Disclaimer: Don't own it, would like to, know it's not going to happen.

Author's note: We get to the violence. I wonder if Savannah's going to show up?

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Chapter 2

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I stood there. I wasn't proud of it, but that's what I did as my brain pushed past its terror to process what I was seeing.

Ryan was screaming, people were staring and Ken smiled. The sick look broke my stupor and I hurried away with the crowd. Ken didn't notice the way people began pushing each other to get away from him, too intent on his victim. He squeezed, veins pulsing in his arm. Everyone in the room who could see was backing away from the horrible sight. Blood was dripping down her still twitching body, pooling onto the floor. I leaned against the wall for support, slowly sliding down it. Curling into the tightest ball I could, I muttered a hiding spell.

Ken dropped her corpse to the floor unceremoniously. My eyes were rooted to the tableau in front of me, the supernatural towering over the dead girl, holding a heart that looked miniscule in gigantic hands. People around me were shouting but that didn't seem to matter right then.

I was shaking. My dulled senses were being flooded with the scent of blood and it made my insides quake. Her dead eyes stared at position in the corner. In my panic I couldn't help but be riveted by the resemblance. Long blonde hair, dead brown eyes, even a blue dress...but at least my eyes were moving. As long as the rest of me didn't move that thing couldn't find me.

Ken was examining the heart in his hand, clearly displeased with what he saw. Throwing it down to the floor carelessly, he began searching the room for someone else. I watched as the crowd got thinner as people moved to the exits. He had missed his chance.

Or maybe not. In the dark room, even as I huddled under a hiding spell, his eyes found me. With another grin—devoid of pleasure, devoid of mercy—he began stalking forward.

That was impossible, but I wasn't about to argue about it. Hurrying from my spot on the floor I raced to join the crowd. Pushing people out of my way, I couldn't help hearing fresh screams as Ken began to struggle through the crowd to get to me. Someone to my right began to sob as the crowd around the exit became too thick for us to push through. There was someone underfoot and I reached down to help them up, only to be trampled by someone behind me.

I made the mistake of looking back, to see what had become of Ken. The sound a neck makes when it snaps is terrifying in its utter ordinariness. Like cracking your knuckles, only a little louder, surer. But at the end there's a limp rag doll that's impossible to forget was once a person. He was demolishing whoever was in his way.

I spotted the sorcerer from earlier that night. He was mostly hidden by the crowd, but I saw his hands wave and the creature stumbled backwards. It recovered quickly and with a roar moved to rip the arms off the nearest person.

As the man screamed, something inside me finally snapped. I wasn't watching any more bloodshed. Struggling against the horde of bodies pressing on top of me, I began muttering a spell that Savannah had once taught me. It was too powerful for me—even failed attempts left me too weak to stand—but it might just work all the same.

There were different types of supernaturals and only a few that had super-strength. But the blatant disregard for human life, the enjoyment of suffering, the vacant eyes...that suggested demon to me. Even the most callous of supernaturals feared exposure. They had to live in this world, after all. The demons did not. Not that I'd ever been stupid enough to meet one—not even in my darkest moments had that seemed like a good idea.

The monster saw me, locking eyes. I continued to cast just as slowly. I didn't have the strength to recuperate from a miscast. The sorcerer watched us as Ken came towards me. I finished.

The anti-demon spell worked—Ken dropped to the floor, shaking in pain. The crowd around me continued to head to the exit. I pushed against them, keeping eye contact with the demon. I couldn't believe it; not only was I still standing, I had enough energy to fight the crowd.

The sorcerer appeared at my side, taking me by the arm. "Can you do that again?" he asked.

The demon was still moving. I couldn't believe it but it certainly felt like my spellcasting power could handle it. Carefully I cast. The demon's eyes bulged in pain and then closed. I found myself completely dependent on the sorcerer for support. That spell was too powerful; terrified for my life as I was, only adrenaline got me through it.

