I think Carlos just wants another woman, a girl who is a bruja in bed,” Manuel said. “I can't wait to tell Roberta that she isn't enough for him anymore!”
“Carlos, what if this girl doesn't want you?” Ramon asked.
“What do you mean?”Carlos said, surprised by the question. “She'll come with us, whether she wants to or not. She's just a girl.”
“But that's—”
“That's what? Survival, that's what it is! Ramie, it's us against them, our family against the T‑Men, the bastardos that would ruin our business. You know that!”
Ramon glanced at him. “Carlos, I don't like this. You know I've never liked what we're doing, but this is even worse. It's changing you, changing all of us, making us into . . . into something I don't like.”
“So, what else are you going to do?” Carlos asked. “The money's good, I know you like that. Are you going to work at McDonald's for a handful of dollars a day?”
Ramon shook his head, his eyes on the traffic ahead of them. “I . . . I talked to Luisa this morning. She says they might have work for me at the store. I could do that during the day, go back to school at night. . . .”
“Heh, you couldn't even finish high school!” Carlos laughed.
“I couldn't, because you made me quit! You made me quit and help you sell drugs!” Ramon said angrily.
Carlos glanced at Manuel, who was being very quiet in the seat next to him. He leaned forward, speaking quietly to Ramon. “Ramie, Ramie, I need you. We've built a business, but I can't hold it all alone. Not with those bastardos from downtown trying to cut into our territory. Do you forget, Rey's in the hospital because of them? They want our territory, and who knows what they might try next? No, you can't go back to school now, I need you too much. Our family needs you too much.”
“But you know, I want more than this. . . . I want to finish high school, become a lawyer. . . .”
“A laywer, that's good!” Manuel laughed. “Then you can keep Carlos out of jail when they arrest him for selling rock!”
Carlos gave him a dirty look, then turned back to Ramon. “We'll go find this bruja, Ramie. If she's real, if she can do what that crazy man said, then she'll make the difference for us. Then you can do whatever you want, Ramie. You can go back to school, become a lawyer, do anything.”
Ramon didn't answer. Carlos thought about saying something more, trying to find other words to convince his baby brother, then decided against it. Today Ramon was saying that he didn't want to help, but he wouldn't walk away from the familia, Carlos knew that. And if Manuel didn't believe him about the bruja, that was fine, too. When they found the girl, his brothers would change their minds.
Because he'd seen the magic himself. Oh, he'd heard his mother's stories of magia and tierra del las hadas, the land of the faerie people, but he'd never believed them.
Until last night, when he'd seen the sparks of witchlight on the girl's hands, blue and bright in the harsh light of the jail cell. And the shirt with the bullet hole in it; he'd felt something when he touched it, a strange sensation he couldn't identify. He knew the crazy man's story was true, even if no one else believed it, not even the policía.
He would find the girl, the little bruja. Even in a city as large as Los Angeles, it was only a matter of time before they found her.
“It's called magic,” Elizabet said, pouring another cup of tea. “And you have enough for three, child. More than anyone I've ever met, to be honest.”
Kayla yawned again, and glanced at the kitchen clock. Six A.M. I wonder if this lady ever goes to sleep? “I don't believe in magic,” Kayla said stubbornly. It was the third time she'd said that in the last five minutes, and she wasn't really certain whether she believed it anymore. Especially after what had happened tonight.
“You keep saying that, but the evidence is before your eyes. You healed the man in the jail cell . . . yes, I could tell that just by looking at him,” she said in response to Kayla's wide‑eyed look. “I expect you healed your hurt friend who was mentioned in the police report, though it seems you didn't do a complete healing on him, since he's in the hospital right now.”
“I'm not a healer. I don't believe in magic,” Kayla repeated, rubbing her eyes.
:How can you keep saying that, Kayla, when you know it isn't true?:
“Stop that!” Kayla shouted, furious. “I hate it when you do that!”
Elizabet put her hand over her mouth, and a moment later Kayla realized why: she was stifling her laughter.
“Don't laugh at me!” Kayla yelled. “And stop saying things without opening your mouth. It isn't natural,” she concluded.
“Who's to say what's natural and what isn't?” Elizabet leaned forward across the table. “I believe everyone has a touch of it, a little magic. But only a very few people ever develop it into anything useful and predictable. And I've never met anyone like you before.”
“I'm nothing special,” Kayla said, looking down at her hands. The same hands that had held that weird light . . .
“No. At the moment, I'd call you remarkably dangerous, not special.”
“Dangerous?”
“That man in the cell—you could've killed him, if you'd wanted to. Did you want to?” Elizabet was looking at her intently.
Kayla shook her head. “No. If I wanted him to die, I could've just let him bleed to death in the store. I just wanted him to let go of me. I don't . . . I don't want to kill anybody. Ever.”
“I'm glad to hear that.” Elizabet folded her hands on the table, looking down. To Kayla, she looked suddenly nervous, which was very different from the impression she'd given all evening of a tough, self‑confident lady. “I'm not quite certain how to say this, Kayla . . . but I want you to consider staying here. As my student.”
“What?” Kayla wasn't certain she'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks, and a new pair of high‑top sneakers. The new sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as they walked through the mall.
Kayla was uncertain how to react to all of this generosity on Elizabet's part, but that didn't stop her from looking wistfully at a pair of silver hoop earrings in one windowd on'd heard her correctly.
