But what she had to say needed to be said, and sooner was better than later. This wasn’t going to be easy, and she would rather have waited. “Wynne.” Kira closed her eyes for a brief moment, dreading what would come next. I’ll fail even more spectacularly than I have in the last couple of weeks, and that will be it. One day, sooner or later, I won’t be able to pull off a miracle. I’ve got the most dangerous job on the planet with the possible exception of those people who take lava samples from active volcanoes. The reality is that he lives-and has lived for thousands of years-to complete his redemption so he can die and be reunited with his family in the afterlife. Where the hell was Khefar and his car? “It’s not a question of want. Wynne might look like a pink punk pixie, but she was as tenacious as a terrier. “Wynne, there’s no couple stuff going on between Khefar and me.” She did know, however, that it wasn’t because they were a “couple.” She’d tried and failed to come up with a good reason why he’d endangered himself to save her. He certainly hadn’t had to, not the way he had. Her dying memories swirled along the edges of her mind, much like the leaves scattering around the bungalow. Kira shoved her gloved hands deep into her trouser pockets. Something tells me he wouldn’t do that for just anybody.” I was there when Khefar saved you and brought you back from-wherever y’all went. “Now who’s dipping into the herbs? I’m not blind. Kira backed up a step, maintaining the space between them. “I’m being serious, Kira.” Wynne turned to face her. “A couples’ vaca- Did Zoo add a little extra herb to your tea?” “You know, now that this is over, the four of us should go somewhere guaranteed to be uneventful,” Wynne announced. Dressed in a pair of desert-print army combat uniform trousers from her former military life and a black sweater that looked as if it had been on the losing end of a catfight, Wynne Marlowe was every bit the contrast she presented: a disciplined soldier with an unpredictable nature, a petite woman with a sweetheart face and an expertise in tae kwon do, a big-hearted woman who took as much pride in the spells her husband wove as the weapons she forged. Wynne leaned over the porch rail, her pink hair a shocking contrast against the orange and bronze fall leaves of the neighborhood trees. Even though Wynne’s husband seemed to be fully recovered, Kira knew he bore a jagged dark scar in his olive skin, thanks to her. She should have been happy that her friends still wanted her around, but she couldn’t get past the guilt of what she’d done to them, especially Zoo. She was looking forward to having some time to herself, in her own space, surrounded by her own belongings. Feeling the weight of those deaths while playing happy with her friends and coworkers had been a burden almost impossible to bear. It was hard to be thrilled to be alive when so many weren’t-like the innocents who’d been on the receiving end of her bad Shadow-induced flipout. All Kira wanted to do was go home, settle down on the couch or in her altar room, and relax with a mug of chamomile. Anything to fight the chill that still clung to her bones despite her ever-present gloves and the black faux leather jacket she wore over charcoal wool trousers and a gray turtleneck sweater. Right now, she could do with a soothing cup of tea herself. Somehow Kira didn’t think that was something that could be shared over tea and cookies with the neighborhood welcoming committee. An organization dedicated to fighting the evil of the Fallen: their human hosts, Shadow Avatars, and all those who consorted with or were descended from the original Fallen-demons, halflings, hybrids, and other beings of Shadow. Kira wondered if the other residents of Ansley Park knew their sometime neighbor was a woman of unfathomable age who headed an international clandestine organization. Where else would Balm live other than some century-old neighborhood on the National Register of Historic Places? The bungalow was situated in a beautiful old neighborhood in Ansley Park in Midtown Atlanta, tree-lined and gentrified, not far from the High Museum and Piedmont Park. She leaned against the whitewashed column supporting the porch overhang, waiting for Khefar to show up with his car. As glad as she was to be on the right side of the grass, she’d had just about all the celebrating she could handle. Not that Kira Solomon had done much more since her resurrection than survive a celebratory feast with a demigod, an immortal warrior, a bureaucrat, an ageless woman, and two friends she’d accidentally tried to kill. Coming back from the dead was exhausting work.
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