THE LAST CAR had finally left.
My announcement of needing to clear the auditorium because of a gas leak had not been met with panic. Instead, people had shuffled out, grumbling, and demanding their money back. I made a quick call from the lobby phone, since cell phones were traceable, and the appearance of the police, firefighters, and SouthCal Gas Corp. had audience members moving a tad faster.
I didn’t wait around after the police arrived. Grabbing my sword, I hightailed it to a secluded vantage point, where I’d wait until the leak had been fixed and everyone safely removed from the premises.
My cell phone rang as flocks of people spilled out into the parking lot.
“How did you know about the gas leak?” my mom demanded.
“I have a sensitive nose.”
“Since when? You can’t tell the difference between curry powder and talcum powder.”
I turned my phone off after that.
One good thing had come out of all this—well, besides all the innocent lives being saved—my abrupt appearance onstage made my previous abrupt disappearances seem positively explainable.
As the last of the fire trucks rumbled away, I headed back to my car. I wasn’t worried about someone giving my description to the police. Black hair, brown eyes, tan skin—described about 99 percent of the audience members tonight.
Of course if the words “Aphrodite-like” or “Salma-Hayek-esque” were thrown in—I’d be spotted at fifty yards.
I highly doubted anyone would remember my name from my mom’s freaked outburst. If they did, I’d handle it when the time came.
Careening out of the parking lot, I had no intention of going home. I’d keep to the plans I’d made before the concert.
Patrolling time.
Maya Mehra. Goddess of Destruction and Early-Warning Systems.
Not too shabby.