Free Zola's Pride by Moira Rogers

Chapter One

    He was going to get the cops called
on him if he wasn’t careful.
    Walker Gravois dropped his second
cigarette, crushed it under his boot and turned his attention back to
the wide window across the way. Fluorescent light streamed through
the glass, doing more to illuminate the narrow street than the lamp
over his head. Inside the dojo, a woman with chocolate skin blocked a
punch, then paused to correct her assailant’s form.
    She didn’t have to be facing
him for Walker to recognize her. Zola. Every line of her body tugged at memories he thought he’d
banished years ago, and he couldn’t help but compare the woman
before him with the one he remembered.
    She’d been thinner then, just
as strong but not as curvy. The wicked flare of her hips drew his
gaze, and he licked his lower lip to ease the tingle of curiosity.
    Walker checked his watch with a
quiet curse—half past ten. He’d been standing there for
close to an hour. In this part of the Quarter, it wouldn’t take
long for someone to phone the police about the pervert loitering
outside the dojo, watching the students kick and lunge in their tiny
T-shirts and Lycra sports bras. Unfortunately, the neat letters
etched into the glass window that listed closing time as nine o’clock
seemed like more of a guideline than a rule.
    And he desperately needed to talk to
her.
    He’d just begun to entertain
the notion of simply walking in when Zola stepped to the front of the
room and turned to address her gathered students. Clearly, she was
preparing to dismiss them, so he shoved his unlit third cigarette
back into the pack and crossed the street.
    Man up, Gravois, he told himself. She’ll
either hear what you have to say...or she’ll kick your ass
clear across the river. The hell of it was that he had no idea which she’d choose.
Normally, he wouldn’t worry—he could handle whatever fury
Zola unleashed on him—but he had more to think about now than
himself.
    So he’d let her scream at him,
get out whatever lingering old hurts plagued her, and then he’d
make sure she heard him.
    He could do this.
    He had to.

    The evening class had run long
again.
    Zola never minded. Friday night was
reserved for her private class, the class made up of girls and women
who walked among the supernatural denizens of New Orleans as
daughters, sisters and wives. Some had powers of their own, like
Sheila, a gangly, sweet-faced wolf on the cusp of womanhood, all arms
and legs and uncertain strength. Some were psychics and some were
spell casters, witches and priestesses who twisted magic and read
minds.
    Some were human, and they were the
most vulnerable of all.
    The soft murmur of feminine voices
drifted through the dojo as the last few students lingered in the
warmth of the building, catching up on the latest gossip or making
plans to meet later in the week. February had brought an unseasonable
cold snap, the kind of chill that settled in Zola’s bones and
made her long for the unforgiving deserts of her childhood.
    The floor creaked behind her, and
Zola looked up from rearranging a stack of punching targets to catch
sight of Sheila’s reflection. The teenager had a jacket zipped
up to her chin and a knit hat pulled low over wild corkscrew curls,
leaving just her pale face uncovered. “Zola?”
    She looked worried, and Zola tensed.
“Yes, Sheila? There is a problem?” Even after all these
years, English didn’t come naturally. The words tumbled out in
an order that always made others laugh, but she’d spoken too
many languages in too many countries to worry now.
    Sheila was so accustomed to Zola’s
linguistic oddities that she didn’t blink. She did, however,
speak in her own nearly indecipherable dialect. “There’s
a guy lurking outside. I mean, he's hot and all, but the lurking is
pretty creeptastic and a little pervy.”
    Zola didn’t need to understand
the words to decipher their meaning. She turned and squinted through
the broad windows, her vision