Silver Basilisk - Zoe Chant Page 0,59

to Beaver. I remember him because of the time he attacked you at school, blamed it on you, and got you suspended. It was the only time you ever got into trouble.”

“Doug Barth.” Alejo glanced around. The two couples at other tables were absorbed in each other. Godiva didn’t think they’d notice much short of a nuclear blast, but Alejo lowered his voice—a reminder that anything that might be related to shifters was a dead secret. “Werewolf,” he said softly.

Godiva blinked. Then came the thought that if basilisks were real, werewolves somehow seemed everyday by comparison. “Are werewolves really demons like in horror films?” she asked.

“Demons are demons.” Rigo shook his head. “Werewolves are just wolf shifters.”

Alejo gave a nod. “Like anybody, werewolves come in all kinds. I’ve met some great packs. The Barths were definitely bad news, though. Doug Barth tried running a pack of his own, with himself as alpha, made up of the meanest guys in the neighborhood. But we knew better than to ever be caught alone by Barth or his pack, and yes, a few of those times I came home black and blue were from encounters with them, but we gave as good as we got. In fact, once Lance started getting some size on him, we came out ahead.” He shook his head reminiscently.

Godiva snorted, suspecting that those fights were part of Alejo’s definition of fun in the good old days. But it was far too late to argue about that. “Talk about small, I can’t imagine Lance with size on him.”

Alejo grinned, and he said at the same time as his father, “He’s huge!” Then they looked at each other and laughed.

Then Alejo looked around. “Bear shifters tend to run big. So. I take it you hit the post office yesterday?”

“Empty,” Godiva said. “But the combo still works, so I know that box is still in my name. Or, Maria Cordova’s name.”

Rigo was silent. She looked his way to find his gaze still tender as it rested on her. The sweetness of having Alejo back, and the new understanding between her and Rigo was so intense it almost hurt. She shook that thought away. Now wasn’t the time.

She glanced at Rigo’s plate, where he was halfway through a bacon and onion omelet, with sausage on the side. But nothing else. “Rigo. Try these waffles. Fluffy as clouds, with real maple syrup, not that horrible fake stuff.”

Rigo smiled but gave his head a shake, and Alejo said, “Dad never eats sweet stuff in the morning—ever. I regard that as highly suspicious, except it leaves more for me.”

“Hear hear,” Godiva said, though it felt weird to not know that about Rigo. But when they’d spent nights together in the old days, she’d served whatever leftovers from the diner she could forage after her shift. And he’d eaten whatever she’d put in front of him—but come to think of it, that had never included dessert.

Well, more to learn about each other. “Listen. Something was bothering me last night, but I was too tired to figure it out.”

It was her turn to glance around, and lower her voice. “There was another person in the post office last night, sorting through her mail. I couldn’t figure out why that bothered me until this morning: no junk mail.”

“Junk mail?” Rigo repeated.

Alejo grinned. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Godiva sighed. “Have either of you ever had a post office box? I mean, besides this one.”

Both father and son gave their heads a shake, such similar gestures that Godiva’s heart turned over again.

She drew in a deep breath. “Well, I have. I’ve had a bunch of them, what with all my moving around. Had one in Playa del Encanto until I got my house. No matter where I went, I always got junk mail.”

Alejo said, “But you haven’t given out this address to anyone except me, so no vendor or shop or whatever has had a chance to sell your address to the junk mail dealers.”

“True. But there are also political flyers and other trash that everybody gets stuck with—it goes into every box. The post office knows that. They’re paid to stuff them in, but they put out those trash cans, knowing that most of it goes straight into recycling. My box was totally empty, as if it had been checked that day. Or yesterday at most.”

Alejo shook his head. “Lance checks it when he comes down to visit his parents, but that’s half a dozen times a year or