Sal Six Fingers craved respect, he always had. If things kept on like they were, he was going to get some soon. He almost had Johnny Greco waxed the moment he walked into Sal’s office. He showed disrespect by coming in dressed like some kind of pimp, smelling of cheap cologne and filth. When Sal finally got the respect he deserved, no one would ever treat his office like a commode again.

The main reason Johnny kept breathing was the dame he brought. Sal didn’t like killing in front of women. His papa beat respect for women into him. That’s why Sal killed him, ‘cause he caught daddy with that cheap whore. The slut still worked for Sal, but Sal’s daddy slept in the foundations of the Schuylkill Expressway now.

The blonde was on the skinny side, with almost no tits and no hips to speak of, but she had nice hair and her face was kinda pretty. Skinny was the coming thing, anyhow. Sal decided she would make a good girlfriend for him for a while, as soon as he taught Johnny his place. Sal smiled at her, finally meeting her eyes.

Unaccustomed terror gripped at his heart when he realized nothing stared back at him. Nothing itself saw him, recognized him, and smiled. Terror made him angry. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off, her voice killing all the other sound in the room.

“My servant tells me you are referred to as Sal Six Fingers, and that you have at your disposal some number of ruffians. I require their services. When my tasks are complete, if I am pleased with you, I will accept you permanently into my service.”

Sal sat speechless, his mouth hanging open. Nobody ever talked to him like that, not since he sent his dad’s old boss six of daddy’s fingers to prove he was meaner than his dad. He sat there, unable to speak through his rage, and she whined at him again.

“Do not be alarmed, mortal. I will not sacrifice you. In fact, if you are in my service it is in my best interest to assure your rise to power.”

Sal found his voice then. It came out as a choked shout, but loud enough that all ten of the guys who hung around the office came running.

“Somebody teach this bitch a lesson!”

They came running, and Sal reached into his desk for the gold plated letter opener he kept there. He would cut this bitch up and throw her in a hole so deep she’d have to get sunshine mail order. He stood and started around the desk. She looked at him, glanced down at the knife in his hand, and looked around lazily at his guys.

“Bother. So be it.”

She did something with her hands, and his guys got yanked short, clutching at their necks. Sal’s shiv rose, pulling his hand along with it. His guys slowly went on tiptoe, their chains cutting into their necks. Sal’s knife was really sharp; when it jerked toward him it barely touched his cheek before he pushed himself backward, but hot blood still ran down his face.

“How many men do you have?”

“I got twenty guys, and all of them are gonna take turns teaching you your place, cunt!”

She shook her head, vague disappointment coloring her features. “The Romans were annoying in so many ways, but they did have one good idea. Decimation has such a nice sound, don’t you agree? I think it will be you and…”

She gestured, and one of his guys jerked into the air, dangling from his chain. His legs kicked once, twice, and then a hideous crack rang through the room. Sal had all he could do keeping his letter opener from his eyes.

“Now, I think as commander you’ll be the other. Since I’m going to be taking something from you, I’ll grant you one boon. You can choose your death. If you let go of your knife, I’ll kill you that way.”

“Go to Hell, bitch!”

“Been there, done that…”

She sashayed over to him, reached out to lay a hand on his left arm. Pain blossomed at her touch. He looked down and saw his arm melting, blood pouring from under her hand, bones already showing. Sal heard someone screaming. He turned to tell them to shut up, and realized he was the one screaming.

The whore lied. She hadn’t given him a choice. He was still screaming when his knife hand dissolved, letting the knife plunge through his eye into his brain.

***

Michaela jogged along the street, humming to herself. Her back hardly itched at all, she had help tracking down the scourge that was loose in the city, and her boyfriend was waiting for her to bring him clothes. Life wasn’t half bad.

She nearly tripped when she realized how she’d referred to Matt. Yeah, he was attracted to her. Yeah, they’d sorted out a way to get one another off, but was he going to settle for that in the long term? Did he want kids? She really wasn’t cut out to be a mom, even if they adopted. Did he want a housewife? That would be rich, her trying to put on a dress and play Susie Homemaker.

Now her back itched again. She had a demon lord loose in her city. Worst of all, she had no idea if she’d just banged the love of her life or a one-night stand. Okay, that wasn’t the worst thing. She’d been directed to show her Lord what she was. So far, she’d shown him precious little but screwing around with a mortal. All she knew for certain was that it wasn’t an abomination in His sight. Beyond that, she had no idea.

She spotted the shop with the windows filled with blue and red and gold. Her mind full of doubts and worries, she unlocked the door to the upstairs apartment and froze for a moment in thought.

He did give me the keys to his apartment.

That was something, at least. He trusted her. Maybe this would wind up as just a fling, but she was also a friend. She could work with that, if she had to. Michaela vaulted up the steps two at a time, and then used the key on the inner door. She wasn’t sure what to expect, so she braced herself, stepped in, and flicked the light switch by the door.

