by Molly Harper
The scientist in her tried to catalogue the various species crowded into the yard, but it was difficult. Sure, there were hulking shoulders here and the flash of a tail there, but so many of them were so carefully buttoned into their mundane forms that she couldn’t tell human from shifter. They were old. They were young. They were every shape and color. The diversity warmed her heart, but confused her eye.
Suddenly, she was rushed by several middle-aged women wearing aprons over their jeans and camp shirts. Her cheeks were pinched and her hair was patted and she accepted it all with grace because she would make a good impression, dammit. Also, there were a hundred or so people in the backyard and they all seemed to be staring at her.
Clarissa Berend stood out from her slighter neighbors, a broad-shouldered woman with an ample chest. If the smoky eyes and wild dark hair streaked with silver hadn’t given away her connection to Zed, the fact that Clarissa hugged Jillian so hard that she heard a rib crack certainly did. Stepping out of the hug, Clarissa took Jillian’s hands and spread her arms away from her body so she could do a full head-to-toe inspection. “Oh, aren’t you just a little doll? So pretty, with that gold hair and those nice birthing hips.”
Jillian arched a brow. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t be offended,” Zed muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “Maman considers that to be a high compliment.”
Clarissa smiled at her, just as winsomely as her son. “Are you married? Are you engaged? Do you have a serious boyfriend?”
Zed did not seem at all distressed about his mother’s line of questioning. “Maman’s determined to marry me off. I’m lucky there’s no such thing as a shifter dating site. She’d sign me up without my knowledge or consent.”
“I have some people looking into it,” Clarissa said dryly.
“But I thought bear shifters were matrilineal. Don’t you want Zed to marry a bear shifter female, so he can be part of a line?” Jillian asked.
“And she’s smart, too!” Clarissa crowed. “Look at her! Yes, bebelle, we do trace our families by the female line. And yes, years ago, I hoped that my son would do the right thing and find some nice bear girl to marry. Now, all I want is for him to settle down with one girl—any girl—and make me some grandbabies before I’m too old to enjoy them.”
“Well, thank you for your consideration, Miss Clarissa.” Jillian had noticed that no matter how old a woman was or her marital status, all women in the Bayou were called, “Miss First Name.” It was a mark of respect, an acknowledgment that you were close enough not to use last names, but not on even enough ground to be on a first-name basis.
“I really think you two would suit each other,” Clarissa said, squinting as if she could see the future. She placed Jillian’s hand in Zed’s and stepped back. “Yes, I can see it now. You two would make me some beautiful grandbabies.”
Zed quirked an eyebrow at her. “We could give it a try.”
Jillian let go of his hand and smacked his chest.
“She hit me, maman,” Zed gasped. “Is that really the type of woman you want me marryin’?”
Clarissa lifted her dark brows. “If she’s gonna keep you on the straight and the narrow? Yes.”
“Well, while I don’t think I’m ready to be your daughter-in-law, I’m pretty sure I like you,” Jillian told her. “And I’ve been meaning to thank you for stocking my fridge before I got to town. You’re a life saver. I don’t know what I would’ve done in those first few days without that fried chicken of yours.”
“Well, right back at you, you sweet thing,” Clarissa cried, slipping her arm through Jillian’s and drawing her toward a trestle table where two other women were laying down full newspapers.
Zed and Clarissa had Jillian clasped between them as Zed hollered. “Y’all, crowd round now, and meet Miss Jillian. She’s the lady from the League I told ya’bout. She’s a real sweet gal and smart as a whip. If she asks you any questions, answer whatever you want and show your manners about what you don’t. She interviewed Earl just yesterday and he’s no worse for wear.”
“Didn’t hurt one bit,” Earl called, winking at Jillian, who waved back.
Zed put his arm around Jillian and squeezed her to his side with just as much strength as his mother. “I’m sure she’s real eager to meet everybody, just let her get a plate before you rush her. Now, everybody, bow your heads and say your ‘thank you’s’ to whichever gods you serve. And then pull up a chair and pour out the pots because I’m starving!”
