By L. A. Weatherly
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Additional resources for Angel Fire
Sonora? ” “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. ” “Thought so,” said the man, glancing at him again. “French, I bet. ” Seb couldn’t resist. “Italian,” he said, keeping a straight face. “Venice, originally. ” The truck driver’s eyes widened. ” “Yeah, sure,” said Seb, leaning forward to tap the ash off his cigarette. “Over ten thousand head of cattle. ” 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.
It looked exactly like what he’d seen: a golden-yellow house on the main street, with a panelled wooden door, and a small wrought-iron balcony filled with flowering plants – a jumble of red and yellow. With his hands in his jeans pockets, Seb counted the front door’s panels: ten. Then he counted the flowerpots: seventeen. Come on, chiquita, you’re going to be late for work, he thought. The door opened at last and a small, round woman wearing a business suit came out. Fussily delving in her handbag for keys, she finally found them and locked the door behind her, then teetered to her car on plump feet that looked pinched in their high-heeled shoes.
Yes, this all seemed very like her. The moment the woman’s car disappeared around the corner, Seb grabbed a battered knapsack that sat at his feet and slung it over his shoulder. He’d already checked out how to get to the back of the house; now he took a quick second to send his other self flying, making sure the way was clear. It was. He crossed the road, strolling through the early-morning silence. A tall wooden fence bordered the house on one side; Seb jumped to grasp the top of it, vaulting over easily.
Angel Fire by L. A. Weatherly