Moira Rogers: Zola's Pride

Walker’s face mirrored her guilt, but there was nothing relieved about it. “That’s not the only reason I came.”

Of course not. Seers were the most powerful creatures to walk the earth—when had the death of one ever come without pain and trouble for those left in the rubble of their broken lives? “Tell me.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Is there someplace we can talk?”

She could take him next door, to the coffee shop, but she imagined nothing he had to say could be said in the presence of humans. Bringing him to her home was too trusting, too intimate—but denying him felt like cowardice.

Pride had always been her folly. “Come upstairs. I’ll make you some coffee.”

Walker had thought that nothing about Zola’s present life could shock him. She’d always been a free spirit, and he’d had to acknowledge at the outset of his search that he had no idea where or how he’d find her, which was predictable in its own way. But the one thing he hadn’t seen coming was that she might have run back to New Orleans. “I didn’t expect you to be in Louisiana.”

No one who didn’t know her would have noticed the tiny flinch, the way her shoulders tensed up and squared, a telling defensive gesture. “New Orleans is a good place for a cat. The wolves ignore me.”

“I know.” He’d grown up in the bayou, south of the city. “I guess all the stories about my old stomping ground made it sound irresistible.”

The coffee cup she’d pulled from the cupboard smashed into the counter hard enough to fracture, and she hissed her frustration. “I didn’t come here because of you,” she said stiffly as she shoved the cup aside and reached for another. “And why I am here is irrelevant. Why are you here?”

Easy enough to answer, and it still might get him kicked out of her apartment. “I need your help.”

Zola didn’t seem surprised. “Yes, Seers rarely die quiet deaths. I suppose she left a mess behind?”

That was one way to put it. “Tatienne ran into some trouble with a mercenary group in Portugal. It was bad.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough for them to follow us.” Bad enough for them to kill most of the pride.

She turned slowly, eyes narrowed, face tight. “Why me? Why throw yourself on my mercy when not one of you had a sliver of compassion in your hearts when she drove me out? I am not a martyr, not for any man. Not even for you.”

Yes, she would assume no one had cared, because the truth was an unthinkable horror, one he would never reveal to her if he could help it. “I cared, Zola. You have to know I did.”

“Maybe.” She turned again, gave him her back—this time in a clear show of disrespect. “Maybe not enough.”

There was nothing to say, no soothing words to offer. “The pride is mine—what’s left of it, anyway—and all I want to do is keep them alive. Keep them safe.”

“You want to move them here?” Disbelief painted the words. She spun to face him, and her fingers twitched toward her palm, a warning sign that her temper burned hot. Ten years ago she would have followed through, formed a fist and struck him. Her passions had always ridden close to the surface, but maturity had clearly tempered them with restraint.

“New Orleans is the safest place,” he told her calmly. “Surely a half-dozen lions who only want to keep to themselves won’t get in your way.”

“Oh, are we civilized now? Are we human?” She abandoned the coffee she’d poured for him and stalked across the hardwood floor to slam a hand to the table next to him. Then she leaned into his space, filling the air with the angry sizzle of a shapeshifter challenge. “I will not be forced from my home again.”

Keeping a leash on his own reaction cost him dearly. There were few ways to react to such a challenge, and they all ended in violence or sex—neither of which was an option, not if they both wanted to keep their heads on straight. “I’m the only one left, Zola. The only one who stood by while Tatienne drove you out. And I’ll—I’ll leave as soon as the rest of the pride is settled.”

She recoiled, leaving only the lingering scent of her skin. “You’re asking me to lead.”

A frisson of irritation made him grit his teeth. “Those are your options, Zola. Lead or follow. You can’t stay alone in your territory forever.”

“I don’t—” She bit off the words and paced away from him, leashed energy vibrating with every step. “You haven’t told me enough. Why do you need to come here? Why are there only a half-dozen of you left? My mother had more followers than all of the lions in this country combined.”

The truth was uncomfortable because, willing or not, he’d been a party to it. “She did, and now they’re all dead.”

She reached the far wall and pivoted, meeting his gaze across the space that separated them. “Are you still being hunted?”

“Yes.” Walker waved to the other end of the sofa. “Sit down, and I’ll explain everything.”

Zola did the only thing she could. She sat.

A half-dozen lions. At its height, her mother’s pride had numbered in the forties, lions from every continent flocking to kneel at the feet of the generation’s only lion Seer. To imagine that strength reduced to just a handful—and all strangers. No one who would look on her and see a vulnerable girl.

Perhaps she could lead them after all. If she had to. “Was it my mother’s madness?”

“I don’t think so, not at first.” Walker sipped his coffee. “There were a lot of mouths to feed, and the pride needed money. Tatienne said lions made the best warriors, the fiercest, so she started looking for underground fights.”

Bloodsport. Not the same as a clean challenge, not when magical cheats were common and death was all but guaranteed to anyone who fought long enough. It was madness, no matter what Walker claimed.

Worse was knowing whose fighting skills she would have bartered first. “You fought?”

“Yeah. Mixed martial arts stuff, but only the invitationals for supernaturals. I’m not a cheat. Some of the others weren’t so picky.”

So they’d died. But surely not so many, so quickly. “And after the fights?”

“Your mother found other kinds of work, mercenary stuff.” Walker glanced at her, his eyes tight with shame. “Mostly bodyguarding or lift jobs, sometimes intimidation. She sent a couple of the newer guys out once for what I was pretty sure was a hit, but she knew better than to tell me so.”

Morality had slipped from her mother’s grasp along with her sanity. Zola’s stomach knotted at the sheer disgrace of it. Unfair, perhaps—she could hardly be held responsible for the actions of the mother who’d driven her away—but she’d always cherished her memories of an earlier time. Of the woman whose mind hadn’t been consumed by magic, who had soothed a daughter’s childish hurts and taught her to be strong and fierce.

But the Tatienne she’d known had died many years ago. “Why did you stay with her?”

He didn’t deny that he’d wanted to leave. “By the time I realized how far gone she was, I couldn’t abandon the others.”

“How far did it go?”

“Too far.” He set his cup on the table with a clatter. “She was already dancing close to the edge, and Portugal was the last straw. She’d managed to move in on another group’s territory, was stealing their commissions. That got their attention, but what held it was Tatienne.”

Walker hurt. His pain dug hooks into her heart, tore at the scabs of wounds she’d thought long since healed. Words of love hadn’t been the only kind they’d whispered on long nights in the desert. She could remember all too easily the way her chest had ached as her mother turned cold, how Walker had taken her in his arms and comforted her after each argument, each fight.