Silver Basilisk (Silver Shifters 4)

himself to a dog whistle, he gave a couple of firm blasts.

His basilisk ears caught the shrill whine—somewhere between a mosquito and a laser—and the two zombies turned into a cursing man who clapped his hands over his ears, and a woman who swung a haymaker at his jaw.

Rigo ducked the haymaker, and waited until the truck driver turned a scowl his way. “What—where am I? What happened to my hand?” He gazed in shock at the bleeding scrape.

“Next time you hear any kind of whistle, block it out,” Rigo said, and lowered his voice. “Someone is messing with shifters. Some kind of charm.”

The truck driver’s gaze flickered from side to side, and his anger melted away. “Oh. Uh, okay. Right. Thanks a lot.”

The woman sighed. “I was supposed to be on shift at the hospital five hours ago.” She looked up at Rigo. “Thanks.”

“Spread the word,” Rigo said.

The two took off. Rigo turned away to pay for the whistle, then on second thought helped himself to the entire box. At the cash register, the cheerful young fellow said, “Dog obedience class?”

Not a shifter, Rigo thought. He knew some shifters could tell. He could only sense other mythic shifters. “Something like that.”

He paid, and walked out, reaching for his phone. Joey answered within seconds. Rigo gave a fast report, said he had the bag of dog whistles, then added, “My plan all along was to go up and knock on Godiva’s door. But considering how she reacted today, that might not be a good idea.”

“Definitely not,” Joey agreed, a little too fervently.

Rigo hated the thought that these people he’d never set eyes on before today had known Godiva for a lot longer than he had.

But they hadn’t loved her longer.

Regret had been his faithful companion for decades. So he said, “Got any suggestions?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Joey said. “Meet me for lunch? I’ll text you directions . . .”

Chapter 3

Godiva

Godiva usually walked home from the bakery, to get her aerobics for the day done with. Anger, she had decided years ago, hurt a whole lot less than grief and betrayal. Anger got you moving. Anger got her walking vigorously all the way home without her looking back once.

Anger—righteous anger—boiled hot and bright inside her as she stamped up the tiled walkway under the towering California pepper trees, and onto the shaded verandah of her old rancho-style house. She stepped inside the cool, dim living room, and took a deep breath. Home. Safe.

Safe? What did that even mean in this situation?

She slammed the front door behind her.

“Godiva?” A woman’s voice echoed from the kitchen.

That was Wendy, one of Godiva’s former houseguests. After Wendy got her house back from her sleazy, grabby ex in her divorce, she’d moved back in, but she still came over to help Godiva, knowing how much she loathed kitchen work.

As Godiva told all her houseguests on their arrival, “I love eating, but I really hate cooking and cleaning. After years of long shifts as a waitress, the last thing I ever wanted was to come home to more food prep and cleanup. So I never was any good at cooking, which means when I say help yourself in my kitchen, I mean it.”

Wendy was a fabulous cook, and was turning into a fabulous friend. Too fabulous to snarl at, so Godiva didn’t answer, but turned down the hall toward her end of the rambling house. She passed the library she shared with her houseguests, then her study, which no one but her entered, and fetched up in her bedroom that looked into the garden full of native trees and wildflowers. But the sight no longer had the power to enchant her.

Feverishly she began yanking drawers open and tossing clothes into a suitcase. She should call a Lyft. But to where? The airport? She could pick a city once she got there, wherever the next flight went . . .

“Godiva?” That was Wendy again, a pretty, curvy woman of fifty, standing in the doorway looking worried. “Are you okay?”

“No. Yes. I’m fine.” Godiva’s knees trembled, and she plumped down on her waterbed. It sloshed comfortingly under her. It wasn’t the kind she’d put up with in the seventies, which inevitably leaked and smelled of mildew. A modern one that had all the comfort and none of the drawbacks. But they were harder and harder to find.

She looked around. If she ran, she lost that comfort.

She lost everything.