Silver Basilisk (Silver Shifters 4)

“It starts with a tea party,” Doris said, stepping aside as a cluster of teenagers entered the bakery.

Joey looked surprised. “No cyber-warriors or spies or assassins?”

“Not this time,” Godiva said, as Bird and Doris set their tea mugs down, and Jen her caffeine-free latte. “It’s . . . a locked room mystery. And I’m going to be in this vid. Because I want four characters. Women,” she added at the range of astonished looks.

‘Never explain’ had been her motto for years. She sat down with the others, as Bird—the least bloodthirsty person Godiva had ever known—said cheerfully, “Do you want me to be the victim, as usual? Is it poison?”

“Not this time. That is, not yet,” Godiva said, making it up rapidly. “This scene is setting up the atmosphere. The victims come later. So for now, let’s dig into Linette’s masterpieces of baked heaven here, and pretend we’re high society ladies at a fabulous mansion.”

Doris the drama teacher sat erect, her nose elevated, her upper lip lengthened as she drawled, “One simply cannot get good help these days. I had to fire my downstairs footman for wearing morning livery at an afternoon soiree.”

“How shocking,” Bird fluted, her mouth trembling as she tried valiantly to smother a laugh.

“Piffle,” Jen declared, as she selected a fresh-baked peach tart, pinky arched. “I divorced my sixth husband for insisting on wearing a black tie at a white tie event. Now, that is a national crisis.”

“One must maintain one’s standards,” Doris intoned, arching her pinky and her fourth finger as she sipped from her mug.

The others promptly started trying to out-snob each other. Bird was the first to break into laughter. “Sorry, sorry, should we start again?”

Godiva waved at Joey. “Just keep going.”

Bird flushed, her smile tender as her tall, silver-haired husband, Mikhail Long, entered with Nikos Demitros, Jen’s soon-to-be husband. The two men sat in the far corner to be out of the way of the filming. Bird turned back to Godiva. “Will it be an Agatha Christie sort of my

stery, then?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Godiva was not going to admit that what she really wanted was a videotape of the four of them just being themselves. The snob thing, funny for a minute, had been a mistake. So she tried another tack. “What are you bringing to the next meeting?”

Bird’s gaze widened. “I finished my novel about dolls coming alive,” she said in her normal voice. “I was up all night writing the climax.”

“Don’t spoil it.” Doris raised her hands. “I want to hear the ending completely fresh. From everything you’ve shared so far, I would have adored that book when I was a kid.”

“Same here,” Jen said fervently. “As for my project, it’s going great! My phoenix princess is about to face down an evil gorgon.”

As Godiva expected, Bird began to enthuse about Jen’s fantasy novel. Which was a good story. Godiva had to admit that. It was just that magical stuff . . . that was for kids. Real life might have mysteries that actually got solved, and justice served, but there sure as shooting wasn’t any magic in it.

Howsomever, if that’s what Jen wanted to write, well, Godiva fully supported writers writing what they wanted to write. So she sat back to listen as her three friends began chatting about their current projects, the camera forgotten. This, right here, was what Godiva had hoped for: to capture this easy moment, that otherwise might never be remembered.

Almost easy.

Godiva caught Bird side-eyeing her, and then Doris doing same. Why? Because I’m in the vid for the first time? Godiva wondered. She wasn’t about to tell them that this wasn’t a real start to any story, that the vid was only for her to replay and enjoy once she reached wherever she was going next. She didn’t know where. Only that it would be soon.

Very soon.

The bakery had filled with customers, most of them young, as this was summer vacation so the local kids were at large. No one disturbed their corner, though Godiva hoped that the group of middle-teen boys yapping about birthday plans at the next table over wouldn’t drown out the women’s lighter voices.

The door tinkled again. Godiva didn’t bother looking, as her party was all here, including their plus ones over there in the corner. But something in the way Jen, Doris, and even Bird straightened up staring, surprised her.

“Whoa,” Linette said on a low, appreciative note from behind the counter.

Godiva slewed around on her chair.

And stared.

The tall, rangy man who sauntered in with such an air wore a work shirt and age-softened jeans over beautifully cut riding boots. Tilted black eyes under slanting brows swept the room, then lit on her. His face was brown, seamed by the sun and time, and his coal black hair had lightened at the temples to a silvery white, but his eyes had not changed—nor had that wide, curved mouth, a mouth made for laughter and sin.

Rigo the Betrayer? Here?

Impossible, she was thinking as Rigo threw his arms wide and said, “Shirl my girl! I found you.”