Here's the beginning of the short story I recently finished, code-name "Thunder."
“No.” La Incarnación shook her head once, sending her long hair skittering across her back like the legs of a very old, very tired spider. “Burn that candle I gave you. Say a prayer. Forget it.”
I slammed the screen door on my out.
Outside, the air whipped past me, hot and dry, like I was standing inside an exhaust pipe. No rain. July. Chicago. And not the nice side of Chicago either. Not Lincoln Park. Not Gold Coast. Not Evanston. God, if I took my van up there, I’d probably be in cuffs before I had time to shift into park. Evanston people were the scary kind of white people.
The rich kind.