Vivian Divine Is Dead by Sabel Lauren

Author:Sabel, Lauren
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Katherine Tegen Books

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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Chapter Seventeen

I’VE BEEN FOLLOWING THE BUTT of the horse for over two hours, cursing myself for ever leaving L.A. in the first place, when we finally reach the top of the mountain. If our bus hadn’t broken down, I’d be safe with Roberto by now. But then I never would have met Nick, who can make me tingle just by looking at me. If he’s even still alive.

Below us, rows of whitewashed buildings, dug out of the rock face, shine under a sky thickening with stars. Dark mist clings to the surrounding mountain cliffs. On the far side of the village is a black drop-off, a giant crater in the mountainside. It’s dotted with tiny lights, like stars fallen to earth.

“Welcome to Rosales,” Isabel says. She takes Tenerio’s reigns and leads him down the hill, and I follow, feeling pleasantly removed from the world up here. I try to memorize the small streets, the heavy mist, the smell of fried food, Isabel’s long black braids waving in the breeze. It’s almost peaceful.

Peace never lasts as long as I’d like. Before I know it, my massage is over, my spa day has ended, and my feeling of relaxation slips away. But this is like smashing peace until it shatters through me like splinters. Because as I step off the hillside, into the street, the world explodes with sound.

A band pushes past me, trombones wailing in my ears, drums pounding so hard they make my heart beat faster. Skeletons swirl around me, their sinister faces pressing in on me; red devils writhe across the pavement; black-shrouded skulls grin at me maniacally.

Isabel reaches into one of the saddlebags on Tenerio’s back. “Try this on,” she says, handing me a mask draped with several inches of white lace. “It was Paloma’s.”

An unsettled feeling creeps over me, and I suddenly realize Abuelita was right when she called me an angelita. In Paloma’s dress and mask, I must look like her from head to ankle; my sneakers are the only thing left of the real me. It’s like I’ve finally disappeared—completely.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Isabel says, and I wonder if she’s glad because I’m a stand-in for her missing niece.

“Me too,” I say, realizing I don’t care, because in a way, Isabel’s a stand-in too, for the mom that died and took part of me with her.

Once the parade passes, Isabel leads Tenerio out into the middle of the narrow street. I follow her, thinking about what a crew we must make: a horse dying on its feet, a middle-aged weaver, and me—a hunted movie star, probably being watched right now.

I glance around at the groups of people lingering in front of houses, expecting to see the barrels of guns poking out through corner windows. Instead, pasted up in each window is a red-and-black poster of a man and woman in a passionate embrace, with the words “Don Juan Tenorio“ written underneath.

“People come from all over the country to see it,” Isabel says.

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