Angel Fire, Page 2

Page 2

 

  “Gracias,” he murmured to the absent woman with a smile, and then nimbly swung himself out.

  Hitch-hiking to the orphanage took a while; it sometimes did. Towards evening, a trucker was giving Seb a lift the final stretch of the way, talking non-stop about his girlfriend. Smoking a cigarette the man had given him, Seb sat leaning back against the vinyl seat of the cab with one sneakered foot resting on the dash, only half-listening as he savoured the familiar taste. He didn’t often have the money these days to waste on cigarettes.

  “And so I told her, chiquita, I’m not having this – I told you twice already. You have to listen to me when I talk to you. Take in what I’m actually saying, you know what I mean?” The trucker glanced at Seb for confirmation; he had a broad face, with heavy eyebrows.

  “Yeah, you’re right, man,” said Seb, blowing out a stream of smoke. “Good for you. ” He’d far rather be reading than listening to this crap; unfortunately there was a sort of etiquette involved with hitch-hiking. Making conversation was the price of the ride.

  “But she never listens to me, does she? No, off in her own world, that one. Hopeless. Beautiful, but. . . ” The man went on, talking and talking.

  Seb watched him idly, noting the angry red lines that had appeared in his aura, like lightning flashes. When he’d first gotten into the cab, he’d shifted the colours of his own aura so that they matched the trucker’s blue and yellow hues. He knew the man wouldn’t be able to see them or tell; it was just a habit left over from childhood, when blending his aura in with those around him had made him feel safer. More hidden.

  But the more Seb listened to this jerk, the more he really didn’t want to share his aura. He shifted back to his natural colours as he got an image of the man standing in a kitchen shouting; a dark-haired woman looking frightened. Not exactly a surprise. The trucker didn’t feel like he’d be a danger to Seb, though; he seemed strictly the type to bully those who were weaker. Seb knew he’d probably have sensed it if he had anything to worry about – and there was always the switchblade he carried in his pocket in case there was trouble. You didn’t travel alone in Mexico without a weapon, unless you were terminally stupid.

  “Now, take you for instance,” the truck driver went on. “How old are you – seventeen, eighteen?”

  “Seventeen,” said Seb, blowing out another stream of smoke. He’d be eighteen in less than a month; he didn’t bother volunteering that.

  “Yeah, and I bet you don’t have any trouble getting the girls, do you?” The man gave a guffawing laugh; his aura chuckled along with him, flickering orange. “You look like a rock star, with that face and stubble – like all the girls would have you up on their walls. But take my advice, amigo, never let them. . . ”

  Mentally rolling his eyes, Seb tuned out, wishing he could snap on the radio at least. People often commented on his looks, but looks couldn’t get him the one thing he wanted.

  “So where are you from?” asked the man finally, stubbing out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. “Sonora? Sinaloa?”

  “El DF,” said Seb. The Distrito Federal; Mexico City. It was almost dark now; the traffic heading towards them was a series of lights swooping out of the gloom. “My mother was from Sonora. ”

  “Thought so,” said the man, glancing at him again. “French, I bet. Or Italian. ”

  Seb couldn’t resist. “Italian,” he said, keeping a straight face. “Venice, originally. My great-grandfather was a gondolier – then he immigrated here and there weren’t any canals, so he became a ranchero. ”

  The truck driver’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Seb, leaning forward to tap the ash off his cigarette. “Over ten thousand head of cattle. But I think his heart was always with the canals, you know?” He could have gone on in this vein for some time, except the guy was such an idiot that it was too easy to be much fun.

  The truck driver went back to the endless subject of his girlfriend, outlining her many failings and the ways in which she was going to have to improve. A few more flashes of the woman being bullied came to Seb as he droned on, so that by the time they reached Seb’s destination and pulled over to the side of the road, he could have happily choked the guy. Instead, he filched the pack of cigarettes and lighter from the trucker’s jacket pocket as they shook hands. He hadn’t picked a pocket since he was a kid on the Mexico City streets, but it gave him a certain satisfaction – though really, he should let the cabrón keep smoking, since it was bad for your health.

  As the truck pulled away, Seb gave himself a quick shake, freeing himself of the unpleasant energy like a dog shaking itself dry of water. He was almost in the Sierra Madre now, standing on a hill in the gathering dark with the shadowy hulk of mountains rising up from the horizon. He focused briefly to make sure there weren’t any angels nearby, then sent his other self searching. As he soared he found the orphanage easily; it was about half a mile down the road, a sprawling building with a barren-looking playground. He pulled on a sweater from his knapsack and started walking, letting his other self keep flying as he did. The feeling of stretching his wings was nice; it had been a few days since he’d flown any distance.

  Thinking of what he’d told the truck driver, Seb smiled slightly as he walked. Actually, where his mother had been from was almost the only thing Seb knew about her – she was dead now; the last time he’d seen her was when he was five years old. From the few memories he had, he knew that he looked a lot like her. Light chestnut-brown hair with a curl to it; high cheekbones and hazel eyes; a mouth that women sometimes called “beautiful”, which made him inwardly roll his eyes even more. It was a distinctly northern face; Sonora was a state where European immigrants had mixed for generations. On the streets, gringo tourists were always assuming Seb was one of them and asking for directions in English – clueless to the fact that millions of Mexicans didn’t look like the ones in westerns on TV.

  As for his father, who knew? But Seb figured he couldn’t have been unattractive. None of them were.

  As he crested the hill, the orphanage came into view, and he stood staring down at it for a moment, his grip tight on the strap of his knapsack. Now that he was here, he was almost afraid to look – the continuous hope, and then the inevitable let-down, was becoming so much harder to bear. Yet he had to go through with it. The last hour of his life stuck listening to that cabrón in the truck would have been completely wasted if he didn’t do what he’d come for. And besides, this might be the place. This really might be the place where he finally found her.

  Despite himself, Seb felt a stab of anticipation so sharp it was almost painful – the hope that he couldn’t ever totally quench. He left the road and lay down flat in the grass on his stomach, with the orphanage in view below. Concentrating solely on his other self, he closed his eyes.

  He glided down the valley towards the run-down building, his wide wings glinting in the dusk. With barely a ripple, he passed through a wall of the orphanage and flew inside. As usual, his muscles tensed to be entering one of these places. Unwanted, the memory of the room came, with its total darkness that had pressed down on his five-year-old self like a weight. But the room had turned out to be a blessing in disguise – because it was there that he’d first realized what he really was. It was the only thing that had kept him from going insane in that place.