Page 98 of Meet Your Maker: Part One

Mishka’s head snaps up, his eyes wide with surprise. “Nihongo o hanasemasu ka?” (“You speak Japanese?”)

Grayson’s lips curl into a small smile. He replies smoothly, “Hanasemasu. Itsudemo renshu shitai toki wa, watashi o mitsukete kudasai.” (“I do. Anytime you want to practice, just find me.”)

Mishka stares for a beat, the flicker of awe in his eyes growing into something steady and bright. His hand tightens briefly on Sumi’s scruff before he looks back down at the puppy, a small, private smile spreading across his face.

Dal lingers by the door, hands shoved deep in his pockets. This was a big gesture—coming to a house full of people just to make our little boy smile. It’s like he knew, somehow, that Mishka needed something that was just for him.

I get as close as I dare. “I’d be hugging you so tight right now if I could.”

Dal glances down at his scuffed work boots, the tips kicking at nothing. “Aw, shoot, wasn’t a big thing.” He pauses, then admits, “The pup washed out of my service dog program for being too friendly. Figured he could use a home where that’s not gonna be a problem.”

Daddy ushers the girls out of the room while Ben and Cady linger by the doorway. Colt grabs a beer and stakes out a spot next to them, occasionally interrupting Tomas’ careful lecture on shifter pet care with non-sequiturs like, “Do you think they call ’em leopard-hounds cuz there’s a leopard somewhere in the woodpile?” and “It’d be funny if you rode him around like a little horse. Hell, I’d make you a saddle.”

Even Mishka shoots him a look at that one.

***

There’s a bubble around Dal—a protective sphere we all respect. A space he keeps between himself and the rest of the world. His eyes sweep the room, calculating. Always doing the math: How far away does he need to stay from all of us? How long before someone says something they’ll regret, something he never wanted to hear?

And I wonder how long it’s been since he’s had a hug. Has he ever kissed a lover, or even shaken someone’s hand. What does being touch-starved do to a person after forty or fifty years?

When he finally moves toward the dining room, the crowd shifts naturally, parting for him like water around a rock. Arcadia steps in to help him with a plate, her movements calm, unbothered. Maybe she’s made peace with her secrets, or maybe Dal’s gift doesn’t touch her the way it does the rest of us.

It’s got me wonderin’…

Grayson murmurs something against my hair, and I pull myself out of the haze of the room. “What was that?”

“They’re talking about your new country home, better get over there before they make decisions without you.”

I roll my eyes, giving Grayson a playful nudge. “They wouldn’t dare.”

Still, I peel away from his side and head toward Dal, who’s surrounded by a small knot of family. Colton is there, stuffing his face with a piece of cornbread, while Sue offers me a warm smile as I step closer.

“What’s this I hear about the Packhouse?” I ask, letting my gaze settle on Dal.

“Just saying,” Dal begins, his drawl thickening slightly, “that we need to get your new farm warded. Sooner rather than later. It’s isolated enough to be a target, and I don’t want anything catching you unawares. I know a witch who could help. She’s good—real good.”

A stunned silence settles over the group. Colton is the first to break it, speaking around a mouthful of cornbread. “Wait—Dal knows a witch?”

Ben looks between Dal and the rest of us, clearly confused. “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”

Daddy chuckles, shaking his head. “Dal doesn’t exactly do… people,” he says, casting a sidelong glance at his brother. “Let alone witches.”

Dal shrugs, a faint pink creeping up his neck. “She brought back one of the dogs, once. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask. She’s got a whole coven in Yazoo City.”

That catches Ben’s attention. “When you say witch, do you mean…”

“Oh, she’s a real witch. Her house walks around the swamp.”

I blink, my glass halfway to my lips. “Wait… like Baba Yaga?”

Grayson, who’s appeared at my side like he always does, squeezes my waist and leans in close, his voice low and teasing. “Did you grow up hearing tales of Slavic witches, or is this a new fascination?”

I snort, glancing up at him. “You know I’ve read every book on folklore I could get my hands on. Baba Yaga’s iconic.”

Grayson hums thoughtfully. “Well, here’s hoping this witch is more ally and less eat-you-in-her-house-on-chicken-legs.”

I laugh softly, lifting my glass again. “To new allies,” I say, my voice carrying over the din.

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