Silver Basilisk - Zoe Chant Page 0,7
me soon’s you find her!”
“Sure, fejo. We’ll get it straightened out,” Rigo said—then remembered that flying pastry tray, and hoped he wasn’t making a false promise.
Rigo pocketed his phone, and stepped in to grip each of the zombies by the arm. He gently pulled them away from the landslide. Both turned their heads toward the dig site, but they didn’t fight him. He began walking them away, ignoring their feeble attempts to return to digging.
He cast a look around. If Long Cang did have spies watching, there wasn’t a hope of staying anonymous anymore, but that couldn’t be helped. Rigo was not willing to let these people hurt themselves just so he could stay out of sight a little longer. He was here to take down a renegade Guardian, so a takedown was going to happen one way or another.
As he shepherded his shamblers up the walkway to the top of the palisade, he recollected passing by a pet store on one of the side streets. Which street? He slowed to a snail’s pace while keeping a hold on the twitching zombies. Then he caught sight of a dog on a leash being taken inside a store at the other end of a curving street. That had to be the pet store.
A few minutes later (after some puzzled stares from passers-by at his blank-eyed companions), he finally guided them inside the store. Three aisles down, he found what he was looking for. Helping himself to a dog whistle, he gave a couple of firm blasts.
His basilisk ears caught the shrill whine—somewhere between a mosquito and a laser—and the two zombies turned into a cursing man who clapped his hands over his ears, and a woman who swung a haymaker at his jaw.
Rigo ducked the haymaker, and waited until the truck driver turned a scowl his way. “What—where am I? What happened to my hand?” He gazed in shock at the bleeding scrape.
“Next time you hear any kind of whistle, block it out,” Rigo said, and lowered his voice. “Someone is messing with shifters. Some kind of charm.”
The truck driver’s gaze flickered from side to side, and his anger melted away. “Oh. Uh, okay. Right. Thanks a lot.”
The woman sighed. “I was supposed to be on shift at the hospital five hours ago.” She looked up at Rigo. “Thanks.”
“Spread the word,” Rigo said.
The two took off. Rigo turned away to pay for the whistle, then on second thought helped himself to the entire box. At the cash register, the cheerful young fellow said, “Dog obedience class?”
Not a shifter, Rigo thought. He knew some shifters could tell. He could only sense other mythic shifters. “Something like that.”
He paid, and walked out, reaching for his phone. Joey answered within seconds. Rigo gave a fast report, said he had the bag of dog whistles, then added, “My plan all along was to go up and knock on Godiva’s door. But considering how she reacted today, that might not be a good idea.”
“Definitely not,” Joey agreed, a little too fervently.
Rigo hated the thought that these people he’d never set eyes on before today had known Godiva for a lot longer than he had.
But they hadn’t loved her longer.
Regret had been his faithful companion for decades. So he said, “Got any suggestions?”
“As a matter of fact, I do,” Joey said. “Meet me for lunch? I’ll text you directions . . .”
Chapter 3
Godiva
Godiva usually walked home from the bakery, to get her aerobics for the day done with. Anger, she had decided years ago, hurt a whole lot less than grief and betrayal. Anger got you moving. Anger got her walking vigorously all the way home without her looking back once.
Anger—righteous anger—boiled hot and bright inside her as she stamped up the tiled walkway under the towering California pepper trees, and onto the shaded verandah of her old rancho-style house. She stepped inside the cool, dim living room, and took a deep breath. Home. Safe.
Safe? What did that even mean in this situation?
She slammed the front door behind her.
“Godiva?” A woman’s voice echoed from the kitchen.
That was Wendy, one of Godiva’s former houseguests. After Wendy got her house back from her sleazy, grabby ex in her divorce, she’d moved back in, but she still came over to help Godiva, knowing how much she loathed kitchen work.
As Godiva told all her houseguests on their arrival, “I love eating, but I really hate cooking and cleaning. After years of long shifts as a waitress, the last thing I ever