As we wait, my eyes travel the small kitchen. Nothing particularly special distinguishes it from any other home kitchen, except I notice a leaf split in five sections hanging over the back door. I’m going to ask what it means when Demeter snaps at her granddaughter.

“Mariska, aider.”

“Oui, Yaya.”

I watch my young friend hurry over with a large, shallow bowl. Demeter quickly spoons a large portion of grits onto it followed quickly by another spoon of shrimp. Mariska tops the steaming orange concoction with a sprinkling of green scallions and carries it to Patrick.

“Merci,” he says with a wink, and Mariska’s nose wrinkles with her grin.

“You don’t have to speak French,” she laughs. “Yaya only does when she’s in a rush.”

“Mariska!” The older woman barks.

“I’m coming! Jeez!” She hurries back, grabbing two bowls this time.

Both are filled with a noticeably smaller portion of the steaming deliciousness. I’m not complaining. Sprinklings of scallions, and they’re placed before Elaine and me. The last two are filled, and Demeter carries a basket of French bread wrapped in a red and white checked cloth to the table.

I reach for my fork, but stop immediately when the old woman begins to pray.

“Bless us, oh Lord, and these your gifts which we are about to receive from your bounty. Through Christ our Lord. And guard us against the evil one. Amen.”

She adds the last line so fast, I have to wonder if she’s concerned about offending me. I am the one who brought the threat of the evil one into our midst, after all. A flood of shame warms my face, and I try to cover it by leaning closer to my steaming dish.

“This smells so delicious,” I say quietly. “And you made it so quickly!”

“Shrimp and grits is really easy to prepare,” Mariska says around a bite. “So long as your shrimp are processed right.”

I take a bite of the meaty, white shellfish, and a burst of savory juices fills my mouth. It’s hot, but not like a pepper. It’s a subtle simmer on my tongue, and the spices blend perfectly.

“I’d love to learn to make this,” Elaine says, covering her mouth with her hand.

Patrick nods. “I second that!”

“So,” Demeter’s sharp voice cuts through our banter, “were you born a shifter or made?”

Her dark eyes level on Patrick, but he isn’t bothered by her tone or her question.

“Born,” he answers with a grin. “My mother was also a born shifter, but my father was made. Probably why he didn’t imprint properly.”

“Good,” the old woman says with a nod, taking another bite.

Elaine’s voice is a bit more hesitant. “Does it make a difference?”

I’m sure she’s considering her own non-shifter status.

“It makes him stronger,” the woman says. “More magic. Harder to overcome.”

My eyes widen on Patrick, who’s wolfing down his shrimp and grits as if his paranormal status is nothing new. I suppose it isn’t to him if he was born that way.

“You’re not the alpha,” she continues, watching him.

“No, ma’am,” he says, glancing up. “That dubious honor is my brother Stuart’s.”

She pauses a beat as if a bell sounded only she could hear. A little light hits her eyes, but she blinks it away. It’s all so fast, I’m sure no one else noticed. “So you communicate telepathically?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nods, taking another bite of shrimp. “When we’re fighting, when one of us is in danger. Not all the time.”

“Hmm.” She nods and returns to her meal.

“It’s so similar to my gift,” Elaine says, putting her hand on his arm. “Sometimes I’m amazed at how orderly the supernatural can be.”

Patrick looks at her with an intensity that almost makes me blush. I still don’t have a good handle on this imprinting business, but I’m learning to be happy for my friend. Seeing them together, being able to be in the same room with him, has removed my doubts. He’s friendly and kind, and terribly powerful.

“Did you always know you were a shifter?” Mariska asks.

“No!” Patrick laughs. “The first time I got pissed at Stuart, I was about five.”

“Five!” Elaine squeezes his arm, smiling.

“He’d done something… Damn, I can’t even remember what it was, but I was so mad, I wanted to bite him.”

Demeter sits back with a grin and takes a long, slender pipe out of her pocket. I watch as she tamps it against her chair then stuffs a pinch of tobacco in the small bowl and lights it.

“Bite?” Mariska pretends to disapprove. “You immediately went to biting?”

“I wasn’t very old,” he says. “Next thing I knew, I was gnawing on his leg in full puppy mode. He was swearing because you know. Puppy teeth are sharp!”

We all laugh at that, and it’s the first time in a long time I remember relaxing into humor. I wonder if Mariska added anything to my lemon verbena tea, which is now gone.

We spend the next hour listening to stories of the Knight brothers as children. Apparently their little sister Amy could hold her own once she learned she could shift into a cat.

“Her fucking claws…” Patrick shakes his head, a twinkle in his eye. “Hurt like hell.”

Demeter and I smile, but we’re the only two not fully engaged in the merriment. I’m sure for her it’s because she’s heard stories like this before. In my case, I only seem to lose the tension gripping my insides for a little while.

Even though we’re here, miles away from danger, hidden in this well protected home with a formidable shifter guarding us, something dangerous is happening in the city. Something involving Derek.

“Stuart really kicked my ass that time,” Patrick is finishing a story, leaning back against the wall with a grin.

Elaine leans into his side, wrapping a slim arm around his waist, when all at once he stiffens and sits forward fast.

We all jump at the sudden change in him. His eyes are focused on a candle in the center of the table, but I can see his thoughts are miles from here. He’s hearing something or feeling something—however it works. Elaine is beside him listening silently. Her eyes are round, and she holds his arm.

“Patrick…” The whisper dies on her lips. It’s as if she knows what will happen next, and she knows she can’t stop it.

He’s on his feet moving around the kitchen. Large hands go into the sides of his hair, and he looks down. Every muscle in his body is flexed, and the adrenaline in his veins is almost visible to me.

Demeter’s crackly old voice breaks the silence. “You have to leave us.” It’s not a question.

“How strong are you?” His green-hazel eyes fix on the old witch at the head of the table.

She is calm as a stone. “I’m not strong enough to fight an old one. I am strong enough to hide us. For a little while.”

He winces, the internal conflict clear on his face. “They need me.” His eyes move to Elaine, and his voice is quiet. “I have to go to them. It’s… critical.”

My friend is on her feet and nodding as she crosses the room to him. “Do what you have to do.” She clutches both his hands. “We’ll be safe here. I’ll hear you if anything changes.”

His jaw moves as the two look deeply into each other’s eyes. He pulls her against his chest, and for a moment, they only hold each other. Patrick’s eyes squeeze shut, and he inhales deeply at the top of her head. I can’t help thinking how primitive and perfect it is.

Another breath and his eyes open. He moves my friend out, holding her at arms’ length. “You hear me?” She nods her pale blonde head rapidly. “Listen to me as long as you can. I’ll tell you if you need to hide, go underground, run as far from here as you can get.”

Her eyes widen a bit, but she nods again.

“I won’t lose you,” he finishes, moving his hands to her shoulders. He looks up at Demeter then. “Use your strongest magic. Cover the house. You can’t fight him, but you can protect this place.”

The old woman’s lips pucker. “I’ve encountered strong ones before, cher. Your lady will be safe.”