Silver Basilisk - Zoe Chant Page 0,35

she sensed hurt, but scolded herself into practicality. She had no idea what he was truly thinking. It was stupid to pretend she did.

“Better take that call,” she said, killed it at her end and chucked her phone back into her purse.

Then she turned around to discover Jen coming down the path toward her. Tall, handsome Nikos, who looked like a Greek god, emerged from the house, carrying a tray with fresh cups on it.

“There’s going to be a meeting as soon as Joey gets here,” Jen said. “I think Rigo is being invited, too. Want to sit in on it?”

“Lead on,” Godiva said.

Chapter 8

RIGO

After he’s left Godiva at her house, Rigo had fulfilled his promise to do a midnight fly-over patrol of the shoreline around the collapsed cave, in case there were more enchanted shamblers to be rescued. But he’d regretted that he couldn’t really see the ocean. So at first light—too early to call Godiva—he decided he might as well make another run. He stepped out onto his motel balcony to shift and take flight.

His wings snapped out. He soared upward, breathing in the briny sea air. It was exhilarating, helping to dispel some of the fog of tiredness. The coast had its own beauty, and he looked down at the sweep of California’s curves, the subtly changing shades of sea and sky as the sun rose, but he couldn’t focus. His thought arrowed right back to Godiva.

With a little effort, he might be able to better sense her via the mate bond, now that she was talking to him again, but he was afraid she’d feel it and think he was trespassing. His instincts were at war. Heart wanted to be with her right now, but brain said to give her space, and wait until she reached for him. Even worse were all the questions he wanted to ask. They multiplied like fleas, maddening tiny itches on his psyche.

He made himself focus on the palisades slowly warming into gold in the emerging morning light. Everything was quiet. He squashed the wish that a distraction would happen, just to get his mind away from all those questions. He should concentrate on the very real difficulties here. Like Long Cang, who had no problem with using random, perfectly innocent bystanders to do his digging for him.

But there was so sign of Long Cang. No sense of any dragon except for Mikhail, back in Playa del Encanto.

Damn.

Rigo soared upward, flying almost all the way to Los Angeles before turning back in defeat. Then he dove down and skimmed at top speed just above the waves, frustrated that Long Cang and his minions had gone to ground, avoiding the well-deserved ass-kicking that would have made Rigo feel a little better.

When he got back to his motel, he let himself call Godiva. But it seemed she was doubting him all over again. Before he could try to figure out a way to fix it, his phone blinked: Joey Hu. As soon as he and Godiva hung up, it blinked again. It was Alejo.

He called his son first. “Dad! There you are, finally! How did it go after we hung up last night?”

Rigo said, “We talked a bit.”

“Did she believe you?”

“Had to. I shifted first.”

Alejo whistled. “I wouldn’t do that to anyone without a week—a year—of prep.”

“Your mom is different from ‘just anyone’. She stood her ground. No fainting or screaming or running, though I’ve seen that from grown men who think themselves tougher than anyone around them.”

“Hah.” Alejo, grinned, then sobered, his voice dropping low. “She looks so old.”

“She’s beautiful to me,” Rigo retorted.

“Dad, I wasn’t saying it like that. It’s just that she’s always been so young in my mind.”

“Okay, I get that,” Rigo said.

He wondered how to explain how every line in her face evoked tenderness, how the essence of her that he had loved so fiercely still shone in her night-black, expressive eyes, and in the trenchant curve of her lips, even if those lips themselves weren’t as plump as they’d been when she was not quite twenty. They were still so very, very kissable, and he wanted to test that more by each hour that passed.

Though she no longer darted about so quickly, she was still the slight, light person who had entranced him. The evidence of years made her more precious; the idea of her suddenly regaining her eighteen-year-old form did nothing for him. He was not young himself, and the young to him now just seemed