Silver Basilisk - Zoe Chant Page 0,31

haven’t slept a wink since he blew into town. I gotta crash before I fall asleep on my feet.”

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Jen said.

They rang off. Godiva let herself into the dark, quiet house. Pretty soon she climbed between her cool sheets and settled into the gently undulating water bed, letting all the tension seep out of her body.

But her mind didn’t get the memo. For a while her thoughts raced along, jinking back and forth between questions.

Basilisk. Was Alejo a basilisk, too? No, Rigo had said chimera. And her own family had been . . . swallows? So these things weren’t inherited? Argh! She had to stop asking herself questions she couldn’t answer, or she’d be awake all night. Again.

She closed her eyes . . . and memory threw her back to her tiny apartment behind Hidalgo’s diner. Rigo didn’t look all that different now than he did back then, except for that silver at his temples. Unlike her, who the last time he’d seen her had been young and springy with a shiny black braid that she could sit on.

They’d cuddled together on the couch, holding tight to each other. How she’d loved his smell, a bewitching, sexy combination of man and leather and a little bit of horse and dust. But that night he’d smelled of adrenaline sweat, a heady scent that in anybody else would be gross, but in him was . . . sexy. She remembered thinking that, and being happy that he would come to her straight after work.

But according to him, he’d come to her after a fight.

She remembered the tremble in his muscles as he buried his face in her neck. “Preciosa,” he’d whispered over and over—they almost always spoke in Spanish in those days . . . how funny, that his English had that Texas drawl, but his Spanish was the quick, percussive northern accent of Mexico . . . Shifters mate for life.

Well that obviously isn’t true, she reminded herself drowsily. According to his story, he hadn’t known he was a shifter until the day they parted, so maybe the rule didn’t have time to get invoked. Or something.

She examined that memory, testing it cautiously with the last lingering bits of conscious thought. It no longer hurt. It had gone numb, which was better, wasn’t it?

Now she could call up that memory without fear or guilt: his desperate kisses, the warm dusty air, their limbs entangled. Memory became dream, drawing her down into warm kisses, their hearts thrumming against one another’s ribs, until she spiraled down into deep sleep.

Tinkle-ding!

Somewhere under layers and layers of dream image, Godiva recognized that sound. It was her phone, announcing a text message.

Inexorably she floated up toward sunlight and awareness. And groaned, turning over in hopes of recovering the warm, cozy dream world again.

She hated text messages. Everybody knew that. A phone was a phone, not a typewritten nanny following one around everywhere. She’d told everyone, if they didn’t want to talk to her on the phone, then send email. Why torture her thumbs on that maddeningly tiny screen? What a ridiculous invention!

Tinkle-ding!

There went another one.

Godiva sighed, giving up. She leaned over to grab her phone off the nightstand, and memory came crashing back. She shut her eyes, the emotional storm so intense she clutched at the bed as if was rocking. Rigo—basilisk—hallucination—

She shook off the questions, grabbing onto the one vital piece of reality she could vouch for: she had really spoken to Alejo. Hadn’t she? That wasn’t dream . . .

Feverishly she woke the phone up and hit the text button, scanning rapidly.

From Doris: Godiva, sorry about the text, but I didn’t want to risk waking you. Joey said you were out pretty late last night. If you’re okay, just tap the Y for yes.

From Jen, an hour later: Godiva: If you want to talk, Doris and I are at Bird’s. With pastry. And coffee. Gallons of coffee—you can drink mine.

And, one minute later—just now—from Bird: Godiva, I am so very, very sorry we couldn’t tell you.

Tell me what? Godiva thought—and then remembered the last thing Rigo had said, about shifters and secrets. Doris knew . . .

Bird?

All thought of sleep had vanished. Godiva scooted out of bed. She took the shortest shower of her life, threw on some clothes, then grabbed her purse and went out to the garage, where she kept two cars, mostly for the use of her guests.

She took the key off the hook by the garage door,