Dangerous Angels Read Online Free PDF Page B

feeling different, not bittersweet, but expectant the way she used to feel on the morning of her birthday. She opened her eyes and saw the flowers—there were flowers heaped on top of the quilt. Big, ruffly peonies, full-blown roses, pink-spotted lilies,pollen-dusty poppies. Weetzie blinked in the sunlight and saw My Secret Agent Lover Man standing over her and Cherokee. He looked very pale and hunched in his trench coat, and his eyes were moist.
    Weetzie put out her arms, and he came and sat on the bed and held her very tight. Then he looked at Cherokee.
    “Whose is she?” he asked. “She is so completely perfect.”
    “She looks like Dirk,” Weetzie said. “Because of her cheekbones.”
    My Secret Agent Lover Man’s mouth twitched a little.
    “And she looks like Duck,” Weetzie said. “Because she is blonde…And her nose.”
    My Secret Agent Lover Man wrinkled his brow.
    “And she looks like me, of course, because she is so itsy-witsy and silly-looking,” Weetzie said, laughing.
    “But really, she absolutely has no one else’s eyes but yours, and your pretty lips. I think she’s all of ours,” Weetzie said. “I hope that is okay with you.”
    Dirk and Duck came into the room.
    “We missed you,” Dirk said. “And we hope you stay around and help raise our kid.”
    My Secret Agent Lover Man smiled. Weetzie held Cherokee against her breast. Cherokee looked like a three-dad baby, like a peach, like a tiny moccasin, like a girl love-warrior who would grow up to wear feathers and run swift and silent through the L.A. canyons.

Witch Baby
    One day, there was a knock on the door of the silly-sandtopped house. Weetzie opened the door, and there stood a beautiful woman with long black hair, purple, tilty eyes, and a long body. She was the type of woman Weetzie and Dirk used to call a “Lanka.”
    “Is Max here?” asked the Lanka in a low voice.
    “Who?” Weetzie said. It came out like a screech, especially compared to the Lanka murmur, and she said again, “Who?”
    “Max,” the woman repeated. “I know he lives here. I’ve tracked him down.”
    “There is no one by that name here,” Weetzie said. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
    “I insist on seeing Max,” the woman said, pressing on Weetzie’s chest with five taloned fingertips.
    Weetzie pushed the Lanka away and shut the door.
    “Curses on both of you!” the Lanka said.
    Weetzie looked out the peephole and saw her slink away down the front path in her long, black Lanka dress.
    At dinner that night, Weetzie said, “A crazy woman was here today. She kept asking for some man. She was a real Lanka—a mean Lanka, too. It was a little scary.”
    “There are a lot of freaks around,” Dirk said.
    “Yeah,” Duck said. “Next time something like that happens, call us.”
    “I can handle it,” Weetzie said.
    My Secret Agent Lover Man was unusually silent.
    The next night, My Secret Agent Lover Man came home early from the set where he had been working on his new horror movie about a coven of witches who pose under the guise of a Jayne Mansfield fan club. His skin was burning and he looked as if there was a heavy weight pressing on his forehead and his shoulders. Weetzie put him in bed and took his temperature, which was very high. She gave him aspirin and megadoses of vitamin C and sponged him off with cool towels.
    “You have been working too hard,” she said.
    My Secret Agent Lover Man gasped for air all through the night. Weetzie lay awake, watching him so hot and vulnerable, shivering with fever, and she wanted to hold on to him and never let go. It was as if he had no defenses, none of his usual guards up, as if they could merge together so easily.
    “I love you, Weetzie,” he said in the middle of the night. Then he twisted as if from a sharp pain.
    “I love you, I love you, My Secret Agent Lover Man, my wish list come true,” she said.
    In the morning, he was still sick. Weetzie brought him more aspirin and vitamin C, and made