Page 6 of The Monster's Mate

“I wanted to meet my third daughter,” Maman says. I tilt my head, repeating the statement in my mind, sounding out the accent to see if what she said is what I think she said.

Isabel begins speaking rapidly. “I told the girls about you. About our little life here. I decided I’m staying there permanently—”

“Oh.”

“And you can have the house. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

My lower lip trembles. “Of course, I’m okay.”

Isabel and River grow somber and Maman? She studies me carefully.

“What keeps you here? Have you signed up for that matchmaking program?” she demands.

“Maman,” Isabel says. “Lucy can’t sign up for it.” She reaches out and twines my fingers with hers. “She’s in hiding. Like I was, except hers is worse.”

“Hiding? From what?” Maman asks.

Instead of answering that entering the Match Program would expose me to Duke Milinazzo, or that entering the Match Program would force me to mate with a stranger—an alien—I answer in a milder way. “There are no guarantees that I would get matched if I entered. But what is guaranteed is that my name and address will be splayed on all the news vids. Everyone will know who I am and where I live. And if I get kidnapped before the match? I’ll be a wanted felon, just like the second matched bride was.”

“Surely there is some way for Lucy to visit Pimeon?” Maman asks.

Isabel shakes her head. “It has to be a family member coming with a matched bride.”

“Well, I’m sure we’ll figure it out. Shall we go ahead and make these machos that you both insist are so delicious?”

“Nachos,” River corrects.

She and Isabel head into the kitchen, arm in arm. Maman takes mine.

“Tell me, little Lucy, do you have jiggle-O?”

“N-No?”

She sighs.

“My dear girl, I expect you to stock the pantry before my next visit.”

I can’t help but grin because they’re planning to visit again. I’ve never had anyone actually want to visit me. It kind of feels… well, it feels like having out of town family. I like it.

“Maman has learned how to make Jell-O shots,” River says, opening the fridge. Her profile shows an intricate tattoo that swirls from her temple, down the side of her cheek, and down her neck.

I’m about to apologize for the lack of contents, but she begins pulling out items I’ve never seen.

Avocados. Cheese. Ground beef. Not the two-ingredient nachos I’m used to splurging on, these gals are going all out.

“Mikhail—the Britonian who brought us—gave us groceries.” Isabel winks, knowing I’d be appalled at the lack of food. The other two don’t seem to notice my circumstances.

I reach out and touch a beautiful red tomato, as gorgeous as the ones I grow in my garden in summer.

“Here, pretty Lucy, you chop the tomatoes, which we have on Pimeon, you know. We don’t call them tomato, but it translates to that in your language,” Maman says. She winks as if letting me know there are similarities between their planet and mine.

Isabel gets busy cooking up the meat and River works on mashing the avocados. I mash the beans and there’s so much food I wonder why we’re even calling them nachos.

Then Maman pops the bag of chips open, and we cheer at the noise it makes.

We heap our plates full and take them into the living room. Maman plops herself on the sofa and Isabel sits next to her. I join River on the floor across from them, sharing the coffee table to use for our plates.

“So, you pretend to be Isabel?” River asks.

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