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"Watch it," I said. "Or I'll make you look in it."
"No, thank you," she muttered, raking her fingers through her tangled hair.
I angled the mirror to look both ways down the hall.
"I see a desk," I said. "But it's empty. Looks like pages scattered on the floor."
"Make a ruckus. You're good at that."
I yelled again for a guard. Then I grabbed Jaime's shoes and clanged the bars like a B-movie convict.
I looked again at those dropped pages--someone had left in a hurry. I remembered the biker chick shrieking
during our fight. Then the old woman screaming when my father ignored her. If no one had come for that, they sure as hell weren't coming for my clanging.
I crouched and studied the lock.
"You gonna pick that with your hairpin, sweetheart?" the biker chick sneered.
"No, I'm going to pick it with hers."
I walked over to Jaime and held out a hand. She plucked two from her hair.
"See, you do come ready for trouble," I said. "Mirrors, stilettos, hairpins. I get the feeling you've been in jail before."
She flipped me off as she lay back on the cot.
I hunkered down by the lock again. Of course, there is no way in hell you can escape a jail cell with a hairpin. But it made a good cover story while I worked at the door with an unlock spell.
Two days ago I'd been told--by some mysterious otherworld entity--that my spells weren't actually gone. My power supply had just been cranked way down. Like a neophyte witch, I could build power through practice, and so I'd been practicing.
I'd been able to successfully cast simple things like a light ball. And that flare of magic with the biker chick had reinforced something I'd experienced once before--that if I tapped deep enough into my power, I could cast on emotion, without even reciting a spell. That was serious mojo. If this temporary power drain meant I could reach that level someday, then it was worth it. But right now, I needed all the juice I could get. I was determined to open this door, however much time and concentration it took. It took a lot. Twenty minutes later I heard a little click.
"Finally."
I stood and pulled on the door. It moved about a quarter inch, then caught, something inside grinding.
"You can't open a cell with a hairpin, you stupid twat," the biker chick said.
I turned to snarl at her, then gathered that frustrated anger and flung it at the door instead. Another click. When I yanked, it gave a little more, but still wouldn't open.
"You're getting there," said a voice behind me.
I turned to see Jaime, wobbling slightly. She squeezed my shoulder. "You're getting it. Just keep--"
The door at the end of the hall flew open, a cacophony of shouts blasting through before it closed again. Silence. Then the thud of heavy boots.
A moment later, a man came into view. He looked like a stereotypical cop, right down to the mustache and lantern jaw. He wasn't wearing a uniform, though. He was wearing blood.
Bare chested. Skin dappled with red. More blood dripping from his hands, which were dangling at his sides, his fingers stubby, nails thickened to claws.
There's not much I'll back away from. A werewolf partway into his Change is one of those things.
FOUR
I backed up into Jaime, my arms wide to shield her. She started around me, her chin going up, mouth firm, lower lip quivering slightly.
"I--I can handle this," she said.
