L. A. Weatherly - Angel Fire

PRAISE FOR THE BESTSELLING

L.A. WEATHERLY was born in Little Rock, Arkansas, USA. She now lives with her husband and their cat, Bernard, in Hampshire, England, where she spends her days and nights! writing.

L.A. Weatherly is the author of over thirty books, which have been published in over ten different languages.

www.leeweatherly.com

www.angelfever.com

CONTENTS

To the memory of my mother,

Billie Cruce Seligman.

Mom, I wish you could have read this book.

First published in the UK in 2011 by Usborne Publishing Ltd., Usborne House, 83-85 Saffron Hill, London EC1N 8RT, England. www.usborne.com

Copyright L.A. Weatherly, 2011

The right of L.A. Weatherly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Cover photograph of boy by Pawel Piatek.

Cover photograph of girl Pawel Piatek/Trevillion Images

The name Usborne and the devices are Trade Marks of Usborne Publishing Ltd.

All rights reserved. This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or used in any way except as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or loaned or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the authors imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Epub ISBN 9781409537694
Kindle ISBN 9781409537700

Batch no. 02184-03

I T TOOK THE WOMAN A long time to leave her house.

Across the street, Seb stood propped against a run-down grocery store, hidden in the dawn shadows as he watched the womans front door. His high-cheekboned face had a light stubble on its jaw; his lean body was as simultaneously relaxed and alert as a cats. He was sure this was the right place. It looked exactly like what hed 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 doors panels: ten. Then he counted the flowerpots: seventeen.

Come on, chiquita , youre 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. By the time she reached the car, shed somehow lost her keys in her handbag again and had to stand on the sidewalk searching for almost a minute, shaking her head in irritation. Seb held back a smile. Yes, this all seemed very like her.

The moment the womans car disappeared around the corner, Seb grabbed a battered knapsack that sat at his feet and slung it over his shoulder. Hed 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. The back of the house was just like hed seen, too a tidy concrete courtyard, again filled lushly with potted plants. A faded deckchair stood folded near the sliding patio door.

The window with the broken lock that had been worrying the woman was up on the second floor. It took only seconds for Seb to scale the trellis and slide it open. He dropped silently into her bedroom pale green, lots of ruffles. There was a smell of perfume, as if dousing herself had been the last thing shed done before leaving.

And now shed be gone for hours. Her job was so far away that she didnt have time to come home for lunch; it had been one of many niggling concerns on her mind the day before. The womans thoughts had been like leaves in a whirlwind: none weighty in themselves, but the overall effect had left Seb with a headache from trying to focus on them. Psychic readings werent always an easy way to pick up a few pesos, especially when all he wanted was to get them over with quickly, so he could buy something to eat and get back to the only thing that mattered to him. Even so, he hoped what hed told the woman had helped. She definitely needed to relax more though he was glad she hadnt decided to start doing it today.

Leaving the scented bedroom, Seb started searching, his steps echoing on the tiled floors. Though he rarely broke into houses any more, thered been a time when hed done it all too often, with much worse motives than now. Gently, he pushed open doors, peered into rooms. His face creased into a frown. She would have one, wouldnt she? He hadnt seen for sure; hed just assumed. Then on the ground floor, he found it: a computer sitting on a desk in the corner.

Perfect. Seb swung himself into the chair and hit the on button. The local school with its computers the public could use was closed today, and he hadnt been able to get a bed at the hostel for the last few nights, where he might have borrowed someones laptop. He entered a few words into the search engine, typing slowly. A list of options came up; he found the one he was looking for and selected it.

Diaz Orphanage , said the websites home page: A haven for children . Sebs lip curled. Hed seen many orphanages over the years; few could be described as havens. But hed only found out about this one yesterday, and he needed to check it who knew, it might turn out to be the place where hed finally find what he was looking for. His heart beat faster at the thought, though he was only all too aware by now how unlikely it was. Taking a piece of paper from the womans desk, he carefully wrote down the address and stuck it in his knapsack; it was around a hundred miles to the east, in the foothills of the Sierra Madre.

Then, on impulse, he brought up a map of Mexico, gazing at its familiar shape and mentally tracing the lines hed travelled up and down it for years now. Hed started in Mexico City and since then had rarely spent more than a few weeks in one place. Currently he was in Presora, not far from Hermosillo, with its white beaches and throngs of tourists. Presora was quieter, though; a smaller town that had still taken him days to search, checking out every person he passed on the street, entering every building he was able to, sending his other self into the ones he couldnt.