camped out in the car wondering about Zoë‘s motives?
Frustrated, he yanked the door open, climbed out, and marched toward the house, noting for the first time the banner hung over the doorway of Nicholas Goodman’s house:
Deena and Hoop .. . About Damn Time!
Mordi couldn’t help but grin.
Deena and Hoop had been flirting with a serious relationship since before Mordi had met either of them. An artist, Deena worked part-time at the elementary school where Zoë used to work as a librarian, before her entry into the Venerate Council had taken her in another professional direction.
Hoop was a private investigator, a guy who pretty much fit all the stereotypes of a rumpled gumshoe. The man truly loved Deena, though, any idiot could see that, and Mordi wondered what had taken them so long to finally set a wedding date.
Then again, considering he himself had never once let a relationship with a woman get to such a serious level, he was hardly the man to criticize the speed—or lack thereof—with which Hoop had finally popped the question.
“Mordi!” Inside, across the living room, his cousin Zoë waved. He returned the gesture, then started walking that way through the crowd. “You look well,” she said before moving closer and pulling him into an awkward hug. He patted her shoulder, figured that satisfied propriety, then stepped back.
“Thanks for meeting me here,” she added.
“I didn’t know I had a choice.”
“Oh.” She looked him up and down, frowning. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it would be such a terrible ordeal for you to come. I actually thought you might enjoy the party.”
He opened his mouth to snap a retort, but closed it with a sigh. “We need to talk about this committee stuff.”
She studied him, her expression earnest as always. “We know you were undercover,” she said, and since that had nothing to do with their committee responsibilities, Mordi knew that he’d been right: His cousin was making an overture of sorts.
He almost kept silent, but if she was going to make an effort, then so would he. “Yeah. I wanted to tell you but, like you said, I was undercover.” He hadn’t been at first, of course, but Zoë knew that as well as Mordi.
She nodded, a tiny frown marring her serious expression. “And we know you stood up to your father.”
“And so you up and invited me to Deena’s engagement party?” He crossed his arms, feeling more manipulated than welcome. “Come on, Zo. I might be part of the family, but you and I know I’ve never really belonged.”
“I just thought—”
He shifted his weight. In theory, he appreciated the overture. In practice, he felt as though he’d been thrust under a microscope. “Let’s just get down to business, okay?”
He thought she was going to protest again, but instead she turned away, leading him across the room. The house belonged to Deena’s brother, Nicholas, and his wife Maggie. And although he’d never been there before, he could see that this building was more than just a house—it was a home. A sharp contrast to the austere studio apartment he kept in Manhattan.
Zoë aimed them toward the buffet, and though Mordi expected her to continue past to some private room, instead she stopped. A man stood by a plate piled high with sandwiches, his back to Zoë‘ and Mordi, and Mordi could see the straps of some sort of gear crisscrossing his back. The man turned, and Mordi realized who it was—and what he was holding.
George Bailey Taylor met his eyes. “Mordi. Good to see you.” The words were polite enough, but Mordi didn’t miss the way Taylor’s hand moved to protectively cup the tiny head of a baby girl, swaddled in pink and snuggled into the papoose-like pack that nestled against his chest.
“You haven’t seen Talia since she was born,” Zoë said, beaming at the sight of her daughter.
Mordi reached out a tentative finger, and the little urchin took it, her tiny finger closing tight around his. “She’s so
Frustrated, he yanked the door open, climbed out, and marched toward the house, noting for the first time the banner hung over the doorway of Nicholas Goodman’s house:
Deena and Hoop .. . About Damn Time!
Mordi couldn’t help but grin.
Deena and Hoop had been flirting with a serious relationship since before Mordi had met either of them. An artist, Deena worked part-time at the elementary school where Zoë used to work as a librarian, before her entry into the Venerate Council had taken her in another professional direction.
Hoop was a private investigator, a guy who pretty much fit all the stereotypes of a rumpled gumshoe. The man truly loved Deena, though, any idiot could see that, and Mordi wondered what had taken them so long to finally set a wedding date.
Then again, considering he himself had never once let a relationship with a woman get to such a serious level, he was hardly the man to criticize the speed—or lack thereof—with which Hoop had finally popped the question.
“Mordi!” Inside, across the living room, his cousin Zoë waved. He returned the gesture, then started walking that way through the crowd. “You look well,” she said before moving closer and pulling him into an awkward hug. He patted her shoulder, figured that satisfied propriety, then stepped back.
“Thanks for meeting me here,” she added.
“I didn’t know I had a choice.”
“Oh.” She looked him up and down, frowning. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it would be such a terrible ordeal for you to come. I actually thought you might enjoy the party.”
He opened his mouth to snap a retort, but closed it with a sigh. “We need to talk about this committee stuff.”
She studied him, her expression earnest as always. “We know you were undercover,” she said, and since that had nothing to do with their committee responsibilities, Mordi knew that he’d been right: His cousin was making an overture of sorts.
He almost kept silent, but if she was going to make an effort, then so would he. “Yeah. I wanted to tell you but, like you said, I was undercover.” He hadn’t been at first, of course, but Zoë knew that as well as Mordi.
She nodded, a tiny frown marring her serious expression. “And we know you stood up to your father.”
“And so you up and invited me to Deena’s engagement party?” He crossed his arms, feeling more manipulated than welcome. “Come on, Zo. I might be part of the family, but you and I know I’ve never really belonged.”
“I just thought—”
He shifted his weight. In theory, he appreciated the overture. In practice, he felt as though he’d been thrust under a microscope. “Let’s just get down to business, okay?”
He thought she was going to protest again, but instead she turned away, leading him across the room. The house belonged to Deena’s brother, Nicholas, and his wife Maggie. And although he’d never been there before, he could see that this building was more than just a house—it was a home. A sharp contrast to the austere studio apartment he kept in Manhattan.
Zoë aimed them toward the buffet, and though Mordi expected her to continue past to some private room, instead she stopped. A man stood by a plate piled high with sandwiches, his back to Zoë‘ and Mordi, and Mordi could see the straps of some sort of gear crisscrossing his back. The man turned, and Mordi realized who it was—and what he was holding.
George Bailey Taylor met his eyes. “Mordi. Good to see you.” The words were polite enough, but Mordi didn’t miss the way Taylor’s hand moved to protectively cup the tiny head of a baby girl, swaddled in pink and snuggled into the papoose-like pack that nestled against his chest.
“You haven’t seen Talia since she was born,” Zoë said, beaming at the sight of her daughter.
Mordi reached out a tentative finger, and the little urchin took it, her tiny finger closing tight around his. “She’s so
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