In a flash, I remember the witch. The ceremony. My blood in a cup.
I look down. Sticky streaks of red have dried all down my forearm, and fresh blood still oozes from a nasty gash below the crook of my elbow. Vomit rises up my throat, and I have to look away before I hurl.
I’m in Los Demonios.
Holy. Crap.
How long have I been lying here? How much blood have I lost?
I roll over and flatten my palms against the gravelly sidewalk, letting out a little grunt as I struggle to my feet. I cradle my arm against my body and, after a wave of nausea passes, take cautious steps toward the street.
It takes me a moment to realize where I am. Gone are the charming boutique shops, hipster bars, and outdoor terraces pushed up against luxury high-rise apartments, the towering palm trees and massive billboards stacked one on top of another, fighting for every inch of available retail space, but I’d recognize the wide, twisting street, with its Hollywood Hills backdrop, anywhere: Sunset Boulevard. Only it looks more like a war zone than the iconic street I know.
Fires blaze on nearly every rooftop not yet blown clean off, cracking and spitting as they send huge tunnels of smoke into the sky. Some of the buildings are nothing but a heap of bricks, while others look like they’ve recently been used for target practice, small holes peppering their char-blackened facades. Most of the billboards have holes ripped through them, save for one of Jennifer Aniston, who smiles at me as she holds a bottle of water.
Something red flashes across the sky. I duck low just as an explosion sounds, so violently it rockets me off my feet. I land on my ass, a barb of pain shooting up my back. A shop across the street erupts in a huge ball of fire. Screams come from inside, and a victorious battle cry sounds above all the other noise.
My blood curdles.
There are people in that building. And someone is trying to blow them up. And seemingly enjoying it.
What have I gotten myself into?
I consider my options:
1) Run. I could probably make the Olympic team what with all the adrenaline pumping through my veins, but I don’t know which direction is safe, and with my luck I would run straight into enemy hands.
2) Fly. Considering the fireballs, this option doesn’t seem appealing, not to mention that I’m hidden right now and flying would definitely put me on a few radars.
3) Hide somewhere while the battle rages on and hope no one finds me and I don’t get blown to smithereens.
Not exactly the best options.
There’s a flicker of movement in the sky, and then a pair of boots crunch onto the roof of a car parked next to the curb across the street. I gasp as a man stretches up to his full height, his back to me as he scans the street. I scurry against the building, my heart a jackhammer.
The man ducks just as a ball of flame whizzes past him. It smacks into the side of the building across the alley from me. My ears ring as a shower of stucco shards sprinkles down on my head. I’m too shocked to scream.
The man on the car drops to one knee and extends his hand up. A bolt of lightning shoots from his palm, rending the sky as it strikes a shop across the street. The building lets out a low groan before it crumbles, sending a huge puff of dust and smoke into the sky. More screams pierce the air. I just catch the man’s smile before he springs back into the sky.
Option #3 seems considerably less sucky all of a sudden.
Adrenaline courses through my body so intensely I no longer notice the pain in my arm as I dash back through the alley. Where is a large garbage bin when you need one? I sprint to the back of the building and sweep a glance down either side of the lane.
Empty.
Voices bellow from the street. I quickly turn the corner before anyone sees me.
The ornate cast-iron back door of the building swings open in the breeze.
I’m gripped with indecision. There could be baddies in that building. But when footsteps crunch in the alley I just came from, I can’t rush through the door fast enough.
I enter a large room that looks like it used to be the lobby of a boutique hotel for trendy Hollywood types. The flowered wallpaper is ripped halfway down the wall so that a yellowed corner curls back on itself; I can see mold growing on the drywall beneath. The reception desk and the banister leading to the second floor are made of rich carved wood, and a crystal chandelier hangs crookedly from a single remaining chain over an antique carpet caked with boot prints and dust and random garbage, like the place has been used recently for squatting.
A closet behind the receptionist’s desk beckons to me. I cross over to it and whip the door open, nearly shrieking when a pair of green eyes set in a dirty face stare out at me. I leap back from the girl in the closet.
“Get out of here, this is my spot,” she spits, before pulling the door closed. I swallow, but my heart doesn’t move from its spot in my throat. I hadn’t expected to see another teenager in this place, let alone one in a freaking closet.
“Get out of here!” the girl hisses between the door slats. “You’re going to get me caught.”
I step backward, nearly tripping over a stack of yellowed phone books, then spin around. A silhouette moves past the back door. I need to hurry. I scan the lobby and spot a door with a small pane of frosted glass. I dash to it, and nearly cry with relief when it’s not locked: a set of stairs winds down into the dark basement.