Jillian watched as each citizen bowed their heads and observed a moment of silence, answering some of her questions about how people from so many religious backgrounds were able to co-exist. She’d noticed a distinct lack of churches in town, which was an oddity in a region where churches were a cornerstone of the community. She wondered how long it had taken for the citizenry to reach a relatively easy peace over private observations. She pulled out her Moleskine notebook and made a note to ask Zed later.
She looked up to find both Zed and Clarissa looking down at her with exasperated fondness. “My boy was right, you don’t ever turn off that big brain of yours, do you?”
Jillian pressed her lips into a thin, somewhat apologetic line. “No, ma’am.”
Snickering, Zed led her to a newspaper-lined table in the middle and handed her a beer, refusing to hear arguments that it wasn’t professional for her to drink at a community event. Bael and Earl lifted a metal mesh pot out of an iron cauldron and onto the table—without protective gloves, she noted. They tipped the steaming contents of the pot onto the table and the whole yard smelled of lemon and spice and seafood. She spotted crab, shrimp, crawfish and potatoes and corn and her mouth began to water. She hadn’t eaten since a hastily made grilled cheese around lunch time.
Jillian slid onto one of the picnic benches and followed Clarissa’s example of tucking a large dishcloth over her collar.
“So how are you settling in out at Miss Lottie’s?” Theresa Anastas asked, her soft Mediterranean accent standing out starkly from that of her neighbors. Theresa was a tall, stately woman with a thick head of dark chestnut hair shot with silver. She kept it wound around her head in a complicated braided crown. “I hope you’re comfortable. She was very house-proud.”
“Oh, it’s very peaceful out there. I’ve never slept so…”
Theresa suggested, “Suspended?”
“Yes.” Jillian nodded. “I’ve never seen a bed hung from a ceiling before.”
Theresa preened just a little. “I helped Miss Lottie install the bed. She had some insomnia and thought the rocking would help her fall asleep. That’s my silk in the ropes.”
“Your silk… You’re an arachnaed!” Jillian exclaimed. “How interesting to meet one this far west! I read that you don’t leave Greece.”
“We don’t very often, but my own dear mother couldn’t resist the pull of the rift. And having so many hands does help me run the department of Everything Else, plus occasionally serving as dispatcher for the sheriff.” Theresa flashed a smile that featured way too many teeth and the air around her shimmered with the energy of shifting. Suddenly, she had eight shiny black, articulated arms spreading out from her sides like wings.
Jillian gasped, delighted, and clapped her hand over her mouth. “That’s amazing! Would you be willing to sit down and talk to me about your experiences here in the Bayou?”
“Of course. I was a little hurt that you hadn’t asked yet,” Theresa said, nudging her with one of her many elbows and sliding a spiced red potato toward her with her fourth arm.
People filled up the table where Jillian was seated, introducing themselves, their families, until their names and faces ran together in a beautiful, but blurred, picture. She jotted down names and phone numbers, made appointments, all while indulging in some of the best seafood she’d ever eaten. She couldn’t help but notice that there were no other Boones present at the boil, besides Bael and the cousin she’d briefly met at City Hall.
What was his name aga
in? Balfour. Balfour, whose oily charm had left her feeling like she needed a full body decontamination shower. She noted that while Bael was treated with just as much warmth and affection as anyone else, Balfour stood apart from the others, like he was contained in an invisible five-foot bubble. He wore a little smirk, watching his neighbors like they were particularly interesting specimens on a nature special. No one spoke to him. No one offered him a beer or a pat on the shoulder. He made eye contact with her over the heads of the other revelers and smiled, but not in the same friendly way everybody else was smiling. Balfour’s smile sent a shiver down her spine. She turned away from him, happy to be distracted by Theresa’s offer of a beer.
As night fell and the families became more comfortable, the magique relaxed into their true forms. Zed was so full of beer and crawfish that he curled up under a table as an enormous brown bear and fell asleep. Children ducked through the yard, chasing each other as puppies and lion cubs. The fae folk loosened their glamours like tight-fitting pants, letting green skin and sharp, mossy teeth show through. Jillian tried so hard not to stare, but the casual magic was just so fascinating to watch. They performed minor miracles as indifferently as she would pass the salt.