I tried not to look at the floor, which was covered in bodies and blood and organs that I wasn't even sure I recognized. The sorcerer helped me through the doors into the night air where most of the crowd was already dispersed. I could hear sirens in the distance—there were always sirens in L.A. but right then the sound made me shiver harder. The last thing I needed was to be called a witch on top of the night I had just had. I had to get out of there. There might be safety in public places, but not for me. Not for the man beside me either. He pulled me quickly away from the club.

The ground was uneven beneath my feet and if the sorcerer hadn't been with me I would have fallen a hundred times. I didn't even know where we were going, only that I was too tired to argue with whatever the sorcerer wanted.

He brought us to a parked car and quickly fished out his keys. He didn't invite me in, but now wasn't the time for invitations. I climbed into the front seat as we drove off into the night. The tears came then, for what I had just seen, for huddling in the corner like I was twelve, for being back there and powerless to stop it. My shoulders shook as I fought for control. Air seemed to have deserted me and I gasped, reduced once again.

Eventually I calmed down enough to glance at my companion. He was pushing his car faster than I knew was possible, but I wasn't going to complain. He didn't say anything about my outburst, or even ask who I was.

"Demons usually mean Cabals. And they hate leaving witnesses. I'm heading out of town, you should too."

"Did you see if he worked for one?"

"Hard to see anything but the blood."

The lights streamed past the car. The beginning of a colossal headache was forming behind my eyes. I thought about what he had said. There was no doubt he was right. Hanging around to see what the problem was didn't seem like a good idea.

"Is there someplace I can drop you off?" he asked.

"The UCLA campus? Thanks."

"I didn't know that spell," he offered. His way of saying thank you. I'm sure he knew plenty more spells than I did but almost nothing worked on a demon, especially one that was powerful as the monster back there had been. Nothing in his countenance suggested he thought I had brought the demon down on us. And a sorcerer would have brought it up if he thought something was a witch's fault. Maybe I had just been paranoid when I thought he was coming straight after me...it wouldn't be the first time.

"It was pure, dumb luck it worked."

"Only to be expected of a witch."

Ass. Sorcerers were all like that—save their lives and they still thought you were useless.

He told me his name was Zachery. We didn't talk much beyond that. Seeing people die—while a good bonding experience—sort of killed the conversation. There was also the fact that despite the fact he was helping me, it was out of a sense of gratitude, not because he thought I was a person deserving of respect. A few of his comments made it quite clear, but I didn't push. He was helping me, and I didn't want to bother trying to change his mind.

Tia provided me with a suitable reason to ignore him. She texted me and I called her, pretending I hadn't been there moments before, that I had already left. She was glad to hear that, complaining that the police wanted to interview witnesses. I wished her luck and told her I was going to head out of town that night. A friend had provided me with something to do over Spring Break. Tia wasn't surprised by my sudden decision. I tended to get myself dragged off by the strangest of people. Tia just made me promise to have a good time.

I asked Zachery to stop eventually. It was still a twenty minute walk, but I couldn't stay in the confined space any longer. The car hadn't even stopped properly when I got out.

"Thank you."

The car sped off the second the door closed. I didn't look back.

The neighbourhood was familiar, but I had never been able to enjoy the student ghetto and tonight it just made me want to scream. Instead, I wrenched off the heels and began to run. It might not have been safe, what with the broken bottles that scattered some of the lawns, but I couldn't stay still. When in trouble, MacArthurs ran. I was all bone and deteriorating muscle, but somehow my legs could move pretty fast when I needed them too. I was home in five minutes; sweaty, exhausted, but home.

Whatever had sent that thing would be pissed that he was stopped. I didn't want to be around in case they decided to thank me for it in person. I was good at running and I was going to play to my strengths.

The lights stayed off as I raced into the house. The bathroom was my first destination. Up came the alcohol and the few scraps of bread I had eaten that day. Burning acid, up my nose, doing nothing to drown out the smell of blood that seemed to permeate everything. I allowed myself to sit on the bathroom floor for an instant, the cool porcelain against my cheek. Then my sense of self-preservation kicked in and I hauled myself to my feet.

