Finally she said it. “I'm afraid, Billy.”
It was an invitation to speak. “I know. So am I.”
There was a tremor in her voice. “What should we do?”
“I think we should go with him. I know it's all so sudden, but he's right. If you stay here . . .”
“Don't say it.”
So he didn't.
Her fear was so great that Billy felt he would cry. But he refused. Someone had to be strong for Darcy.
“Come with me,” he said and reached for her hand.
She hesitated, looked at his hand, then up into his eyes, taking his hand.
Please don't betray me, Billy. Please don't leave me.
“I won't,” he said.
ACCORDING TO the latest census, 89,213 people lived in Boulder City, Nevada, a scant twenty-nine miles south of Las Vegas, City of Sin. What was particularly interesting to the older residents was that much of the growth in the last two decades was within the Islamic community, a group that had been so vocal about the decadence of the Western world.
But the world had discovered a few things in the last twenty years, and chief among them was the realization that radical elements could tinge any group's image and trigger conflict where conflict could be easily avoided.
Most Muslims, like most Christians, like most Hindus, were moderate people who observed their faith as they might observe a high-school dance. The festivities could continue as long as there were no problems. And if a problem did surface, the adults would simply step in and either change it or cancel it.
In the realm of culture, religion in particular, the West had long ago embraced an all-inclusive disposition and called it
tolerance
. If a person did have a conviction of faith, which accounted for roughly 50 percent of the American populace, they learned to keep it to themselves in the name of tolerance. Common sense.
It was estimated that a full 30 percent of Boulder City residents were Muslims. Twenty-five percent Christian. Another 15 percent Hindu. Five percent miscellaneous, a blend of Buddhists and mystics. Only 25 percent were avowed atheists, which by national standards meant that this small city, nestled up against Las Vegas, was a hotbed of religious diversity.
Katrina Kivi, or Kat, as her friends and family called her, was a witch. Not the black-suited, spell-casting type that rode a broom or, for that matter, the Satan-worshipping die-hard type who believed that Lucifer would give them power if they cut themselves enough times or drank blood at one of the séances down by the river.
Kat was a witch because she wanted to be one, a choice that was as much a statement to herself as to the rest of the school. And the statement was unmistakable.
I am me, not any of you. Your rules and regulations
are meaningless to me. And if I want to express my religion, I will; you
can go to hell for all I care
.
A significant statement for a sixteen-year-old to make in the sea of adolescents who attended Boulder City High School, she thought.
Particularly an African American witch in a city that was mostly Anglo-Saxon Christian and Middle Eastern Muslim. Although she was not purely African American. Her grandfather had come from India and married an African American model from Los Angeles. They'd given birth to her father, who had married a Caucasian European, Helena, Kat's mother, then divorced her five years later. So what did that make Kat?
She wasn't sure, but she preferred to think of herself as African American. It had a desirable feel to it.
The negative consequences for such an admirable stand against the status quo came with the territory. Which was why she was on the city bus now, headed downtown to serve the first two of a hundred community service hours ordered by the judge for breaking Leila's jaw.
Leila, one of the Muslims who had overrun the school, had spit on the floor by Kat's feet and muttered something about burning in hell, and Kat had responded with a fist to the cheek.
Needless to say, Kat had never gotten along with the Muslims. Or the Christians. Or, for that matter, the Hindus. And she found those who walked around professing no faith to be the worst of the cattle, cowing to trends of the day to avoid disrupting the peace.
The school board put her before a local judge within the week, her second such appearance in the last two years. Among other things, the judge had made it painstakingly clear that this was the court's final expression of leniency. The next offense, and Kat would be subject to Nevada's adult criminal code. Any act of aggression or violence, regardless of the circumstance, would constitute a third strike and land her in jail for up to a year. No questions, no consideration.
The judge had then given Kat a choiceâforty hours of anger-management classes, or a hundred hours of community service at one of the shelters. She'd taken anger classes twice before. At least the shelter would give her an opportunity to hang out downtown. The consensus between her friends Jay and Carla was that choosing a hundred hours over forty hours was stupid, but then they didn't
really
know Kat. They dressed the same, talked the same, dated the same types now and then, but deep down, Kat wasn't like any of them. Not the Christians, not the Muslims, not the Jews, not even the other witches.
The bus rocked down Adams Boulevard and slowed to a stop in front of the shelter. Kat walked to the rear door, watched an older man with pale blue eyes look her over. And what did he see? A dark-skinned teenager with long straight hair who looked part Indian, part Anglo, part black, all attitude. Jeans. Black flip-flops. If he looked closer he might see the scars on her arm from the period she and her friends had taken to cutting themselves before deciding it was a pointless expression of angst.
An object, not a person, that's what he saw.
His gaze shifted from hers when he saw that she was staring back at him. Same thing every time in this town. They looked because they disapproved, but they didn't have the guts to hold a stare. No one in this world did.How could they expect anyone to follow a certain path if they weren't willing to hold eyes while giving directions? The world had lost its willpower, she thought.
She swung onto the steps and exited the bus. Boulder City had grown from the small-town tourist-trap at the entrance to Lake Mead. The homeless and less fortunate had spread south from Las Vegas. Now it was nothing more than a gray city without the bright lights that Vegas offered at night.
Kat walked into Our Lady of the Desert Community Shelter and looked around. No religious icons suggested it was run by the Catholics, naturally; not if they accepted any government funding. Five or six brown couches faced the walls. A television hung in one corner, playing a twenty-four-hour news feed. Small groups of ragged-looking poorâor scammers, as her friends called themâloitered.
Signs hung over several doors: Dining Room,Recreation Hall, Boarding, Office.
