dunked in the pickling barrel.” Then she scowls. “Sit down, Jenn.”
Jennifer, an Aardwolf shifter mated to a werewolf, checks her watch. “We need to get that stew going, or we’re not going to have anything for dinner.”
“It’ll take us all of twenty minutes to eat,” Gail points out. “We’ll get it going in time. If it’s late, the worst that happens is we send everybody out to hunt rabbits ‘til it’s done.”
At this sound logic, Jennifer sends a good thinking tap to the side of her head and takes her seat. “Liam, eat your Brussels sprouts.”
Liam pouts. “I don’t like them.”
“Then finish your peas at least.”
“I hate peas!”
“Liam,” Finn cuts in, “it’s beginning to sound like you dislike vegetables.”
“I do,” Liam confirms, expression mulish.
Finn rocks back on the bench. “Well, now. A proper werewolf loves vegetables.”
Liam’s expression is torn. Because a werewolf wants to be a proper werewolf when he can.
Finn leans his elbow on the table until Gail hisses, “Elbows, Finn! What kind of manners are you trying to teach the lads? You hawkshite.”
Finn sits up for her but keeps his attention trained on Liam. “Vegetables don’t get enough credit. They aren’t the easy prey a wolf might mistake them for. Do you know what the hardest part of eating a vegetable is?”
Liam shakes his head.
Finn grins wickedly. “The wheelchair.”
Gasps issue from every throat—even mine, and as Finn’s best friend, I know his twisted sense of humor practically better than anyone.
Finn takes all of us in and sighs. “That one was wrong, and I apologize.” He leans forward.
Everyone proceeds to send reprimanding swats to his head. Sputtering under the barrage of slaps that are suddenly coming at him from every direction, clearly more than he bargained for, Finn protests, “Hey now! Oi! I don't know any better—I was raised by wolves!”
“I'm telling your mam you said that too,” Gail threatens, plunking back down in her seat.
I shake my head, eyeing the scarred up table, not him. I’m smiling at his antics thinking, not for the first time, that the Irish wolves are all nuts.
“Where’s my mom?” Ginny asks, and the din at the table immediately goes hushed.
Finn, unbothered by the question, certainly expecting it before now, easily replies, “In the basement of the London House.”
Ginny drops her chicken wing. “She’s in London?”
Good-natured chuffs break out all around us.
“No sweetheart, we call the big house the London House,” Finn explains.
I lean in and whisper, “We’re in Half Moon. This is practically where I grew up since I was always with Finn,” I add, feeling proud and glad to have Susan’s family essentially meeting mine. Sure, my parents have moved to Ireland now (like an embassy, wolves and shifters from all over the globe settle together onto Pack territories. To represent themselves, to mingle and find mates, and for protection. Not all shifters are werewolves, and not all shifters can defend themselves with strength, thus werewolves in particular are a fixture on every continent), but everyone else who’s here—they’re my people, by blood and by choice, and I think they’ll really hit it off well with Susan’s clan. Maggie in particular is going to love playing with pups her own age. She’s already met Liam, Noah, and Emma, who are three, six, and seven. They’re seated beside her, and they’ve already hit it off nicely.
“We’ll see your mom next if you like,” Finn tells Ginny.
Without a word, Ginny takes up her chicken again, nodding.
The fact that we didn’t see her mom first thing has me thinking that Ms. Connolly’s withdrawal period may not be cleared up yet. Finn has told me it took her five days to detox from the alcohol. She was also enjoying a supply of bath salts before Finn collected her, and her body’s dependence—both physical and psychological—has taken more than a little monitoring by Pack physicians this week.
“When was this house built?” Susan asks, setting her clay mug down as if she’d been admiring it. All of our bowls and plates are made of stoneware, pieces replaced as they succumb to the rigors of Pack life. Not a damn thing matches.
“Ah,” Rhyannon says, thinking. “1832 for Half Moon.”
“1911 for London,” Jennifer muses. “Do you need more gravy, Kip?”
“I’ll get it. But thanks.”
“Faoladh and Conroicht were built in the fifties, I think,” Monroe shares from the far end of the table. “Maybe Vlkolak too.”
Maggie puts her hand on my arm. When I glance down at her, she whispers, “I have to go to the bathroom!”