I rinsed my mouth, blew my nose and got to work. The dress was up and on the floor in a second. A little bit of water and a lot of soap helped get most of the blood off of my skin. I rushed upstairs, groping for clothes in the dark until I found the jeans and sweater I had worn that afternoon. On they went.

I grabbed a small duffle bag from under the bed. It took less than a minute to be satisfied that I had snatched enough clothing. All you every really needed was jeans and a t-shirt. There was a photograph of Dana and my father on the dresser—I grabbed that and carefully stuck it into my pocket. Everything else, I left. It was pathetic how little it was. There probably wasn't an easier person to erase off the face of the earth.

I wondered if I should leave a note, say goodbye properly, keep the girls from calling the cops, but at that moment my stomach lurched again and I forgot to care. I made it to the sink, spittle flying everywhere. I let the water run and then decided I had wasted too much time already. I was going.

The bag was slung across my back as I hurried out of the house, locking it behind me. Regret surged through me—not because I was leaving, but because it was so easy. I didn't stop walking. This is what I did.

As I walked as quickly as I could I tried to think of a plan. I knew lots of places I could go to, but none of them were protected enough. Not against a demon, especially not if a Cabal had sent it. And that was the most likely scenario. Cabals were the hubs of power in the supernatural world. Individuals did tend to tangle with demons, but those foolish souls ended up dead in alleyways. The kind of public disaster that I had just witnessed needed a lot of power to cover it up. And no person had that kind of power. Not unless they were affiliated with quasi-legal mob-like organizations that ran the supernatural world.

There were four major Cabals in North America, each run by a family of sorcerers. Boyd. Cortez. Nast. St. Cloud. Nothing stood against these organizations, unless it was one another. A Cabal was the only thing strong enough to protect me from a Cabal. And I had no idea which one was safe to turn to.

My options were further limited by my parentage. I was a witch. Sorcerers—tonight's good Samaritan had been an anomaly—did not help witches.

There were exceptions, of course. The Cortez Cabal was a major one. I was most intimately connected to that Cabal; my father had worked there. I had even stronger ties to the company heir, Lucas Cortez. He was married to a witch—Paige Winterbourne, the witch who had taught me all of the good magic I knew and was trying to bring witches the respect they deserved. If I could contact them, there was no doubt that they help. That's the kind of people they were. There were only a few small problems.

They lived in Portland, so if something did come after me, there was a good chance I wouldn't reach them before getting killed. Normally when dealing with a Cabal, there was always a satellite office or two thousand. Lucas, however, was in different situation. Though he was officially heir and could influence the direction of the company through his father, he was in fact trying to get out of being heir. Cabals were evil. Lucas was not. So while he would have willingly helped me, his family would not, not without his direct intervention. And the politics of that intervention was enough to make my head hurt.

There was another reason, more personal, to why I couldn't call Paige and Lucas directly, at least not yet. They were good people, the best even, but...but they didn't understand. I wasn't about to disappoint them again. I would not go to the Cortez Cabal.

I dismissed the Boyds and St. Clouds out of hand, not knowing anybody even remotely connected to either that would not be inclined to disregard me on sight for simply being a witch. I was about to do the same to the Nasts and just give up when a thought stopped me.

The Nasts had no reason to help me because it wasn't like they felt guilty or anything for ruining my life a few years back. In a way they steadily refused to deny, by the way. And they were just as bad as the other Cabals on their anti-witch stance—worse, in a way. But due to some of the bizarre coincidences in life and a rather interesting happenstance of biology, the bastard daughter of Kristof Nast (who would have been CEO right now, if he hadn't died ten years back) was the ward of Lucas and Paige Cortez. And said daughter, Savannah, was exactly my age.

Whether or not we were friends in the normal sense of the word was debatable. We rarely saw each other, but managed to bitch at each other constantly anyway. Savannah Levine—whose life story is so complex it gives me headaches—was the most powerful witch I knew. But she lacked patience, a quality I found useful to have when studying dead languages. So we collaborated and that led to talking.