Some of those fae took out guitars, a harmonica, and an accordion and began playing cheerful zydeco music. A makeshift dancefloor formed on the grass and families took to dancing off their dinner. Jillian took a break once she’d had her fill of shrimp and her hand started to cramp. She wandered to a large table set with dozens of pies, beside which stood a thin, short woman with an elfin face and short gray hair. The little woman seemed none too glad to see Jillian, squinting at her so hard Jillian was afraid she might rupture something.
“Hello.”
The little woman was silent, but her squint was still quite strong, reminding Jillian of childhood warnings that her own face “could freeze like that.” A tall man in his late thirties with silver touching the dark hair at his temples approached, his hand outstretched.
“Simon Malfater,” he said, shaking her hand enthusiastically, his deep blue eyes twinkling. “One of the rare humans here in town. I teach science at the school.”
“Jillian Ramsay. Very nice to meet you.”
The little woman was still squinting. An African-American man, older than Simon, with a genial smile and a big pot belly, patted Jillian’s shoulder. He was wearing an LSU shirt and a pair of orange suspenders that matched the orange laces in his workboots.
“This is Siobhan,” he told her, gesturing toward the tiny grumpy woman. “She’s worked with Bathtilda Boone down at the pie shop ever since I was a boy. I’m Ted Beveux.”
“Nice to meet you, too. Did I do something to offend her?” Jillian whispered.
Simon scoffed as Siobhan handed him a plate of pecan pie. “No, Siobhan is just trying to figure out what kind of pie to serve you.”
Jillian laughed. “Oh, that’s easy. I’ll take a slice of lemon meringue, please.”
“It’s better if you let me choose for you,” the little woman rumbled in a voice thick and dark as molasses.
“Isn’t it traditional to let a guest choose their own food?” Jillian asked.
“It’s better if you let her choose,” Balfour told her, appearing at her shoulder and making Jillian jump. He always seemed to be materializing out of nowhere. It was an incredibly annoying habit-slash-skill. Balfour pulled his own fork out of his cherry pie and savored the filling from the tines in a nearly obscene manner. “Siobhan is a brownie and she has a knack for guessing this sort of thing.”
Jillian pursed her lips. “Really, I’d like a slice of lemon meringue, please.”
The brownie sighed as she crossed to the lemon meringue pie stand and slid a perfectly measured slice onto a small plate. “Enjoy, she muttered. “Not like I know anything. I’ve only been serving pie for two hundred damn years.”
Jillian frowned a little while taking her first bite. It was a decent enough pie. The lemon filling was tart and smooth. The meringue was perfectly browned and then fluffy on the inside. The crust was flaky and light. But as a whole, it was just sort of…blah.
“It’s better if you let her choose,” Ted told her.
“I’ll keep that in mind for the future,” Jillian said, discreetly dumping her pie into the garbage. “So, Simon, does your family have any magique in its history?”
“No, we’re all human,” he said, picking at his pie. “Mundane as they come.”
“Well, I need the human perspective for my report, too. Everybody is part of the bigger picture.”
Simon smiled, his expression grateful. “How long is this report going to be? My students complain when I make them write more than five pages.”
She waved her hand. “Report is actually a little misleading. This isn’t going to be some brief impact summary. It’s more like a book, about a hundred thousand words or so, multiple chapters, subheads, full analysis. There will be pie charts and graphs.”
Simon shuddered. “That sounds terrifying.”
“And yet readable enough that when we give it to community leaders, they will actually crack it open,” she added, in an airy tone.
Simon threw his head back and cackled, a laugh that died down as Balfour moved closer to her.
“You’ve got quite the job ahead of you,” Balfour noted. And while she smiled politely, Jillian didn’t respond. She didn’t like Balfour or the way he was glowering at Simon Malfater, trying to edge him out of the circle of conversation with body language and eye-bullying.
