Holidays are Hell

As it happened, it already was. Warren's form solidified as he froze, eyes widening in recognition, and then a blur—the blow slowing—but it was too late to stop entirely. Warren's shocked image shattered as darkness enfolded her in inky arms, numbness shooting through her body. Strangely, though, the disappearance into herself was more peace than she'd know since the last time she'd seen his face.

Chapter 3

The lights in the roadside cafe would've been bright no matter what the circumstances. But with a knot the size of a walnut on her skull, and said knot throbbing like a teen's heart on prom night, they were absolutely blinding.

Zoe pushed away from the ripped vinyl of the red bench, wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth, and faced her three captors. "I can't believe you guys are still coming to this dive. The cook spits in the soup, you know."

"Jesus, it really is her!" The man on Warren's left gaped, dropping his cheap coffee cup back in its saucer with a clatter.

Zoe lifted a glass of water and pressed it to her aching forehead. "Hello, Gregor. Walk beneath any ladders lately?"

He shook his head, his smile almost as wide as his bulky body. Gregor wasn't very tall, but he had the neck of three men put together, and the shoulder span of an angel's wings. He was bald, with one small hoop earring that made him look like a modern-day pirate, and had a superstitious nature to match. "Haven't stepped on any cracks in the sidewalk, either. Damn, Zoe, but it's good to see you."

"And worth losing that rogue agent back at the cathedral," agreed the woman to Warren's right. Zoe smiled at Phaedre. She was the same age as Nurse Nancy, though the similarities stopped there. Actually, thought Zoe, they'd probably ceased in their twenties because that's how old Phaedre looked. Like a twenty-something party girl with lowlights in her mahogany mane and a smile deadly all on its own. The weapon tucked between her ample cleavage helped, though. "Welcome back."

"She's not back."

An uncomfortable silence bloomed and Zoe's heart plummeted. She shifted her gaze to Warren's, meeting head-on the anger she saw living there. His baggy clothing made him look slim, almost slight, but beneath it he was sinewy and tough, though Zoe knew the skin that covered all that compact muscle was as soft as her own. He'd have looked boyish with his short hair springing from his head in straight brown tufts, except that his eyes were hard and knowing, calculating as they rested on Zoe. It was his choice whether to accept her back in the troop or not but that wasn't what he was talking about. Of anyone, Warren knew Zoe never changed her mind… or went back.

The waitress's arrival saved her from answer, and the woman let her disinterested gaze travel over Zoe's face, lingering where the throbbing was the worst. "Your girlfriend finally come to?" she asked needlessly, snapping gum the same pepto-pink as her uniform. "Get you some coffee, sweetie?"

Zoe pursed her lips. Why not? Her funds were low, and despite Warren's current appearance—he seemed to be dressed as some sort of street bum this time—he could afford it. Besides, he owed her for the knock on the head. She nodded. "That'd be good. And a short stack… side of bacon."

The waitress pulled her pen from behind her ear, and wrote down the order as she walked away. Zoe assumed everyone else had already eaten.

She returned her eyes to Warren, still waiting for her to explain herself. So she did. "I need your help."

Phaedre looked concerned, Gregor interested. Warren continued to stare warily. If she was hurting him by not apologizing—if she'd hurt him by leaving without saying goodbye—he was hiding it well. But it was a superficial sort of hidden; like an alligator stirring up sediment beneath a brackish surface, and Zoe couldn't help wondering when it'd strike.

She made them wait until her food had arrived and she'd gotten a good bellyful before telling them. If she had to chase them out of the cafe begging for help, she wanted to do it on a full stomach. Surprisingly, when she finished the telling—a mortal child had been stolen by the Shadows, and she needed to get her back—they were still there. Cool. She signaled the waitress for a refill.

"So, there must be something special about this child," Warren finally said, cupping his elbow in his hands as he leaned forward. "I mean, to bring you out of retirement."

Zoe ignored his emphasis of the last word, and sipped at her coffee as she shook her head. "I was in the wrong place at the right time. I saw the Shadows take her."

"Didn't you try to stop them?"

"There were probably too many, right?"

Zoe didn't meet Phaedre's eye, or answer Gregor's question. They didn't know about her mortality—they probably thought she was wearing masking pheromones, and that's why they couldn't scent her. She didn't want to relieve them of that notion. Not just yet.

"There were three of them. I was alone."

But Warren could tell she was holding back.