Zola's Pride
Authors: Moira Rogers
Table of Contents
Copyright
Information
Originally
published in the Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance 2.
This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events
and incidents are either the products of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Zola's Pride
Copyright
© 2010 Moira Rogers
http://www.moirarogers.com
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All
rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be
reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express
written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.
Chapter One
He was going to get the cops called
on him if he wasn’t careful.
Walker Gravois dropped his second
cigarette, crushed it under his boot and turned his attention back to
the wide window across the way. Fluorescent light streamed through
the glass, doing more to illuminate the narrow street than the lamp
over his head. Inside the dojo, a woman with chocolate skin blocked a
punch, then paused to correct her assailant’s form.
She didn’t have to be facing
him for Walker to recognize her.
Zola.
Every line of her body tugged at memories he thought he’d
banished years ago, and he couldn’t help but compare the woman
before him with the one he remembered.
She’d been thinner then, just
as strong but not as curvy. The wicked flare of her hips drew his
gaze, and he licked his lower lip to ease the tingle of curiosity.
Walker checked his watch with a
quiet curse—half past ten. He’d been standing there for
close to an hour. In this part of the Quarter, it wouldn’t take
long for someone to phone the police about the pervert loitering
outside the dojo, watching the students kick and lunge in their tiny
T-shirts and Lycra sports bras. Unfortunately, the neat letters
etched into the glass window that listed closing time as nine o’clock
seemed like more of a guideline than a rule.
And he desperately needed to talk to
her.
He’d just begun to entertain
the notion of simply walking in when Zola stepped to the front of the
room and turned to address her gathered students. Clearly, she was
preparing to dismiss them, so he shoved his unlit third cigarette
back into the pack and crossed the street.
Man up, Gravois,
he told himself.
She’ll
either hear what you have to say...or she’ll kick your ass
clear across the river.
The hell of it was that he had no idea which she’d choose.
Normally, he wouldn’t worry—he could handle whatever fury
Zola unleashed on him—but he had more to think about now than
himself.
So he’d let her scream at him,
get out whatever lingering old hurts plagued her, and then he’d
make sure she heard him.
He could do this.
He had to.
The evening class had run long
again.
Zola never minded. Friday night was
reserved for her private class, the class made up of girls and women
who walked among the supernatural denizens of New Orleans as
daughters, sisters and wives. Some had powers of their own, like
Sheila, a gangly, sweet-faced wolf on the cusp of womanhood, all arms
and legs and uncertain strength. Some were psychics and some were
spell casters, witches and priestesses who twisted magic and read
minds.
Some were human, and they were the
most vulnerable of all.
The soft murmur of feminine voices
drifted through the dojo as the last few students lingered in the
warmth of the building, catching up on the latest gossip or making
plans to meet later in the week. February had brought an unseasonable
cold snap, the kind of chill that settled in Zola’s bones and
made her long for the unforgiving deserts of her childhood.
The floor creaked behind her, and
Zola looked up from rearranging a stack of punching targets to catch
sight of Sheila’s reflection. The teenager had a jacket zipped
up to her chin and a knit hat pulled low over wild corkscrew curls,
leaving just her pale face uncovered. “Zola?”
She looked worried, and Zola tensed.
“Yes, Sheila? There is a problem?” Even after all these
years, English didn’t come naturally. The words tumbled out in
an order that always made others laugh, but she’d spoken too
many languages in too many countries to worry now.
Sheila was so accustomed to Zola’s
linguistic oddities that she didn’t blink. She did, however,
speak in her own nearly indecipherable dialect. “There’s
a guy lurking outside. I mean, he's hot and all, but the lurking is
pretty creeptastic and a little pervy.”
Zola didn’t need to understand
the words to decipher their meaning. She turned and squinted through
the broad windows, her vision 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.