Cursed

rings. Admittedly the corn was a mistake. The kernels are shriveled like raisins from sitting in water for too long.

Zack makes a face. “I was hoping you’d forgotten.” He scrunches his napkin into a ball and tosses it on the table. “Looks like it’ll be an early dinner tonight. Next time, I pick the place.”

“Don’t change the subject. What are you doing here?”

“I’d say enjoying barbecue, but that would be a bald-faced lie.” He pushes his plate back, then combs his fingers through his hair. I notice it looks a little lighter in the full sun.

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest. “You know what I mean.”

He sighs. “You’re pissed.”

“You thought I wouldn’t be?”

He takes a bite of his sandwich and chews. Since he’s so eloquently expressed his opinion of the food, I know he’s stalling. I’m not one of those people who feel the need to fill gaps of silence with needless chatter, so I just wait.

Finally he answers, “I guess I hoped you wouldn’t be.” He leans forward, forearms on the table. “I remember what you said about not being able to afford anything complicated. I’ve played by your rules. No cards. No flowers.” There’s a long pause and then he asks, “I suppose it’s too much to hope for that you’re pissed because I didn’t send flowers?”

“Way too much to hope for. At the airport we agreed there wouldn’t be any calls, any emails . . .”

He nods. “And there haven’t been. Look, I didn’t come here with the expectation that we’d pick up where we left off in Charleston. You made your feelings perfectly clear.”

I’m not sure I believe him, but I desperately want to. “Then why are you here?”

Zack wears a ring on his right hand. It’s gold and reminiscent of a wedding band, engraved with a pattern resembling a tangle of thorns. He taps it three times on the table. Then the explanation comes out in a rush. “Let’s just say I’ve been struggling with my career path.”

Not the answer I was expecting. It brings a rush of relief right along with a not so surprising flash of disappointment.

“Go on,” I say.

“After the case we worked in Charleston, there was a lot of pressure for me to join the hostage rescue team. It was like at the Academy, only worse.”

“I don’t understand. What happened at the Academy?”

He shrugs. “My marksmanship scores were perfect. They recommended me for sniper training. Wanted me on the HRT then. It’s not what I wanted.”

“Because?”

“I have my reasons. Can we just leave it at that?”

I nod. “For now.” The guys in HRT are a tight-knit group. It’d be tough to hide going furry three nights a month in that environment. That’s reason enough for him to avoid the assignment. But I’m somehow left with the impression it’s more than that.

There’s a moment of silence. I can tell he’s searching for the right words.

“I’ve been struggling to find my place. Then I bumped into your boss at Quantico a few months ago. We had a couple beers. I asked about you. He mentioned your partner was leaving. I think my place is here. You’re the best field agent I’ve ever met. I want to work with you again, Emma.”

“There are plenty of good agents.” I lean forward and lower my voice. “Ones you haven’t slept with.”

He looks away briefly before responding. “You might find this hard to believe, but I don’t generally have trouble finding sexual companionship. Finding a partner that makes me better than I am alone? That’s far more difficult.”

He says the word partner as though it means something special. Having worked alongside him, I don’t doubt it does.

“That month in Charleston,” he continues, “we were good together. Damned good. No one has closed as many cases in as little time as you. You’ve got one of the best clearance records in the Bureau.”

I brush off the compliment. “I’ve had some terrific partners. I’ve been lucky.”

“Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it. I’ve seen you in action. The way you handled the Mason interrogation? It was magic.”

He’s not wrong. It was magic. In part. After all, a Siren is a Siren. Every once in a while I step over the line, help things along, insinuate myself into the mind of someone in order to extract truth or exert influence. I did it with the case I worked with Zack. It was a kidnapping. We had a suspect, Mason. We were sure he was involved. Zack and I had been tag-teaming him and coming up empty. He’d been taking a hard line with the suspect. I suggested he give me a few minutes alone to play the sympathy card. Then I did what I had to do. I unleashed my gift and discovered the truth, the location of the missing child.

Risky? Yes. I never know when Demeter might be watching. She frowns on any use of my gift that might draw attention to an Immortal on Earth. Having power is a burden. Not using it, a constant struggle. Though each use of my magic risks Demeter’s wrath, finding one of the missing, saving them, tips the scales in my direction. A justified risk for the greater good. Necessary so that I can continue with the mission, so that I can bring another victim home, so that maybe, someday, I can go home.

“Yes, you’ve discovered my deep, dark secret, Zack.” When they get too close, tell the truth. It’s too absurd for anyone, even a werewolf, to believe. “I’m really a goddess with special powers. You may now throw away your lucky rabbit’s foot. Stick with me and your next promotion is most certainly right around the corner.” I punctuate my special brand of sarcasm with a very noisy slurp of tea.

Zack’s not deterred in the least. “I’m not looking to get promoted, Emma. I belong in the field. I want to stay in the field.”

“Seriously?”

He nods solemnly. “Seriously.”

Strange as it might seem to some, I understand that. Promotion is the furthest thing from my mind. Since joining the Bureau as Emma Monroe, I’ve been fortunate enough to be paired with ambitious partners. Unlike them, I haven’t wanted to move up. My clearance record has benefited all of them as they climbed the Bureau ladder.

Zack may have alpha in him, but there’s something else there, too. He’s ambitious and driven, but not for power or control. For what? I have no idea. Zack Armstrong is one complicated man.

I take another slurp of tea. “So, how recently did you break up with your ex?”

I can’t tell if it’s the fact that I changed the subject or the question itself that’s surprised him. Just as I reach the conclusion he’s going to tell me to mind my own business, he comes out with her name.

“Sarah. Her name is Sarah. Referring to her as an ex makes . . . whatever we had . . . seem more significant than it was. It was a thing. It was casual. It’s over. End of story.”

End of Zack’s version. If she followed him from South Carolina, it couldn’t have been that casual.

“Okay. You want to work with me, find yourself a girlfriend.” I gather up my plate and Zack’s, stroll over to a nearby trash can, and toss it all in.

Zack’s risen from his chair. “Girlfriend? I haven’t had one of those since I was seventeen.”

Somehow I find that hard to believe. “It’s a condition.”

He frowns. “It’s a stupid condition.”

I respond with a show of my hands, palms up to the universe in a take-it-or-leave-it gesture.

“So, have I found myself a partner?” He slides on his sports coat. “We good?”

“We’re good.”

For now.

•   •   •

I make a quick stop in the break room and pour myself a cup of coffee. When I return to my desk, I find Zack looking happier than a kid on Christmas morning.

“Check this out. They delivered everything on the supply list I sent.” He is brandishing a pack of red gel pens in one hand and a pack of black in the other. There’s a pile of various-colored Post-its in front of him.

I slide into the chair at the desk across from his. “Pens. Post-its. Very exciting.”

“You think that’s exciting? Look at this.”