Being the daughter of a Nast, however illegitimately, should have meant that Savannah was in good standing with the whole Cabal. Wrong. She was a witch and since no sorcerer had ever had a daughter before (not a recognized one, at any rate), most of the family refused to believe she really was Kristof's. Only her half-brother Sean talked to her, and I personally thought he should get some sort of award for daring to defy the entire Cabal that way. The Cabals were scary. But while Savannah might not have access to the Nast resources, she did have access to some Cortez ones. And she was incredibly protective of Lucas and Paige. She wouldn't worry them if she didn't have to. It could work.

If only I could find her.

Too bad she still wasn't picking up her cell phone. Time for more drastic measures. I tried the communication spell. It wouldn't work unless she was awake to hear it and close by, but I had done some pretty powerful spell work tonight and hoped that maybe she was still in L.A. looking for Paige's gift.

"Took you freaking long enough!"

I jumped, tripping over a non-existence hole in the sidewalk. I hadn't expected such a prompt—or loud—response. It was only in my head, but it was better than nothing.

I turned my thoughts in her direction. "Do you ever shut up? I need your help."

"I needed your help first. Seriously, Gillian, I've been waiting for you to contact me for hours."

"I was watching someone's heart ripped from their chest. I'm sorry, I didn't bother sensing to see if you wanted to gossip."

Not that Savannah and I ever did something as frivolous as gossip. Our relationship was based on our complementary strengths. We made a powerful spell casting team. But we didn't gossip.

"Wicked," she said. She would. "So that's what all that blood was from."

"Blood?" I thought. Communication spells weren't visual. They were like select mental telepathy. "What blood?"

"The stuff you scrubbed off you back at the house."

"Okay, how do you know that?"

I stopped walking and just stood there under the street light, bag over my shoulder, glancing around. There was no way she knew that. Unless she had installed security cameras at my house, or something equally creepy.

"Because I was back at the house waiting for you." I could feel her mentally sighing. "That would be why I need your help."

"You weren't at my house."

"Yeah, I was. And now I'm under the damn streetlight." I spun around, but there was no one there. Not even a cold fog. "To the left," she commanded. But even as I turned, I knew I would see nothing.

"I just had a really bad night," I told her, eyes beginning to water as exhaustion crept up on me. "Could you cut this out?"

"I swear I'm here, Gillian. You're wearing that hobo sweatshirt your dad bought you in Chechnya that I hate and you've still got blood along your hair line. I'm right here, beside you. I just can't touch you."

I trembled in the dark and then walked to the curb. Sitting down, I went through my duffel, finally coming out with a package of cigarettes. Lighting up, I asked: "So what have you gotten yourself into this time?"

"I told him you'd believe me. Excellent. So Paige's present...I might have been thinking about getting her that grimoire the Council had been looking into. You remember, the one that the witch in L.A. had?" I nodded. It was said to contain some wicked powerful healing spells. "I thought I'd go ask if she wanted to trade it."

In the darkness, no one could see me rolling my eyes. Savannah's idea of trading had likely been to walk in and demand the grimoire be handed over. She was very good at acting like the Cabal princess she should have been. There was probably more to the story than she was telling me. I knew her too well to doubt that. If she was waiting around to ask for my help, it meant she couldn't go to Paige. So whatever she had been doing, it was definitely not a white-hat type thing. Fighting had been involved, and probably dark magic.

"Only she wasn't alone. She was with these other women and they got all pissy so I told them what I thought and then they attacked me. Obviously I had to fight back—"

"Obviously."

"—and one thing led to another. It was four against one and even though I was ten times better than they were, pretty soon they had me surrounded. And that's when it happened."

"What happened?"

"That would be why I have a problem. I don't know. One second they could see me and the next second they couldn't. But worse than that, there was someone else I could see."

"Who?"

"Kristof."

Her father.

Her dead father.

This would be bad.

...