Zola's Pride by Moira Rogers Page A

hampered by the darkness outside and
the glare of the dojo’s lights. Even a shapeshifter’s
enhanced senses had their limits.
    “ Stay,” she murmured,
already crossing the room. The hardwood floor was cool beneath her
bare feet, but she ignored it, just as she ignored the bite of
freezing air against her uncovered arms as she pushed open the door.
    The scent of the French Quarter hit
her in a rush, a hundred smells that would take hours to untangle.
Strongest was the coffee from the shop next door, rich and bitter,
undercut with the sweetness of freshly baked cookies.
    Then the wind shifted, and she
smelled him .
    Shock held her frozen in place, a
statue of ice that might shatter at any moment. Cigarettes. Leather.
Lion. Male .
His musky cologne should have changed in ten years. The way it heated
the blood in her frozen heart should have changed.
    Zola turned to face the women who
had fallen silent and watched her now, wary and uncertain. She opened
her mouth to reassure them and French came to her tongue, so easily
she almost bit the tip to keep the words from rolling out.
    He’d whispered his words of
love in French, under a full moon and ten thousand stars.
    She fought for English and it came
out choppy and abrupt. “Time for leaving. To leave. Time to
leave. Next week, I will be seeing you all?”
    They flashed her confused looks but
left, filing out into the dark night. Zola watched little Sheila
until she met her older brother, who lifted a hand in silent
greeting. Zola acknowledged him with a nod, then turned abruptly and
strode back inside.
    Her visitor would follow.
    Follow he did, but not so quickly or
so brashly as he would have in her youth. Zola had time to slip her
feet into her soft house shoes and don a sweatshirt over her tight
tank before Walker Gravois walked back into her life.
    His scent hadn’t changed, but
he had. Hazy memory had declared him beautiful, with full lips and
cheekbones sharp enough to cut, a youthful warrior painted with all
the colors of a clear day on the savanna, golden skin and eyes like
the sky. But time had left its mark, put sorrow in his eyes and lines
on his face.
    Jeans and a leather jacket couldn’t
hide the strength of him, and instinct twisted inside her, turned a
visit from an old acquaintance into something darker. Lion
shapeshifters were rare in the States, so rare that she’d
carved out her own territory that spanned most of Louisiana. Walker
Gravois was an interloper—and maybe lethal enough to drive her
from her home.
    Sometimes history did repeat itself.
    He didn’t greet her, just
dropped his bag and leaned against the small counter near the door
where she took care of the trappings of business. “You look
good, Zola.”
    English. She’d rarely heard
English from him, though it was his native tongue. Responding in kind
would reveal her difficulty with the language, a weakness she felt
too unsteady to reveal. So she replied in French, short and to the
point. “Why are you here?”
    He followed her lead. “I came
to see you. I have some news.”
    She’d been so recklessly
distracted by his presence that she hadn’t considered what it
must mean. Walker had been the youngest of her mother’s
bodyguards, sworn to her inner-circle with more than the bonds of
loyalty holding him. If he was here, alone... “She is dead.”
    Walker shoved his hands into his
pockets. “She was killed last week. I’m very sorry.”
    Maybe she truly was a woman of ice,
with a heart long since frozen beyond melting, for the words stirred
nothing but gentle regret and guilty relief. Perhaps surprise that it
had taken so long—the madness that claimed most Seers had
started its work on Tatienne’s mind a decade earlier, when
she’d looked on her only daughter and had seen nothing but a
rival.
    Walker’s face mirrored her
guilt, but there was nothing relieved about it. “That’s
not the only reason I came.”
    Of course not. Seers were the most
powerful creatures to walk