Seb watched him idly, noting the angry red lines that had appeared in his aura, like lightning flashes. When he’d first gotten into the cab, he’d shifted the colours of his own aura so that they matched the trucker’s blue and yellow hues. He knew the man wouldn’t be able to see them or tell; it was just a habit left over from childhood, when blending his aura in with those around him had made him feel safer. More hidden.

But the more Seb listened to this jerk, the more he really didn’t want to share his aura. He shifted back to his natural colours as he got an image of the man standing in a kitchen shouting; a dark-haired woman looking frightened. Not exactly a surprise. The trucker didn’t feel like he’d be a danger to Seb, though; he seemed strictly the type to bully those who were weaker. Seb knew he’d probably have sensed it if he had anything to worry about – and there was always the switchblade he carried in his pocket in case there was trouble. You didn’t travel alone in Mexico without a weapon, unless you were terminally stupid.

“Now, take you for instance,” the truck driver went on. “How old are you – seventeen, eighteen?”

“Seventeen,” said Seb, blowing out another stream of smoke. He’d be eighteen in less than a month; he didn’t bother volunteering that.

“Yeah, and I bet you don’t have any trouble getting the girls, do you?” The man gave a guffawing laugh; his aura chuckled along with him, flickering orange. “You look like a rock star, with that face and stubble – like all the girls would have you up on their walls. But take my advice, amigo, never let them...”

Mentally rolling his eyes, Seb tuned out, wishing he could snap on the radio at least. People often commented on his looks, but looks couldn’t get him the one thing he wanted.

“So where are you from?” asked the man finally, stubbing out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. “Sonora? Sinaloa?”

“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. “My mother was from Sonora.”

“Thought so,” said the man, glancing at him again. “French, I bet. Or Italian.”

Seb couldn’t resist. “Italian,” he said, keeping a straight face. “Venice, originally. My great-grandfather was a gondolier – then he immigrated here and there weren’t any canals, so he became a ranchero.”

The truck driver’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Seb, leaning forward to tap the ash off his cigarette. “Over ten thousand head of cattle. But I think his heart was always with the canals, you know?” 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.