"Solamente Carlos," He said almost shyly, and Zoe felt a momentary pang of regret, knowing what awaited him on the other side of those doors.
"Gracias, Carlos," she said, and let him go anyway, watching him disappear beneath the giant blue mosaic depicting a guardian angel, and God's eye. She had her own problems. And after two full minutes she stubbed her cigarette out beneath her heel and followed Carlos inside to face one of them.
The Mexican agent was nowhere in sight when Zoe entered the Cathedral. She glanced at the spot Warren generally favored, closest to the bishop's chair at the front of the sanctuary, but the pews were empty so he either wasn't in the building, or he was already trailing the rogue agent. Tiptoing across the white marble floor, she ducked into the chapel of the Blessed Sacrament. While there, she lit a prayer candle. It couldn't hurt.
Thirty seconds later she grinned grimly as a yell ricocheted through the cavernous building, followed by a startled yelp. She stopped grinning at the report of running footfalls down the sanctuary's center aisle… four pair, she determined, not two. A Spanish curse spiraled to the building's apex, and if this had been a Baptist church the agent would probably already be burning in hell. But that wasn't what bothered Zoe. Getting to Warren had just gotten as tough.
Mortals often witnessed paranormal conflict, though the victorious agents made sure none ever remembered it. Sometimes the humans would wake the next morning swearing it'd all been a dream, or that their dinner the night before hadn't quite agreed with them. Problem was, the memory of the entire twenty-four-hour period prior to the conflict was often erased along with the incident, and Zoe needed to remember. Her family's lineage depended on it.
Yet as she stood holding her breath next to the outstretched arms of the blessed mother, all she remembered was what it was like to be super. How she could sneak up behind any man or woman and have them unconscious before they took their next breath. How she'd laugh about it afterwards. Now that she'd been stripped of the ability, and was on the receiving end of the body blows, she didn't find it quite as amusing.
Taking a deep breath, she edged around the white marble wall.
The fight was centered in the middle of the Cathedral, though to say that Zoe was watching it would be deceiving. She ripped the faux glasses from her face and shoved them in her pocket. No prescription would allow her to follow these events… what she needed to do was cease seeing. Let her vision blur as if she was trying to look at one of those puzzles where images were hidden within a picture.
Even still, she only caught brief flashes of action; a limb flying outward before disappearing again, a fist clenching before plowing from sight. The man who wrote the manuals of Shadow and Light had once tried to explain to Zoe how the agents' actions came to him. His inspiration, he said, came in blurred images and it was up to his imagination to supply the rest. Only now did Zoe understand what he meant. It was like flipping through one of those children's books where the cartoon figure became animated the faster the pages turned, only in the life-sized version a few of the panels were missing.
Forcing her gaze to sharpen again, she turned away from the action. Every instinct she had was screaming at her to remain hidden, but she had to trust what she knew of Warren and hope it still held true. He'd be at the center of the melee, and his two companions would be too focused on him to spy Zoe creeping in from the perimeter. Once again, she stilled her breath and began inching forward along the triangular walls. Unlike those involved in the paranormal melee, she moved achingly slow. When in fight mode, agents locked in on quick moving objects, like eagles soaring over a desert canyon. Of course, Zoe had no delusions about not being caught. Her goal was only to be as close to Warren as possible when that happened.
She probably would have made it if not for fluted candelabra and its tottery stand. What was it with these Catholics and their gold-plated tchotchkes? The room went still as they all whirled her way. The rogue agent's wild eyes widened in recognition while Warren's narrowed. Zoe didn't bother looking at the other two, she just burst into a full sprint, hoping the unexpected movement would give her time to reach Warren's side.
It worked. Closest, Warren had no choice but to give chase, leaving the rogue to his allies. Unfortunately, Zoe blinked—damned mortal eyes! — and the spot he'd been standing in a second earlier was empty.
Shit. She dropped to the floor, felt arms cushion her fall.
"My hero." It was their favorite endearment for one another, and she said it to no one. If she waited until she saw him it'd be too late.
As it happened, it already was. Warren's form solidified as he froze, eyes widening in recognition, and then a blur—the blow slowing—but it was too late to stop entirely. Warren's shocked image shattered as darkness enfolded her in inky arms, numbness shooting through her body. Strangely, though, the disappearance into herself was more peace than she'd know since the last time she'd seen his face.
Chapter 3
The lights in the roadside cafe would've been bright no matter what the circumstances. But with a knot the size of a walnut on her skull, and said knot throbbing like a teen's heart on prom night, they were absolutely blinding.
Zoe pushed away from the ripped vinyl of the red bench, wiped the drool from the corner of her mouth, and faced her three captors. "I can't believe you guys are still coming to this dive. The cook spits in the soup, you know."
"Jesus, it really is her!" The man on Warren's left gaped, dropping his cheap coffee cup back in its saucer with a clatter.
Zoe lifted a glass of water and pressed it to her aching forehead. "Hello, Gregor. Walk beneath any ladders lately?"
He shook his head, his smile almost as wide as his bulky body. Gregor wasn't very tall, but he had the neck of three men put together, and the shoulder span of an angel's wings. He was bald, with one small hoop earring that made him look like a modern-day pirate, and had a superstitious nature to match. "Haven't stepped on any cracks in the sidewalk, either. Damn, Zoe, but it's good to see you."
"And worth losing that rogue agent back at the cathedral," agreed the woman to Warren's right. Zoe smiled at Phaedre. She was the same age as Nurse Nancy, though the similarities stopped there. Actually, thought Zoe, they'd probably ceased in their twenties because that's how old Phaedre looked. Like a twenty-something party girl with lowlights in her mahogany mane and a smile deadly all on its own. The weapon tucked between her ample cleavage helped, though. "Welcome back."
"She's not back."
An uncomfortable silence bloomed and Zoe's heart plummeted. She shifted her gaze to Warren's, meeting head-on the anger she saw living there. His baggy clothing made him look slim, almost slight, but beneath it he was sinewy and tough, though Zoe knew the skin that covered all that compact muscle was as soft as her own. He'd have looked boyish with his short hair springing from his head in straight brown tufts, except that his eyes were hard and knowing, calculating as they rested on Zoe. It was his choice whether to accept her back in the troop or not but that wasn't what he was talking about. Of anyone, Warren knew Zoe never changed her mind… or went back.
The waitress's arrival saved her from answer, and the woman let her disinterested gaze travel over Zoe's face, lingering where the throbbing was the worst. "Your girlfriend finally come to?" she asked needlessly, snapping gum the same pepto-pink as her uniform. "Get you some coffee, sweetie?"
Zoe pursed her lips. Why not? Her funds were low, and despite Warren's current appearance—he seemed to be dressed as some sort of street bum this time—he could afford it. Besides, he owed her for the knock on the head. She nodded. "That'd be good. And a short stack… side of bacon."