Kat entered the office, signed in after speaking to a Miss Barbara Collins (the Manager on Duty according to her badge), a large woman with red hair who processed her court orders and handed her a blue volunteer badge.
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“You can start by mopping the bathroom floor. You think you can handle that?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always got a choice. Next time you might want to wear sneakers.
Them flip-flops is liable to get wet working around here.”
“I thought I was going to work in the kitchen.”
“Cleaning up in the kitchen goes two hours past chowtime and commences an hour prior. When that time comes, if you're here, you can do all the work you want in the kitchen. We feed fifty hungry mouths every night. Right now, you need to clean the bathroom. Mop's in the closet next to the women's stalls.”
The whole notion of completing a hundred hours of service in this building weighed like a mountain on her shoulders. But then she'd known it would be like this even as she took the swing that cracked Leila's jaw.
This is gonna hurt me more than it is you, and I already hate you for it.
“We good?”
“Not really, no,” Kat said. She turned without another word and left the office.
“I'm leaving, so check in with the kitchen when you have the floor clean,” the MOD called after her. “And don't forget to put up them wet-floor cones.”
It took her less than half an hour to do the floors, because from the moment water splashed on her flip-flops she began slipping like a fish. There was no way she could do a decent job, so she slapped the mop around enough to wet the floor and then put the bucket away.
When she poked her head into the office, she saw that Miss Barbara was gone, as promised. In fact, this whole end of the shelter looked vacant. The scammers had probably gone off for some handout or other. She decided to give the premises a quick once-over before reporting to the kitchen.
Kat walked through bunkrooms, wondering what it would be like to spend a night under one of the army-green blankets next to some stranger. She headed for the recreation hall.
Her father had long ago split, leaving her mother with an only child. Amazing they hadn't ended up in one of these places. Her mother, Helena, seemed to do well dealing nights at the casino tables at the new casino in Henderson. They shared a two-bedroom apartment on the north side of Boulder City and saw each other several times a week. It wasn't the lifestyle of the rich or famous, but at least they weren't forced to beg on the streets.
Kat entered the recreation hallâa gym actually, with a basketball court and a stage. These didn't concern her. The seven meatheads who stood in a line facing her, however, did.
They were from her school. Several from her grade, a few juniors and seniors, standing there like they were lined up for a game, staring her down.
“Hello, witch.”
She turned around, surprised by the voice. The student standing in the doorway she'd entered through was an older student she'd seen around schoolâa Muslim who wore a black bandana over slicked hair, signifying his loyalty to his faith. Any such religious symbol was prohibited on school grounds, naturally, but it was still a free country off school property.
He grinned. “You know who I am?”
“A Muslim who knows I'm a witch,” she said. “Why, are you lost?”
“Very funny, lady.” The boy stepped a few steps closer. “Are all witches so funny?”
She'd walked into an ambush. These were friends of Leila, whose jaw she'd broken. They'd come to teach her a lesson.
One of the boys who stood abreast spoke in Arabic, thinking she didn't understand. But she'd learned enough around school to make out that he was saying they should do it quickly, whatever
it
was.
Kat backed onto the wood floor and scanned the walls for exits. Only two: one beyond the boys, and the door she'd entered.
“Asad,” the boy said. “Asad bin Fadil. So that you will remember who has done this to you.”
“Katrina Kivi,”Kat said. “So that when you wake up blind, you'll know who took your eyes.”
He wasn't sure what to do with her response; she knew by the way his eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
Easy, Kat, remember the judge's terms.
She should be running already.
But running felt like suicide to her, not because it was dangerous but because it was cowardly. There were some things she couldn't bring her-self to do. Running from a person she hated was one of them.
And Katrina hated Asad. She knew this having only just made his acquaintance.
“You struck a Muslim,” the older boy said.
“No, actually, I struck an idiot. The fact that she was also a Muslim was coincidental.”
“She was also a very close friend of mine.”
“I thought Muslim men kept their women in order. So why did you allow her to insult me?”
Asad let his grin fade. “Don't make the mistake of thinking that all Muslims are as tolerant as the millions of pretenders who call themselves Muslims. I would as soon insult any Muslim who mocks God by refusing to follow the Koran as insult an infidel who worships Satan.”
“Then we have more in common than you think,” she said. “I hate pretenders as well.”
He stopped. “We have nothing in common but the ground we walk on, and I promise you that it will soon be covered with your blood.”
“Or the fluid from your eyes.”
One of the others chuckled, coaxing a smile from Asad. “A feisty one. You'd make a good wife for the cold nights.”
“I think I'd probably throw up all over you,” she said. The familiar calm before the storm settled over her.
Asad dipped his head. “And for that I would kill you.”
“Didn't Muhammad preach peace?”
“Peace for the peaceful. Death to those who refuse to convert. How can you worship Satan? It's an abomination!”
“I'm not a Satanist. I'm a witch, for the fun of it. My way of protesting all world religions. Christianity, Islam, Judaism, and for that matter, Satanism. I find them all absurd. So I converted to my own religion. Witchery.”
“Then you worship only yourself. Disgusting.” Asad cast a glance at the others, who closed in slowly. He spit to one side. “Don't be fooled by the weak. God is great.”
“Really? He's no longer willing to defend the helpless in this god-forsaken place. I assumed it was because he is dead.”
Asad's hands balled into fists.
She continued to goad him, seeking an advantage. “Your God, this so-called God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jesus that you Muslims live and kill for, is no more real than the God Christians have been killing for since the dawn of time. Muhammad was no more a prophet than Jesus was.”
Asad's eyes flashed in the face of all of the terrible insults to his sacred faith.
“Muslims are as deluded as Christians. You're all a bunch ofâ”
“Stop!” he screamed. And Kat threw herself at him then, while his eyes were momentarily shut, midscream.