One Immortal - Tia Louise Page 0,64

to Mariska, who only smiles as she steps over to the cabinets.

“Five place settings, Yaya?”

The old woman nods and continues stirring the pot.

“Can I help?” I’m waiting just inside the door, unsure how to proceed.

“You’re our guest.” The old woman nods to me. “Take a seat at the table, and Mariska will pour you some wine.”

“I’ll just have tea if that’s okay?”

“I’ve got you covered!” Mariska’s voice is bright, and I’m sure she’s thinking about our conversation in the garden.

When we left Patrick and Elaine outside, Patrick had been texting with his brother. My friend’s face was lined with concern as she watched him, and I know she was reading whatever they have planned. I’m dying to ask her where Derek is, what he’s doing, if he’s safe, but I’ll have to wait until we’re alone.

At last they enter the room holding hands. I still detect a hint of worry on her brow, but Patrick is in good spirits.

“Wow!” he says with a smile. “I hope you made enough for seconds.”

“With a shifter in the house?” Demeter shakes her head. “I know how to feed my guests.”

Her voice is stern, but I can tell Patrick amuses her. He’s a charming guy, and I’m relieved Mariska has found a way to help me tolerate his presence. Sipping the lemon verbena tea she brewed, I’m feeling calmer than ever as they join me at the heavy, rustic table. Finished railroad ties serve as benches, and it’s all very homey and familiar.

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