Chapter One

"Run, run, run away, run away baby, before I put my spell on youuuu…"

I tapped my Converse-clad foot in the air where it hung over my knee, the boom-box beside me thudding away to Bruno Mars's jazzy tones. The clear black sky above stretched as far as it could before running up against the wall of skyscrapers surrounding me. A haze of orangey light circled the horizon of buildings, highlighting the city in a pale, eerie glow and preventing the stars from showing their sparkly little faces. The concrete under my back was cold and hard, but I'd slept on worse. It was better than down on the streets. And at least no one could call me a hobo up here.

Ignoring the fact that I was a hobo. That was beside the point.

And no one could mug me up here either. For a homeless person, I had some valuable shit. What, with the boom-box, the real deal Converse All-Stars, and the set of silver stakes tucked away in my backpack – oh, yeah. I was worth quite a few mints. And not just because of what I had either. Who… well, maybe more what I was automatically plastered a ginormous bounty on my pretty little head.

But I wasn't going to think about that. Because every time I let myself go there, I was doomed to yet another long, sleepless night. And I had work to do tomorrow. I couldn't afford to be tired.

So I was going stop thinking about it.

Right now.

"Ah, shit…" I swore at myself, my nose wrinkling. I reached over and turned the boom-box up as high as I could without having building security come down on my ass. When that didn't work, I began to sing along, clear, melodious notes working their way up from the bass of my chest and out of my mouth. I knew all the songs word-for-word. That tends to happen when you spend as much time as I have alone, hungry, and dead-beat broke, with nothing to turn to but music.

I'd figured out how to make money for myself after a few lonely months, wondering the streets of each new town or city, hoping like hell that there was at least one kind person decent enough to help a stray out without calling the cops. I'd had quite a few close calls with that tactic.

Then, I'd found New York.

"…Concrete jungle where dreams are made of, there's nothing you can't do. Now you're in New York…" I sung absently, barely even concentrating on the words. I slipped smoothly into rapping along with JayZ without really thinking about it.

I'd met a group of dancers while wondering around Times Square, trying not to look like a total tourist with my mouth hanging open and my bag clutched tightly and slung over one shoulder, my baseball cap pulled down to an extreme angle across my eyes. It had been getting late and I'd desperately needed a place to crash after four hours stowed away on the back of a freight train and an hour of hard-out running from the cops that had found me there. Then there were the things that came out with the darkness… Things that normal, regular people don't know about until it's too late. Yeah, I got real lucky that night.

My clothes were rumpled and dirty and people were giving me weird looks. Maybe I smell, I thought in horror, resisting the urge to sniff myself.

I stood by the side of the road for quite a while, trying to figure out the best way to cross without getting squished. I watched the New Yorkers weave between the cars almost absentmindedly, barely even looking at where they were going. They're insane. They're all completely, utterly nuts, was all that I could come up with to describe the big, scuttling wad of people as I shook my head in disbelief.

Finally, I thought I'd figured out a way: run like hell.

I hurried off the footpath and across the cram-packed street, almost getting sideswiped by more than one bright yellow taxi. An angry looking, middle-aged Asian guy yelled obscenities at me, shaking his fist in the air like something from a bad cartoon.

"You crazy girl! You no good! No good! Crazy, no good, kid–"

I spun and leapt to the side to avoid running into another cab and collided instead with a broad, solid chest.

"Hey! What the–"

We went down in a heap and the incredibly muscled black guy ended up with me on his chest and a tangled mess of badly dyed coal-black hair in his face. My hat ended up on the other side of the sidewalk and I only just managed to hook the strap of my bag in my elbow as it flew after it. I sputtered apologies left, right and centre as I pushed myself off him and launched back to my feet. I kept my head down and tried not to look at any of their faces as I turned and ran – straight into another guys arms.

"Whoa, Chiquilla," a lilting, heavily accented voice intercepted my escape. With the help of a big, rock-hard pair of arms. "Hang on a second."

"I said sorry!" I yelled in his face, momentarily forgetting how much bigger than me he was.

The Spanish guy's eyebrows shot up, a bemused look taking over his firmly built face, and there was a small minute of silence in the group of guys, broken by the chatter of voices around us and the blare of a horn and other city grumblings. Then they laughed. Like, really laughed. I couldn't tell whether it was directed at me or if they were just laughing at the way I'd said it. I think it was a little bit of both.

I stared around at them, befuddled, until the Spanish one spoke again and my head snapped around so fast I swore I felt it click. He was still holding me by my biceps and he had to squat a little to come face to face with me. "Chiquilla, we're not going to hurt you." I blew at the stringy hair that hung limply in my face. He tilted his head at me, as if I was some sort of pet that he was trying to find a name for. Sure enough, he asked the obvious question. "What's your name, pequeño ratón?"

A few laughs ran through the group and I scowled at him, my jaw settling into what dad used to call my I'm-not-a-baby-and-you're-not-going-to-treat-me-like-one look. "What did you call me?" My voice rose threateningly at the end. I was really asking for trouble, but I was tired beyond caring and all I wanted was a hot bath and a warm bed.

"Little shit, more like," the only guy that came even remotely close to white said, but when I turned my glare on him he was grinning. He was covered in tattoos ranging from snarling skulls to "Maman" written in sprawling calligraphy and circled with a love heart made of barbed wire. I thought he sounded French. "You've got yourself a daring tongue there, petit fille."

"Dude, she ain't a little anything!" the African American guy I'd bowled over exclaimed, rubbing his back and grimacing. "I think she broke something…"

"Drama queen," the other, skinnier, but slightly taller black guy remarked.

"What'd you say?"

"You heard what I said."

"You wonna go?"

"Callarse! We have young ears here! Jesus…" The Spanish guy shook his head and rolled his eyes. He refocused on me. He smiled, as if in apology. "Now, you might want to tell me what you call yourself before they start making up nicknames," he said in an even, soothing voice, like he was trying to persuade a feral cat to come to him.

I tilted my chin up. "Hero." I wasn't about to tell anyone my last name – just in case.

He grinned and stood straight. I was tall and lanky, like all my kind, but he still towered over my eight-year-old frame. He seemed to consider something for a moment, and then looked to the French guy. He nodded back.

"Alright then, Miss Hero," he said lightly, strolling over and plucking my Dodgers cap from the dirty ground and brushing it off. He came back and pulled it over my hair, tugging the tip of it down a bit. I pushed it back up; looked at him. "Where are you sleeping tonight?"