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hoped not to have to use the chute off the Cap, as she might land in the midst of the Brood members below who had been summoned by the explosions to the street. The plan had been to wait on the rooftop till the sidewalks were empty, as the Broodsters filed back into the building, to investigate the site of the burglary. And then she'd float to earth.
    But this would do in a pinch. No help would be waiting below, however—Moody and the Chinese Clan were nowhere to be seen as she drifted toward the street; that didn't surprise Max . . . their job, after all, had been to provide a diversion. They'd done as much, and split. She floated to the pavement, touched down, turned off the blower, and wrapped up the chute.
    Then she turned, to see Brood members swarming toward her, dangerous dimwits in tattered denim. The first one fell to a spinning roundhouse kick to the head, the second to a straight kick to the groin, the third to a right cross.
    And then Max was running, the gangsters in pursuit. Turning the corner, she found herself flying down Vine Street with half the Brood behind her. She raced down the middle of the street, her shoes pounding on the shiny wet pavement. Just as she passed a manhole cover, Max wondered idly why the street was damp—it hadn't rained today, hadn't rained for weeks. As she heard the manhole cover slide open, Max stopped, pivoted, and dropped into her fighting stance.
    Catching a glimpse of silver hair rising out of the manhole, the unmistakable nasty perfume of gasoline filling her flaring nostrils, Max suddenly knew why the street was wet. . . .
    She spun away and ran for all she was worth—which was plenty—even as she heard the
whoosh
of the gas igniting. Some of the Brood screamed, but she assumed it was more out of fear than pain. Moody wouldn't let them get close enough to be caught in the fire . . . probably.
    The idea was to stop the pursuit, not to incinerate the pursuers, though a few charred casualties wouldn't have Max or Moody losing much sleep. Looking over her shoulder as she ran, Max saw the wall of flame separating her from pursuers who were folding back into the night, scurrying home to their tower of broken dreams.
    And she saw that Moody had disappeared back down the manhole, as if he'd not even really been there, a ghost haunting what had once been Hollywood's most famous street.
    “Thanks,” she said to the night, and was gone.
             
    Less than an hour later, with the security plans to guide her, Max negotiated the electronic locks and first-floor laser guards of the former office building and current home of the Hollywood Heritage Museum. Her new goal lay at the far end of the second floor, in a locked room guarded by more lasers, mines, and a special alarm under the object itself.
    Only two guards patrolled the museum at night, and one of them was already napping at the security desk on the first floor.
    There wasn't supposed to be anything of real worth in the museum, strictly nostalgia on display; but Max—thanks to Moody—knew better. Many of the exhibits from the history of American filmmaking displayed objects of value only to wealthy collectors of pre-Pulse memorabilia. None of the kitschy artifacts could compare to the literal jewel that awaited her at the end of the hall.
    The first floor contained many remnants of the days that the placards posted next to exhibits referred to as the “Golden Age of Silents.” The cane, bowler, and black suit of a “comic” named Chaplin, some kind of Arab outfit a feminine-looking actor named Valentino had worn in a couple of “silent” movies, and even a train engine that the placard proudly stated came from a Buster Keaton movie called
The General.
    Silently climbing the last few stairs to the second floor, Max found herself prowling a hallway whose placard boasted of material from the “Golden Age of Studios.” For a place with so many “Golden Ages,” Max thought, there seemed to be precious little