“Oh, I'm sure I can find a foster home for you in this area. The local schools are fairly good, and I can arrange tutoring for you in academic subjects, if you need to make up for lost time. But what I'd like to do is teach you about magic. You're the first person I've met that has the potential to learn magic . . . no, more than just the potential to learn magic. You have the potential to easily surpass me and become someone who could make a major difference in this world, for many people.”
“You're kidding, right?”
“I've never been more serious about anything in my life. You need to learn how to use this magic. Because it's not going to go away, not now that you've used it once. And until you learn how to control it, your magic is incredibly dangerous, to you and everyone around you. Believe me, it's true. You have to learn to control the magic, not let the magic control you.” Elizabet looked up at the kitchen clock. “My, look at the time. I forget that not everyone is used to working the night shift. We'll talk more about this after you've slept. I'll set you up in the guest bedroom.”
“Okay.” Getting some sleep did sound like a great idea. Maybe all of this would make more sense in the morning . . . or maybe she'd be lucky and it would all turn out to be an awful dream. That would be great, waking up in Suite 230 next to Billy and Liane; they'd all laugh about her weird dream and then go scrounge some breakfast on the street.
She was so tired, she didn't resist when Elizabet tucked her into bed after she'd changed into a granny nightgown that was four sizes too big for her. The bed was warm and soft, much nicer than sleeping on a pile of carpet padding in a drafty office building. She was asleep a few seconds after Elizabet switched off the bedroom light.
Elizabet Winters walked quietly back to the kitchen and poured herself another cup of tea. This child isn't quite what I expected in a student, she thought wryly.
Her grandmother had been her own teacher, after Elizabet had discovered her odd gifts. Gram, who'd been born only a few years before the end of the Civil War, a wrinkled old woman with a talent for making sure that her grandchildren never suffered from any illness for more than a day. One day she'd been ill with the influenza and seen Gram use that magic to help her. From that day onward, she'd learned everything she could from her grandmother.
After Gram had passed away when Elizabet was twenty years old, she'd continued studying on her own. Reading, researching, trying to learn everything she could. But never revealing her talents, no. Because Gram had warned her about that above all else . . . that even if she could prove that her abilities were real, it was too dangerous to show them to the world. So she'd studied alone, always hoping to find others who understood.
And she'd hoped to find a student someday. Elizabet had watched her nieces and nephews closely, looking for any sign of the family gift. Eventually, she'd decided, one of the children would show the talent, and Elizabet would pass on the learning to a student the same way Gram had taught her.
She'd never dreamed that her student would be a scrawny, underfed, unwashed runaway white girl.
Well, she could live with it. Everything but the girl's ethnic background could be cured with good meals, rest, and a thorough scrubbing. And the fact that the child was white wasn't a problem for her, though Gram would probably have carried on for hours about how her lessons were meant for good, solid people of color, people who knew how to respect an old woman's African wisdom and would use her teachings in the right way.
She hoped Kayla would use her teachings “in the right way.” That was the danger. She didn't know how much of the street life had rubbed into the girl; was she a junkie? a whore? a thief or a dealer? Elizabet would have to find this out, and soon.
I should get some sleep as well. Tomorrow, I'll see what I can learn from this girl, before I begin to teach her anything.
Kayla rolled over in bed, pulling the blankets over her head. It was too bright, too early . . .
“I've called the hospital. They'll have visiting hours later this afternoon. Do you want to go see your friend?”
“Uhn,” Kayla said incoherently from under the blankets, then sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes at the light streaming in through the open window. “I mean, yes, I'd like to go see Billy.” This lady looks like she's been awake for hours. Doesn't she ever sleep?
“I washed your clothes for you. They're folded over the chair. There's enough time for you to take a bath, if you'd like.”
“Thank you.” Kayla climbed out of bed and grabbed the handful of clothing from the chair. She remembered the location of the bathroom from the previous night and smiled at the sight of the large bathtub. That was something she'd missed, living in Suite 230—a chance to really get clean. Scrubbing down while standing next to the sink just didn't work that great. She found a bottle of nice‑smelling herbal shampoo on the tiled counter and a towel that Elizabet had left her, and got to the serious work of removing several weeks of built‑up grime.
Clean clothes were a nice change, too. She combed her hair, struggling with the tangles, and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. This was a Kayla who looked very different, happy and well‑rested and clean, no more smudge marks on her face or tangled and dirty hair.
A couple minutes later, she joined Elizabet in the kitchen. “Breakfast?” the black woman asked, and Kayla nodded politely.
They ate in silence, until Kayla set down her fork to ask the question that had been bothering her all morning: “How do you do . . . that speaking thing?” she asked, tapping her forehead.
Elizabet laughed. “I don't really know. My Gram could do it, and one day I was able to do it as well. We'll see if you can learn it, too.”
“Sure beats using the telephone,” Kayla said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Once you get used to it,” she added.
“You have to be discreet about that kind of thing, though,” Elizabet said. “Gram taught me that, telling me a story about how some folks tried to burn her out of her house in Georgia, back in the thirties. That's the first thing I'd like to teach you, how to help people without them realizing it. So you can stay out of trouble, child.”
“I'd—I'd like that,” Kayla said hesitantly, and was rewarded by another of Elizabet's warm smiles.
“Well, we'd better start moving,” the woman said, standing up and carrying the dirty plates to the kitchen sink. “We have a lot to do today.”
She wasn't kidding about that, as Kayla found out over the next few hours. The first stop was at a shopping mall in West Hollywood, where Elizabet wielded a credit card like a medieval knight with a sword, buying Kayla a new pair of jeans, several T‑shirts and sweatshirts, underwear and socks