Angel Fever

Page 55

 

  When I risked a glance, Seb was sitting on the other guy’s chest, pinning his arms with his knees – his switchblade open and pressed against the man’s neck. As the blade glinted, there was nothing in his expression of the boy I knew. This was the Seb who’d grown up fighting on the streets.

  “Do not make the mistake of thinking I won’t cut your throat,” he said in a low voice.

  Redhead gulped, breathing hard.

  “Drop the gun,” I told the second guy, still pointing the pistol at him.

  He blinked, looking from me to Seb, like, Wait – this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

  “Do it!” cried Redhead. He looked very young suddenly; not much older than us. There was a pause – and then the second guy dropped his machine gun onto the rocks with a clatter.

  “Now back away,” I said.

  He did so with his hands in the air. My legs felt like cotton, but I advanced quickly over the rockslide and scooped up the machine gun. Still holding his knife in place, Seb slowly reached for the other one. He grabbed it and got up, aiming it at the guy on the ground. He motioned tersely with his head. His cheek was bleeding.

  “Both of you – go,” he said.

  Redhead half scrambled across the rocks as he ran. His friend took off after him.

  Seb and I sprinted back to the truck and hurled ourselves in. My stomach was trembling. I ignored it and started the engine. A second later I’d lurched us over the slope, the world tilting alarmingly, and then I was gunning us down the road. Seb opened the window and aimed a machine gun at the two men as we passed them. They stood by the side of the road, hands up, watching us leave.

  I couldn’t relax even when they were no longer visible in the rear-view mirror – even when the Eden no longer was.

  “That was close,” I whispered. I imagined Seb falling to the ground in a roar of gunfire, bullets ripping through him. I swallowed hard. “That…that was so close. ”

  Seb put the machine gun in the back. “Yes,” he said, and I winced at the raw scrape on his cheek. Studying me, he seemed about to say something else – then he looked away and reached for the atlas. “I’ll find us a different road. ”

  I nodded, clutching the wheel. “I think we should start heading north now, towards Canada. If it’s remote enough, we can stick to the highway and try to make good time. ” I glanced at him; my throat was dry. “Do you agree?”

  Seb shrugged. “This is your trip, querida,” he said quietly.

  And I realized just how long it had been since he’d called me that. I faced forward again, my emotions in turmoil.

  Now that we didn’t have to avoid the farms of the Midwest, our route became more straightforward. For hours we made excellent time, flashing past lake after lake. The banter between us had gone. Almost all conversation had gone; in its place was a growing tension. I felt so aware of Seb next to me: his lean body, his energy that was so similar to mine.

  By late afternoon we thought we might have crossed over into Canada, though there didn’t seem to be a welcome sign any more. It had snowed recently, though, slowing us down; we had to stop and put on the chains. It seemed like a good idea anyway – the sky had turned a smooth, pearly grey.

  Finally we came to a county road heading north. Definitely Canada, I saw with relief: the road sign was shaped like a shield with a crown on top.

  Seb was behind the wheel when the snow really hit. He muttered something in Spanish as the flakes attacked the windshield like a swarm of bees; his leg flexed as he tapped the brakes, his forehead tensed in concentration. Already, the road was fading away into a white blur on either side. When a grey chimney swam out of the storm, Seb angled us towards it.

  “I think we better stop here – it’s getting dark anyway. ”

  I nodded, feeling apprehensive. If this didn’t let up soon, we’d be snowed in – maybe even for the rest of the season. I wished we could push on, but it would be suicidal.

  You can’t control the weather, I reminded myself harshly as Seb pulled the truck over. Whatever happened, we’d just have to deal with it.

  Through swirling flakes, I saw a large A-frame building of grey stone. A sign read: taketa lounge and restaurant. Sinking into fresh snow up to our ankles, we grabbed our things and headed over, flakes pouring down. There was a porch area with a few rustic chairs; I shook myself off, swiping the wetness from my hair.

  “Locked,” Seb said as he tried the door.

  I started to reach for my angel, but Seb had already gone for his own. Seconds later, he returned in a flurry. Seb grimaced. “No, there’s something wrong with the lock,” he muttered. He took out his switchblade and crouched down.

  “I didn’t know you could pick locks,” I said, as he started to probe at the side of the door with his blade.

  “Yes, I have many skills,” he replied, his voice toneless.

  The bruise on his face looked even worse now, the skin tight and sore, and I gripped my elbows hard as I gazed at it.

  Seb could have died. Just like Alex.

  I saw Seb fall to the ground again – heard the roar of the explosion at the AK camp. Something in me went very still as I studied Seb, his firm shoulders flexing as he worked. I could sense the unhappiness that was his constant companion – the longing he couldn’t control. And my heart ached with an answering longing, this time so strong it left me dizzy.

  Seb, what are you doing to me?

  “There,” he muttered as the doorknob gave way. “There was something bent inside it. ” He stood up, flicking the blade away; he put it in his jeans pocket.

  He started to reach for our things. As our eyes met, my feelings were raw – exposed. Seb froze. Face tight, he abruptly turned away and started grabbing up the bags.

  I helped, feeling hot and cold at the same time. Neither of us spoke. When we went inside, we found ourselves in a lounge area: an imposing stone fireplace with a sheepskin rug stretched out in front of it and an L-shaped sofa. A huge wicker basket half full of wood sat on the hearth.

  Still without speaking, Seb went behind the shadowy bar and started rummaging. He found a book of matches and crouched in front of the fireplace, starting a fire with a handful of glossy brochures for kindling. They cast a greenish glow.

  Once the fire was going, he came back to the bar and leaned next to me. We both gazed across at the flames.

  I cleared my throat. “That’s…really good that you got a fire lit,” I said. “There must be a kitchen somewhere too. Maybe we can find some pots and pans, and heat up our meal for a change. Hey, we could use plates. And real silverware. ”

  I was babbling. I fell quiet again. Seb’s profile remained motionless, etched golden in the firelight. Finally he scraped his hands over his face. When he spoke, his voice was low.

  “Tell me. What I sensed outside – did I only imagine it?”

  My skin felt electric. I shook my head. “No. You didn’t imagine it. ”

  Seb’s eyes flew to mine. He swallowed, his expression haunted.

  I wanted so badly to comfort him. I wanted so badly to comfort myself. I gently laid my hand against his hurt cheek, feeling the surface chill of his skin with the warmth underneath – the soft prickle of his stubble.

  My voice wasn’t even a whisper. “Seb,” I said.

  Our gazes held as the fire crackled. For a long moment, neither of us moved. I’d forgotten how. Then, slowly, Seb reached up and took my hand.