Silver Basilisk (Silver Shifters 4)

The judge gave her a stern look. “Suing an American hero will not happen in MY courtroom. One more word and I’ll have you jailed and fined for contempt of court . . .’”

Godiva shut out the rest, wincing inwardly as her thoughts arrowed to Wendy, who knew that her ex Bill was part of the writers’ group. But Godiva still hadn’t gotten the courage to tell Wendy that Bill had stuck this awful distortion of her into his novel, naming the ridiculous character ‘Cindy’.

Time enough to prepare Wendy if she ever got the courage to come to the writers’ group, Godiva promised herself. That would be armed and prepared. Otherwise, it was just pointlessly cruel.

She let out a sigh of relief when Bill laid the last page in his expensive briefcase as if it was made of gold, and harrumphed through the applause. Godiva sidled a peek Rigo’s way, as he gave several very light, very polite claps.

Under cover of that brief spate of applause, Doris leaned over to Godiva. She pointed with her chin in Rigo’s direction. “Gotta say . . .”

“Don’t you dare,” Godiva said between shut teeth.

“Right right right,” Doris whispered hastily. “If you feel he’s scum, then he’s scum.”

“Seems to have good taste, judging by his reaction to Bill’s pages,” Bird murmured on the other side, caught Godiva’s glare, then added hastily, “Which makes his treachery all the worse.”

Godiva sat back, satisfied that her support was not going over to The Enemy, seduced by his blasted good looks.

Then Linette, currently serving as moderator, turned her way. “Godiva, do you have pages for us today?”

Godiva did. Or rather, she had. She loved reading aloud, loved the comments good and bad, and of course especially relished when a comment she’d meant to be funny caused a chuckle, or when a plot turn she had maniacally plotted out caused a gasp.

But with that . . . that . . . scurvy abomination sitting over there staring at her, she was not going to read. She couldn’t help it if he’d read her books, which after all were available in public libraries as well as all discerning bookstores. But! Somehow the idea of him hearing her newly-written words felt like she would be offering him an X-ray of her soul. She was not going to let that mustard-gulleted poltroon climb into her soul, no way!

“Sorry, Linette. Skip me this week. Not ready,” Godiva stated, eyeing the ceiling.

“Then that leaves us some extra time,” Cassandra cut in quickly, jangling her bracelets as she dug into her designer handbag. “So I can read all twenty-six verses of a poem that resulted from a dream I had last week. Let me describe the dream first, so you’ll understand the symbols . . .”

Godiva let Cassandra’s piping voice slide into the background. Cassandra being one of those precious poets so sure of their own genius that all they paid any attention to was praise, Godiva didn’t feel guilty as she turned her mind to the bruise on her spirit sitting over there. Why was he even here?

She longed to know where Alejandro was—how he was doing—but hated to put herself in a position of begging Rigo for news of him. Especially if he refused to say. After all, there had to be some reason why she had never heard from Alejo again, after those few post cards.

What if . . . no, she was not going to let herself fall down the what-if rabbit hole again. She had cured herself of that particular form of nightmare years ago. It had taken hard work, especially after every unsuccessful return from visiting the post office box in Illinois. She was done with that form of self-torture. She had promised herself she would ask, and she would ask. No expectations before. Or after.

She was so deep in her mental wrestle that Cassandra’s long poem slipped by without Godiva having to hear a word of it. She was startled out of her reverie by applause, which she hastily joined.

Then Linette took her totally by surprise as she turned to Rigo, saying, “All visitors are welcome to read as well. Do you have anything for us?”

Godiva tried not to glare. Did Linette even know what toxic ooze had slimed into this meeting? Godiva gloated inwardly when she noticed that Linette’s tone was cordial, but it was the kind of cordial without any warmth. Oh yes, Linette recognized him, if only as the target of Godiva’s well-deserved hot coffee toss of the morning previous.

Godiva was further heartened when she saw Doris, Bird, and Jen all aiming glowers at Rigo. Well, Bird didn’t quite glower, but her round, wistful doe eyes turned away, a sure sign she wished she was back in her splendid house on the cliff, cozying up to her handsome hubs, who sat there looking as stern as a silver-haired statue of some lofty Chinese avatar.

“Well, now, I’m not much of a writer,” Rigo drawled, his Texas accent faint but still recognizable in his soft, husky voice.

No, his rat-infested excuse for a voice! Godiva tightened her spine, rejecting the sneaking tendrils of attraction with every atom of her body. Nobody betrayed her twice.

“Nor even a storyteller,” Rigo went on. “Never was. But my grandfather, a Maya from the land south of the Rio Grande, was a storyteller. He used to tell us young’uns stories about Rabbit and Coyote and Snake and all the rest of the characters of Mayan folk tales. If he embroidered them a little, well, that was part of the folk tradition.”

He looked around. Godiva shifted her gaze to the opposite wall, and she studied a curl-edged poster from an Agatha Christie play as if it contained the secret to turning lead into gold. She was not going to gratify him by letting him think she was listening . . .

And she listened as he began in that slow smooth-as-whiskey voice.

This took place, like all folk tales, a long time ago. Fact is, Rabbit lived in a far off village with Coyote, Snake, Jaguar, and others, all predators, and all mean. But these predators all knew that Rabbit was faster than they were, and besides, the local village needed a speedy messenger as well as tough gunslingers in order to survive.

He paused, and Godiva sensed he was looking her way. She studied the rest of the group. Some looked interested in the folk tale, Bill stared at his fancy boots, and Cassandra played with her clattering bracelets.

Rigo raised his voice slightly over the noise.

Rabbit was content. He got enough to eat, and had a place out under the sky to sleep, and if the rest of the town’s citizens weren’t quite what you’d call his friends, at least they let him be. He thought his life was complete until he saw Hummingbird.