She didn’t answer, which was answer enough. I didn’t think she was protecting Alcippe, just asserting her power as queen. Her next statement sealed that opinion.

“Let me worry about who has seen my givnomai, but thanks for the tip.”

Sensing this line of discussion was going nowhere else, I turned the conversation to my day at the camp, filled her in on what Dana and the others had told me, which really wasn’t anything Zery didn’t already know. I could have been annoyed that she hadn’t volunteered the information herself, but I was the one who had asked to go to the camp in exchange for talking with Reynolds. Zery had kept her deal with me without betraying any trusts. Plus, from her point of view, there was always the chance I would learn something she didn’t know. It just hadn’t worked out that way.

What I didn’t tell her was that I’d had a run-in with Alcippe. I could have told her the high priestess had questioned her authority, challenged it almost, but after Zery’s warning, I knew anything else I said would just be seen as attacking the high priestess. If Alcippe was involved in any of this, I’d figure out a way to nail her myself.

We were pretty much done and just waiting for the other to realize it when the outside door opened-the one that led to the sidewalk between the gym/cafeteria and the school building.

Peter stepped inside. I knew instantly it was him, by the breadth of shoulders that blocked the outside light.

“Oh, hi.” He smiled that high-watt smile, and my toes curled in my shoes. I needed to see Bubbe about something for my hormones. They seemed to be running rampant lately.

“I heard there was coffee.” He held out a stainless-steel travel mug. “The pot in the shop’s toast.”

“That’s a hundred-dollar coffeemaker.” I pushed myself to a stand.

“Not anymore.” He grinned and headed to the coffeepot. I’d only left about an inch in the carafe. I thought he’d see that and move on, but to my surprise he dumped out the grounds and began making fresh.

“Little hearth-keeper in that one,” Zery murmured. “Not a bad thing, if you’re really going to do this human thing.” She waggled her brows.

I rolled my eyes, but then turned them back toward Peter. He was wearing jeans and a sweater-a close-fitting sweater. And his back was turned to us-my favorite view.

“Looks like he has other assets too,” Zery teased. I chose to ignore the interplay this time.

“He’s a very good tattoo artist.”

“There you go…hearth-keeper, artisan, and an ass to kill for. What more could an Amazon want?” She rapped the table with her knuckles, then shoved her cup toward me and stood. “I’ll leave this with you. Give him a reason to come closer. Maybe he’ll wash up for you too.”

As she left, Peter turned. He should have watched Zery, any other Y-chromosome-carrying human would have, but he didn’t. His chocolate gaze locked on me.

Zery’s words came back to me. If I was really going to “do this human thing” it would make sense for me to date, at least some. I hadn’t had anything more than passing contact with a man since my son’s father. I angled my face, away from Peter.

Michael. I hadn’t thought of him in years. In a way, he was as responsible for me leaving the tribe as the loss of our son and my subsequent betrayal by the Amazons. I’d made the mistake of knowing him, and not just in the biblical sense. He’d been a tattoo artist. We’d met at a rally-kind of a conference for artists. He’d had a gift. When I first saw pictures of his work, I thought another Amazon was at the event. I’d searched him out, sure Michael was some twist on an Amazon name I didn’t recognize, but when I met him, there’d been no mistaking him for a woman-not even a warrior.

I’d been a goner on the spot.

I smiled, a sad twist of my lips. I had a folder with pictures of his work in it somewhere. I’d kept it, but had shoved it deep in a trunk that I never opened. Maybe it was time I dug it out and purged one more ghost from my past.

“Coffee?” Peter held out a fresh mug.

I reached up to take it, but as my fingers brushed his, realization hit me. I knew why Peter’s art had tweaked at me so. Why I’d thought it was familiar.

It reminded me of Michael. Peter reminded me of Michael.

The coffee he’d released to my grip fell to the floor, splattering up both of our legs.

Neither of us jumped. We both just stood there, staring.

I didn’t ask Peter if he knew Michael, didn’t even apologize for the spill. Just turned and walked out of the cafeteria and hightailed it to my truck and then to the bar. He probably thought I’d lost my mind. I was beginning to suspect it myself.

Michael had been from somewhere in Tennessee and had the accent to prove it. From what Peter had told me, he’d spent most of his life in Chicago. Worlds apart. There was, of course, the possibility they were cousins or some other relation, but it was highly unlikely. Much more likely, there was a slight similarity in style and the biggest thing the pair had in common was the attraction I felt for both. After Michael, that was scary.

When I’d been with Michael, I’d come close to breaking a steadfast Amazon rule. I’d come close to giving him my heart. I’d barely walked away. Without his knowledge, I’d kept up with him through online bulletin boards and occasionally an email to mutual tattoo acquaintances. Two years after the rally, a year and three months after the birth and death of our son, Michael had died too. Some freak dog attack.

Still mourning the loss of my son and my tribe, his death had hit me hard-and the worst part was I couldn’t show it to anyone, couldn’t even admit I knew about it. Scandalized as Mother and Bubbe had been when I left the tribe, if I’d admitted to following what was happening with Michael…I smacked the steering wheel of my truck with the palm of my hand.

Liar. It wasn’t Bubbe and Mother who had stopped me from publicly admitting my sorrow. It was me. I hadn’t been ready to face that I had felt a connection to a man. It was just wrong-against everything I’d been brought up to believe.

I’d heard humans talk about Catholic guilt, but it had nothing on Amazon guilt. It was amazing how easily you could say things with your mouth, even believe them with your brain…but your heart, your gut…those two were a lot harder to convince.

I pulled onto Frances Street and found a rare parking spot off street. The bar, actually more of a tavern, opened at eleven for lunch. It was five after. My timing was perfect. I went in and sat at the counter. A bartender, female and somewhere in her fifties, took my order-fried cheese curds and a burger. Major benefit of being an Amazon, no need to watch calorie intake.

When she brought my water, I added a local microbrew they had on tap to my order. It would take a lot of alcohol to affect me, but maybe it would take the edge off my nerves. Besides, it gave me another chance to chat with the bartender.

When she came back, I already had a twenty lying on the bar in front of me. I motioned to the bill. “You can ring me out if you like.”

She cocked a brow. “You in a hurry?”

I took a sip of the ale. “No, but I thought you might get busy. Might as well settle up now.”

She shrugged and went to the cash register.

A few seconds later she was back, my change in hand. “You need anything else, just holler.” She started to turn, but I held up a hand.

“Actually, I was hoping to run into someone here. A boy my niece used to date. Great kid.”

She waited, a noncommittal look on her face. “What’s his name?”

“Tim.” It was all Dana had told me, because it was all she knew-I had asked for a last name. “Works part-time, I think, bartending?”

“Common name.” The woman’s eyes drifted to the door, then jerked back to me. “But we don’t have anyone by it on the payroll.”