Angel Fire

by L. A. Weatherly

Page 96

 

  Swallowing hard, I searched mentally for Alex again. At first there was nothing, and then faintly, through the chaos of my mind, came the familiar feel of his energy. It was like getting a static-y radio station, but it was there. He was alive. That was pretty much all I could tell, and in a way it was enough – though remembering the cold look that had been in his eyes before Seb and I went into the cathedral, my heart ached even more than before.

  Stop it, I ordered myself harshly. It was over between the two of you anyway. If you doubted it, then that should have been your tip-off – because if he was still in love with you, there’s no way he’d have let you go in there without telling you. None.

  The thought of it really being over between us – of Alex not being in love with me any more – hurt far too much to dwell on. I’d put the file that I’d stolen under my jean jacket, buttoning it into place, and now, as we walked, its stiff cardboard jabbed against my ribcage. Focus on that, I told myself, not Alex. And absolutely not on what happened in the cathedral. The file; the sandals hurting my feet. Seb’s hand. Just focus on Seb’s hand – the firm grip of it; how warm and caring it feels – and not bodies, sprawled helpless and bloody across the cathedral floor. Not the young preacher, with half his head blown away and one eye staring up at the painted angels on the ceiling.

  Definitely do not think about these things.

  The sidewalk had become trash-ridden and more crowded with people now; the buildings to either side looked run-down and grimy. I could sense from Seb’s sudden reluctance that we were almost there, though his body language was as laid-back as ever. He let go of my hand and put his arm around my shoulders.

  “You’re my girlfriend again, okay?” he said. “Don’t look around you too much, no matter what you see. They don’t like outsiders here. They think of them as prey. ”

  I nodded, my throat almost too dry to speak. “No matter what I see?”

  We turned a corner and there was a marketplace ahead: a long, dingy street filled with lit stalls. I could see clothes for sale; jewellery and cellphones. Vendors were shouting at customers in Spanish, hawking their bargains. Seb’s expression as he took it all in was twisted with more bitterness than I’d ever seen on it.

  “This is the place where you can buy things,” he explained shortly. “Drugs, weapons. The end of someone’s life. Just ignore anything you see. ”

  Entering Tepito was like ducking into a long, rustling tunnel, formed by the plastic awnings of the market stalls. They seemed to close in around us, just like the thudding rock music that was suddenly everywhere. There were stalls selling angel statues, angel key chains, angel T-shirts. DVDs of popular movies, lots with the titles misspelled. Racks of “designer” clothes with labels that were just as wrong. I glimpsed two men off to the side; one tucked something inside his jacket as money changed hands. White, flashing smiles.

  I tore my gaze away and tried to pretend I was back in Pawntucket, scraping through the hangers of the town’s single JC Penney, so bored that my eyes were glazing over. Even so, I couldn’t help staring when we passed what looked like the entrance to a small chapel. There was a skeleton sitting on a throne inside, wearing a tiara and a frilly white wedding dress. Flowers and lit candles were spread in front of it. There was even a glass of wine sitting there, as if it might decide to have a drink.

  “Santa Muerte,” said Seb to my unspoken question. “Saint Death. Many people here worship her. ” He snorted slightly. “At least she’s not wearing angel wings yet. ”

  I knew how much Seb hated being back here; I kept getting flashes of memory from him that made me cringe. But as he walked, his lean body had an indifferent look – as if he belonged on these streets and still had his switchblade in his pocket. His arm, looped around my shoulders, seemed just as relaxed. A few people glanced speculatively at us, took him in, and then looked away again.

  And even though it was only Seb, who’d probably had his arm around me half a dozen times. . . something in me had gone very still at the nearness of him. Remembering the weird moment of jealousy that had come over me when Céline had kissed him – how, for a second, I’d actually hated her for the attraction that had shone so clearly in her eyes – I shook my head in confusion. God, what was wrong with me? I was still so conscious of the pain over Alex that it was like a boulder pressing on my heart. I couldn’t deal with whatever this was now; my emotions were tattered enough already.

  Seb didn’t falter as he led me through a gap I hadn’t even noticed between two stalls. With a rustle of plastic, we were suddenly out on another street, just as crowded and tunnel-like as the first. No wonder the locals could tell who didn’t belong so easily; only someone who’d been raised in Tepito could prowl it with no hesitation. Seb stayed quiet as we wove through the stalls – and I knew that the violence and death we’d witnessed at the cathedral made his memories at being back here even more raw. Scrounging food from a trash can because he hadn’t eaten in days; hiding fearfully under a stall table, hoping his mother’s boyfriend wouldn’t find him. I swallowed. I’d seen images like this from him before, but never so loaded with emotion.

  Suddenly I had that prickling feeling again, like I was being watched, just like I used to get so often back at the house – only this time when I looked, there was actually someone there. A stocky guy in his early twenties stood nearby, leering as he took in my short skirt. I held back a shudder; it felt like clammy hands running over me.

  I realized my eyes had met his and looked hastily away, but it was too late – he came sauntering over, blocking our path. Though shorter than Seb, he was a lot broader, with beefy muscles. With a silky smile at me, he made a comment in Spanish. Seb answered tersely, trying to steer us past. The man grinned and sidestepped in front of us; my stomach turned at the smell of stale sweat and too much cologne. He looked lingeringly at my chest – and then with a smirk he reached out and stroked my cheek, saying something that sounded slimy no matter what the language.

  I jerked away, but Seb was faster. He’d stiffened when the man spoke; now he grabbed his shirt and shoved him off me, low, furious Spanish spilling from his lips. With a lunge, the guy pushed Seb back, sending him staggering a few paces. They faced each other on the sidewalk, eyes locked.

  “Seb, it’s all right!” I clutched his arm. His muscles were rigid as he stared at the man; I could feel the hard swell of his bicep. “Whatever he said, it doesn’t matter – please, just forget it. ”

  The guy sneered and said something else. You didn’t have to speak Spanish to get the gist: Yeah, listen to your girlfriend. She knows I’d flatten you in a fight.

  I ignored him and took Seb’s hand, squeezing it. “Come on, let’s go. ” Trying to laugh, I added, “Look, I didn’t even understand what he said. Really, just forget it. It’s okay. ”

  Seb’s hand gripped mine as if it were a lifeline. Finally, he let out a long breath. “Yes, you’re right,” he said softly.

  Without another word, he put his arm around me again and we walked away. The bustle of the marketplace around us continued without even a ripple; no one had paid any attention to the scene. The man called something after us, laughing.