"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."
The waitress pulled her pen from behind her ear, and wrote down the order as she walked away. Zoe assumed everyone else had already eaten.
She returned her eyes to Warren, still waiting for her to explain herself. So she did. "I need your help."
Phaedre looked concerned, Gregor interested. Warren continued to stare warily. If she was hurting him by not apologizing—if she'd hurt him by leaving without saying goodbye—he was hiding it well. But it was a superficial sort of hidden; like an alligator stirring up sediment beneath a brackish surface, and Zoe couldn't help wondering when it'd strike.
She made them wait until her food had arrived and she'd gotten a good bellyful before telling them. If she had to chase them out of the cafe begging for help, she wanted to do it on a full stomach. Surprisingly, when she finished the telling—a mortal child had been stolen by the Shadows, and she needed to get her back—they were still there. Cool. She signaled the waitress for a refill.
"So, there must be something special about this child," Warren finally said, cupping his elbow in his hands as he leaned forward. "I mean, to bring you out of retirement."
Zoe ignored his emphasis of the last word, and sipped at her coffee as she shook her head. "I was in the wrong place at the right time. I saw the Shadows take her."
"Didn't you try to stop them?"
"There were probably too many, right?"
Zoe didn't meet Phaedre's eye, or answer Gregor's question. They didn't know about her mortality—they probably thought she was wearing masking pheromones, and that's why they couldn't scent her. She didn't want to relieve them of that notion. Not just yet.
"There were three of them. I was alone."
But Warren could tell she was holding back.
Always holding back, Zoe! Always with the secrets and the lies!
Still Zoe didn't consider for one second telling him about Joanna or the attack her daughter had endured because the Shadows had scented Zoe on her… in her. The Seer had been very clear: no one could know about these girls… these future Archers. The knowledge could one day be used against them all. Thus, beating against Warren's unspoken accusation was a prophecy that ruled Zoe's days:
You must do it alone.
So she silently willed him to understand that she was still the woman he'd once loved, still Light, but his returned silence was critical, like he sensed her desperation, and he probably did. The unease sitting on both Phaedre's and Gregor's faces told her they did as well. Zoe's lukewarm coffee soured in her belly and straightening, she pushed her cup away.
"Are you going to help me or not?" she said shortly.
"Of course—" Phaedre started.
"Why should I?" Warren interrupted. Not we. Phaedre's mouth snapped shut.
"Isn't it obvious?" Zoe said, his imperious tone making her own voice tight. "You're the one with the power."
And don't forget who the hell helped put you in that position, she thought, blood beginning to boil.
"What's obvious," he said flatly, "is that you're doing another one of your disappearing acts, and you want us to clean up after you."
"That's not it at all."
"Oh, really?"
"Warren—"
"Shut up, Gregor," Warren shook off the other man's hand without looking at him and threw Zoe's purse at her. "All your ID is different. You've altered your appearance, hid your scent beneath a masking compound—"