I spin around, trying to follow their movements.
I don’t notice that Eminem has vanished until he’s right behind me, breathing down my neck. I shriek, which is apparently really funny. Sporty Spice rolls in the sand, kicking up her feet.
“How did you do that?” I ask. “Where am I?”
“Ah,” Eminem says into my ear, making a shiver pass through me. “We got us another one. Lex?”
The girl rolls up into a tiger crouch.
“Let the fun begin,” Bob Marley says. He rubs his hands together.
Fun? What the hell is that supposed to mean? The sorcerers seemed bent on kidnapping humans, and Goth Woman seemed to want answers. These three? They seem like they want blood.
“Don’t be nervous,” Eminem says. “Let’s just go down for a little chat, shall we?”
He scoops me up so fast I gasp, then lobs me over the side. My scream lasts only a second before a pair of hard arms cushion my fall, then spring me out like we’re practicing one of Bianca’s basket tosses. I manage two disoriented steps in the doughy sand before someone grabs my arm and violently pulls me back. I stumble, just as a boot crashes into my ribs. I keel over, too stunned to feel pain. And then it hits me, white-hot pain bursting from my side, and my mouth opens in a soundless scream.
The guy behind me shakes with laughter. I force my body out of the fetal position and desperately try to pick myself up off the ground, but then a boot strikes the center of my back. I splatter face-first onto the beach, taking in a mouthful of sand. I cough and gag as pain splits my spine, my vision blurring at the edges. The last thing I see before darkness overtakes me is a boot coming for my temple.
15
I wake up to the face of God.
Actually, I think it’s Jesus. His face is painted in an elaborate mural on the arched ceiling and surrounded by gilded halos and pink-cheeked cherubs. If my brain weren’t banging against my skull so hard that my ears ring and if my ribs didn’t feel like they were recently kicked in by a size 9 shoe—oh, and if not for the raised voices volleying swears back and forth at each other somewhere not far away—then I might think I’d died and gone to heaven.
I keep very still, trying to hear the conversation going on before anyone notices I’m conscious. I catch only bits and pieces.
“It’s our standard agreement.”
“That was before—”
“They’re getting desperate. Haven’t you seen—”
“She’s worth more than that now.”
“—probably can get them to toss in Santa Monica.”
“After you three idiots roughed her up?”
A scuffle breaks out. I struggle up on my elbows, and a voice nearby cries, “She’s awake!”
Before I can get all the way up, a dozen faces surround me, looking down from above. They exchange knowing looks with each other. I recognize the three from the beach among the group, but the rest are new faces. They range in age from early twenties, like Sporty Spice (I’m being generous here), to pushing sixty, like the guy wearing one of those really bad Hawaiian shirts that dads are famous for sporting on hot vacations, although he looks like he could probably bench-press me. I shrink under their assessment.
“Not so bad,” Eminem says.
“Are you kidding?” someone pipes up. “Her damn face is purpler than a friggin’ eggplant.”
“They won’t care about that,” Sporty Spice says. “They just want a warm body.”
“And how do you know that, huh?” The one who said that is a girl with a messy pixie cut wearing an oversized plaid shirt that comes down to her knees. “You have intimate knowledge of the sorcerer’s plans?”
Her words are like a blow to my stomach: they’re rebels.
What now?
I clear my throat, fighting to keep calm when they turn to face me. “You’re Zeke’s people?” I ask, remembering the name Cruz used for the leader of the rebels.
“How did you know that?” Sporty demands.
“How do you know about Zeke?” Bob Marley asks.
The rest of the rebels glare suspiciously at me.
Crap. How do I know that? Revealing my confrontation with Cruz doesn’t seem like the best idea.
They wait for an answer I don’t have. I think fast.
“I—I overheard it,” I lie.
Pixie raises her eyebrows, so I continue.
“I was checking out that hut on the beach when I heard voices outside. I hid before I could see their faces, but I heard their conversation. They said something about this guy named the Chief and this other guy named Zeke.”
A few people bark laughter. I don’t know what’s so funny.
“Zeke’s a woman,” Sporty explains. “And you’re lucky she’s not here or you’d be in for it.”
“Oh.” I remember Goth Woman from the night of the Bat Boy attack—maybe I came face to face with the leader of the rebels and didn’t even know it.
“What happened to your arm?” Sporty asks.
“I got mugged yesterday,” I answer easily. I’ve said it so many times it almost feels like it’s true.
She assesses my wound for a long moment. “I think she’s lying,” she finally says.
“I’m not,” I say.
“None of us were down at the beach earlier. We were all here for the meeting. How could you have heard anything?”
I swallow. “Well, maybe it wasn’t one of you?”
“This is rebel territory,” she says. “Who else would you have heard?”
“I don’t know,” I answer.
“Jason did see that guy nosing around the pier last week,” a ginger guy says. “Maybe the Chief’s sending spies.”
The group breaks out into loud arguments. I don’t know what’s going on, but I feel really weird lying on the ground while the whole thing unfolds above me. I push myself up, and no one stops me.