feet away, Kayla could tell that it hurt a great deal, though the bleeding had stopped beneath the shirt he'd wadded up against the wound, under his jacket. Some tiny part of her wanted to touch him and heal that pain, but she held herself back from it. Not now, she thought. And not ever again, if I can manage that. The image of the kid dying in front of her wouldn't leave her thoughts, burned into her mind. I'm never doing anything for Carlos or his homeboys again, ever.
Except maybe Ramon. Her hand brushed his curly hair back from his forehead. She thought he looked a little better now, less pale. It was hard to tell in the dim glow from the streetlights.
Carlos parked the car in front of an old house on a quiet street. “I'll be back in a minute for Ramon,” he said to Kayla. He got out and walked to the passenger side of the car, helping the other guy out of the car.
Kayla thought about taking off at a run while Carlos walked the other guy to the door of the house. Then she thought about the pistol in Carlos' belt—would he hesitate to shoot her? Maybe, maybe not.
Carlos returned a minute later to sling Ramon over his shoulder and carry him out like a sack of potatoes. Kayla followed uncertainly.
Inside the house, a heavyset middle‑aged woman was crying and talking angrily in Spanish as she looked under the improvised bandage on the guy's shoulder. She wailed even louder as Carlos set ­Ramon down on the couch. He turned back to Kayla. “You can do your magic on him now, bruja.”
“No,” Kayla said, hoping her voice didn't sound as scared as she was. “I won't.”
He blinked, as if he thought he hadn't heard her correctly. “What?”
“I said, I'm not going to heal him.”
He nodded. “You must still be tired from everything you did earlier. That's all right, you can heal him later.”
“I'm not going to heal him at all.”
“You'll heal him, girl!”
“No, I won't!”
Carlos raised his hand, and Kayla was certain he was going to hit her again. “Carlos,” Ramon called weakly from the couch.