one stood in her way. Not even her own son.”
He parked and didn’t make a big show of how much it hurt for him to stand out of the car. I could tell, though. I could smell the pain on him.
I wasn’t nearly as graceful. I groaned at any little jab or bump to my arm and hip. My sling got caught on the side of the door, and I had to pull my arm out of it to get free. I made a lot of noise and swore just for good measure. Good news, my arm moved pretty well. Better news, my hip wasn’t giving me nearly as much trouble.
Zay waited while I got my arms in the right arrangement; then we walked to the street. Plenty of people out today, the city waking up and coming to life after a long, rainy winter.
But all the activity made me twitchy. I jerked at every loud noise, loud engine, loud color. The day was too bright, too sunny, and I felt naked and vulnerable out in it.
I wanted my sword or, hell, a gun. I wanted more than magic to keep me safe. I wanted bullets to fight bullets.
“You okay?” Zay mumbled. He didn’t look at me but wrapped his arm around my waist.
His calm anger did a world of good to clear my head. He walked the streets like he could take on all comers with his bare hands. Untouchable. Fearless.
Didn’t act like a guy who’d almost been shot to death.
Well, if he could do that, I could try not to duck at every bike riding by.
The Turntable was in the corner of a building filled with shops and offices. Zay opened the brass and wood door, and I stepped in, my sneakers making a thick sound on the hard green tiles. The decor was mostly wood and brass, booths in dark green, tables with mismatched cloths, and flower arrangements scattered here and there. Vinyl records and covers in frames filled the walls. It should look corporate but somehow managed to hold on to its hometown roots and seemed inviting and genuine.
The sign told us to seat ourselves. Zay chose a table, not a booth, facing the front door, with a good view of the rest of the restaurant.
The waitress—a woman with skin darker than Zayvion’s, and so pretty she should have been a model—bustled over with menus. Zay told her we’d have two more people joining us. She left and returned with four glasses of water.
I’d had just enough time to decide on the club sandwich when Nola walked in.
My best friend looked how she always looked—no, she looked better than I’d ever seen her. She smiled and waved as soon as she spotted me, her long honey hair tucked behind both ears, showing the blush on her cheek and the tan that was gotten the old-fashioned way—by working outdoors. She wore a nice pair of black slacks and a pale blue cardigan over a white T-shirt.
Cody was indeed with her. It still surprised me that he was twenty-one. Thin as a rail, he’d added good muscle to his willowy frame so he at least didn’t look like he was going to blow away in the wind anymore. As a matter of fact, his shoulders and chest were a lot wider than when I’d last seen him, and he’d grown an inch at least. He was no longer a boy; the time on the farm had given Cody a man’s body. He also looked a lot less frightened or confused than other times I’d seen him.
He followed Nola and smiled when he caught sight of me.
“Allie! It’s great to see you,” Nola said. “You too, Zay. I heard you just went through a tough medical stay recently.”
He stood—man had good manners—shook her hand, and gave her a soft smile. “I do not recommend comas. All that sleep, and I still don’t feel rested.” He shook Cody’s hand too.
I stood up too. Not to be polite. I wanted a hug.
Nola reached out for a hug and embraced me very gently. “What happened to your arm?”
Oh. I hadn’t come up with a good cover for that.
“We were sparring,” Zay said, as smooth as old whiskey. “I was showing her some flips, and I twisted her arm a little too hard.”
Nola frowned. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes. And Zay’s being nice. I was stubborn
He parked and didn’t make a big show of how much it hurt for him to stand out of the car. I could tell, though. I could smell the pain on him.
I wasn’t nearly as graceful. I groaned at any little jab or bump to my arm and hip. My sling got caught on the side of the door, and I had to pull my arm out of it to get free. I made a lot of noise and swore just for good measure. Good news, my arm moved pretty well. Better news, my hip wasn’t giving me nearly as much trouble.
Zay waited while I got my arms in the right arrangement; then we walked to the street. Plenty of people out today, the city waking up and coming to life after a long, rainy winter.
But all the activity made me twitchy. I jerked at every loud noise, loud engine, loud color. The day was too bright, too sunny, and I felt naked and vulnerable out in it.
I wanted my sword or, hell, a gun. I wanted more than magic to keep me safe. I wanted bullets to fight bullets.
“You okay?” Zay mumbled. He didn’t look at me but wrapped his arm around my waist.
His calm anger did a world of good to clear my head. He walked the streets like he could take on all comers with his bare hands. Untouchable. Fearless.
Didn’t act like a guy who’d almost been shot to death.
Well, if he could do that, I could try not to duck at every bike riding by.
The Turntable was in the corner of a building filled with shops and offices. Zay opened the brass and wood door, and I stepped in, my sneakers making a thick sound on the hard green tiles. The decor was mostly wood and brass, booths in dark green, tables with mismatched cloths, and flower arrangements scattered here and there. Vinyl records and covers in frames filled the walls. It should look corporate but somehow managed to hold on to its hometown roots and seemed inviting and genuine.
The sign told us to seat ourselves. Zay chose a table, not a booth, facing the front door, with a good view of the rest of the restaurant.
The waitress—a woman with skin darker than Zayvion’s, and so pretty she should have been a model—bustled over with menus. Zay told her we’d have two more people joining us. She left and returned with four glasses of water.
I’d had just enough time to decide on the club sandwich when Nola walked in.
My best friend looked how she always looked—no, she looked better than I’d ever seen her. She smiled and waved as soon as she spotted me, her long honey hair tucked behind both ears, showing the blush on her cheek and the tan that was gotten the old-fashioned way—by working outdoors. She wore a nice pair of black slacks and a pale blue cardigan over a white T-shirt.
Cody was indeed with her. It still surprised me that he was twenty-one. Thin as a rail, he’d added good muscle to his willowy frame so he at least didn’t look like he was going to blow away in the wind anymore. As a matter of fact, his shoulders and chest were a lot wider than when I’d last seen him, and he’d grown an inch at least. He was no longer a boy; the time on the farm had given Cody a man’s body. He also looked a lot less frightened or confused than other times I’d seen him.
He followed Nola and smiled when he caught sight of me.
“Allie! It’s great to see you,” Nola said. “You too, Zay. I heard you just went through a tough medical stay recently.”
He stood—man had good manners—shook her hand, and gave her a soft smile. “I do not recommend comas. All that sleep, and I still don’t feel rested.” He shook Cody’s hand too.
I stood up too. Not to be polite. I wanted a hug.
Nola reached out for a hug and embraced me very gently. “What happened to your arm?”
Oh. I hadn’t come up with a good cover for that.
“We were sparring,” Zay said, as smooth as old whiskey. “I was showing her some flips, and I twisted her arm a little too hard.”
Nola frowned. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes. And Zay’s being nice. I was stubborn
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