Free Vivian Divine Is Dead by Lauren Sabel

Western shoot-’em-ups. Dad says he got his craving for authenticity then, because the Indians were portrayed as bloodthirsty savages, but the cowboys were the ones who really did the killing. Tell the truth , Dad always says, and the audience believes.
    “We should keep going,” Nick says. He yawns, stretching his arms above his head, and his jersey lifts off his muscular back. In the middle of his lower back is the tattoo of a skeleton in a wedding gown. She’s holding a scale in her hands, and her eye sockets are empty, but she has a ghastly smile on her face.
    It’s not like tattoos are new to me. Everyone in L.A. has a tattoo, but they’re usually some ancient symbol meaning eternal happiness or world peace, not something out of a horror flick. “What is it?” I ask, trying to hide my shock. I mean, I’ve kinda had a tattoo too. Last year I wore a heart sticker on my lower back for the whole summer, and by August, I had a bright white heart on my skin. Pierre called it a tramp stamp. But at least mine was a heart!
    “Santa Muerte,” Nick says. “When my godfather was in prison, I got it to show solidarity with him.”
    A shriek of delight suddenly pierces the air. On the other side of the stream, the boy in the black cowboy hat dashes away from his sister’s swinging arms, running straight toward us. But when the boy sees us, he grinds to a halt. Dust swirls around his feet as he stares at us, unblinking, a terrified look on his face.
    Then the boy starts yelling a word I can’t understand, over and over. It sounds like it’s coming from deep down in his throat. Each scream is like ripping a hair out by its root, and I clap my hands over my ears so that I can’t hear it again. The woman glares at us, her hand tightening around her sharp, bloody knife.
    With the boy still bellowing, Nick yanks his shirt down over his back and grabs my hand. He hikes straight uphill, away from the village, his face filled with rage.
    “What did that boy say?” I ask. “And why was that woman so angry?” Or scared. She was definitely scared. I stamp my feet, dust spitting up around my shoes. “What are you so mad about?”
    “Why am I mad?” Nick stops beside a fallen tree trunk, where colonies of squirmy black insects are crawling around the pile of branches. He turns to me, and the anger drops off his face. His smile grows lean, mischievous. “Because he called you the White Devil.”
    My mouth falls open in surprise. “The White Devil?”
    “He’s just ignorant,” Nick says. “Don’t worry about it.”
    Don’t worry about it? A woman with a bloody weapon thinks I’m a demon and I’m not supposed to worry about it?
    “But we’d better get going, devil girl, if you want to find food before nightfall.”
    “Find? Like look under rocks? Or do you know of a taco stand around here?”
    Nick grins, then leans over and wipes a bead of sweat off my face. My skin tingles where he touches it, and I feel my body being drawn toward his. Hello? This is Nick, who calls me a spoiled princess and fools me into eating crickets. But my head is dizzy with the closeness of him, and every cell in my body is pulling me toward him. Then he’s leaning in too, the space between our lips vibrating with heat. He’s going to kiss me.
    Nick pulls away suddenly, his eyes blazing. “Um . . . I’ll take care of it,” he says, dropping his gaze to the ground. He turns and walks into the woods.
    As soon as I’m alone, my fear comes back, rolling over me in waves. The memory of that man’s gravelly voice in the church makes me shiver under my layers of sweat. Did he follow me to Nick’s cousin’s house? What would’ve happened if Nick weren’t there to protect me? Nick’s right: I couldn’t take care of myself if it punched me in the face. I fight the urge to curl up on the ground and cry. The only thing that stops me is the silence. It’s so large that Nick would hear me going totally fetal in an instant, because I can hear