“So, what’s it like to live here as a human?” she asked.
Simon jerked his shoulders. “It’s difficult sometimes. Especially when you’re a kid and everybody else is running around with special powers and all you can do is ride really fast on your bike. But I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. This is home.”
“That makes sense,” she assured him. “It was hard for me to leave Ohio. And there wasn’t even much left for me there.”
“Well, I’m a gator shifter and I’d be tickled pink to tell you all about it,” Ted interjected. “Put me down for one of them appointments this week. I’ve got fishing to do on the weekend.”
Jillian shook his hand. “I’d love that, thank you. Just write your name and number on this pad and we’ll get a time set up.”
Simon finished his pie and nodded toward some couples swaying on the “dancefloor” to a more somber, romantic song about a woman who drowns in her tears for a lost love.
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
Balfour was watching her closely, she realized, in that creepy reptilian way of his. If she turned Simon down, that gave Balfour an opening to ask her and she definitely didn’t want to dance with Balfour. Or touch him. Or stand too close to him, really.
Jillian glanced at Ted, who grinned and waved them off. “Go enjoy yourselves, young people.”
Jillian nodded and let Simon take her hand. He felt warm and solid and utterly normal underneath the palm pressed against his starched cotton shirt. He was serviceable, like an old pair of shoes you kept around because you needed to wear something while you were mowing the lawn. Jillian suddenly felt sorry for this perfectly nice man, with his nice manners and his freshly pressed khakis, who had to compete with the likes of Zed and Bael for female attention. She imagined Mystic Bayou’s dating pool was a pretty savage ecosystem.
“You know, I’ve taken some measurements of electromagnetic fields and currents near the rift if you want to look at them sometime,” he offered shyly.
And even though she would have to take her own measurements of the rift to assure accuracy, she smiled and said, “That would be so helpful, thank you.”
Because a man of science should feel like he had a chance, even when competing with were-bears and…whatever the hell Bael was.
“I’d like to visit the site itself as soon as I can get Zed or someone to lead me. There’s a lot of concern about me getting lost in the swamp.”
“I could take
you,” Simon offered, but suddenly his hold on her waist loosened and he stepped back from her. She frowned and glanced over her shoulder to find Bael staring down at the teacher.
“Simon,” Bael purred. “You wouldn’t mind if I borrowed Miss Jillian here for a dance, would you?”
Simon’s mouth worked open and shut like a trout, but he produced no response. Bael wrapped his hot fingers around her wrist and led her away. Though she was sad to leave Simon behind, her shoulders relaxed more and more the farther she got from Balfour.
“It’s Dr. Ramsay,” she reminded him lightly, noting that the makeshift band was playing a slow, sad song about a boy who fell in love with the moon. “And I don’t remember saying yes to a dance.”
“I know, I just like how pissed off you get when I don’t get it right,” he shot back. “And you’re going to dance with me because you know you want to. And because I’m a better dancer than Simon. He’s all elbows and smashed toes.”
Bael’s hand slid across her back, leaving a trail of heat across her skin, even through her shirt. She should have found it uncomfortable, considering the humidity and the disdain he’d shown her at every step, but she was leaning into him. Hell, she was barely restraining the urge to lay her forehead against his chest, the scent of bonfire smoke and warm summer spices luring her closer. He clutched her fingers in his other hand, pressing it to his chest as they circled in box-steps to the music.
She looked up, her nose dangerously close to brushing against his jaw. “You didn’t have to be so rude to Mr. Malfater. He seems like a perfectly nice man.”
“You say that ’cause you didn’t see what he did to his prom date’s feet. Besides, maybe I don’t want you dancing with perfectly nice men. Or Zed.”
Jillian laughed. “Oh, I should be dancing with you instead?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Ha, so you admit that you’re not nice.”
Bael pretended to be wounded for a second. “I’m the soul of kindness.”
“You’re a pain in my ass.”
Bael shrugged. “Never said different. So, other than ridin’ on Zed’s bike and dancing with the world’s blandest man, how’s your evening going?”