Some aspects of his place were Spartan. That much she half expected. The cheap makeshift desk and ‘wardrobe’ were things she’d seen before, although his clothes were nice enough she knew he could afford better. What she didn’t expect was the nest in the corner, the fabric hangings on the walls. They combined to override the makeshift furniture and give the entire apartment a feel of sybaritic luxury. She stared for long moments at the pile of thick, soft pillows, her mind wandering over how she and Matt could use them.

Michaela shook herself out of her woolgathering reluctantly. She wasn’t sure he wanted her, but she would do her dead level best to win him. Right now, though, she figured he would want his clothes as quickly as possible. She walked over to where his slacks and shirts hung from a pipe and looked through them, vaguely wondering what colors would look best on him.

She had just berated herself for daydreaming again when the phone rang. Michaela looked around the room. Frank had no answering machine. She stepped over and picked up the phone.

“Inspector Franklin’s residence, Detective Miles speaking.”

There was a moment of silence, as if the caller was startled. When she spoke, Michaela knew immediately who she spoke with. No one else living in Philly could set her teeth on edge quite so quickly, at least no one who would be calling here.

“Detective Miles? Oh! You must be Matthew’s new partner! This is Matt’s godmother, Ophilia Morgan. I’m so looking forward to meeting you!”

Shock silenced Michaela for a moment. Of all the things she expected The Morrigan’s daughter to say, that wasn’t one of them. She recovered as best she could.

“Actually, Ms. Morgan, I believe we’ve met before, but only briefly. I was one of the investigators assigned to review the Gelt case.”

“Oh! Was that you? I think I remember you now. I must admit, I was so jealous of your hair. How long does it take you to get it to curl that way?”

Michaela had no idea why, but either Ophilia Morgan was a better actress than she seemed, or she had genuine interest in Michaela’s hair care regimen. Disbelief made her shake her head, but she remained careful to keep it out of her voice.

“Um, I don’t. It’s naturally that way.”

Ophilia’s voice conveyed simple envy. It startled Michaela once again that someone with so much Power would be so interested in something so mundane.

“You’re so lucky. Between the dye and everything, mine is just impossible to control. Anyhow, as fun as it is talking to you, I really didn’t call to chat about beauty tips. Could I talk to Matt, please?”

That question opened up a huge can of worms. Unfortunately, Michaela saw no way out of it. “I’m afraid he’s not here right now, Ms. Morgan. He was… completely involved in something, and asked me to pick up a few things for him. I really ought to be getting back, now that I think of it.”

“Oh. If it’s not too much trouble, could you take a message to him?”

Michaela shrugged. “Sure. Did you want him to call you?”

“Well, that would be nice, but really I was calling to invite him to dinner. I was going to ask him to bring his new partner along. So, Detective, do you have plans this evening?”

“Well, I…” She stopped herself. She’d been about to take the easy way out of the invitation, to claim that she and Matt had an ongoing case they were working on. It was even true. But she’d heard how fondly Matt talked about his godparents. If she really wanted to land him, she had to figure out some way to make nice with Ophilia Bloody Morgan. “You know, I was going to say we’re busy with a case, but we’re really just waiting for something to turn up at the moment. I’d love to.”

“Great! Is eight o’clock good for you? I’m afraid we’re night owls here.”

“That works for me. I’ll see you then.”

“Looking forward to it!” The perky friendliness in Ophilia’s voice completely disarmed Michaela. She hung up the phone smiling. Only afterward did her stomach feel like it was dropping through the floor. What if she was completely wrong about how Matt felt? She’d just invited herself to dinner with his godparents. She was terrified of telling him, for fear he’d un-invite her just as quickly.

Then the next problem occurred to her. She’d invited herself to dinner. How was she supposed to eat dinner? She could just about swallow two small bites before she had to spit something out. At some point, she would have to learn to think before she spoke. For now, though, Matt would kill her if she didn’t get back before someone tried to get into the morgue. She grabbed up a long sleeved dress shirt, a sweater, and Matt’s sole pair of blue jeans and darted out the door, locking it behind her.

***

Matt peeled off the apron he’d found hanging in the morgue proper. He wasn’t comfortable standing around in the tattered remains of his clothes, but he was even less comfortable in clothing contaminated by Belle’s remains. He briefly debated burning the apron, but on further consideration realized it was better to just dump it in the bin to be sterilized.

He had no real idea what had happened to the body in the bucket. Some pieces, like fragments of the skull and some portions of the spine, remained mostly intact, parts of the soft tissue liquefied. Parts of the corpse were just missing; he measured out just shy of twenty pounds of remains in the bucket. Even accounting for imperfect collection methods, that was a lot of loss.

While he waited for Michaela, he sat down and thought about the remains and what he’d seen at the club. It was clear Belle could disintegrate matter. How she did it was the question; without that, he had no way to defend against it.

Matt stopped himself. He had found one thing, more by intuition and desperation than anything else. For whatever reason, items of religious significance had been immune to Belle’s touch. He walked over to the shop sink in the corner of the examination room. Six strings of rosary beads lay in a pan. Matt rinsed his hands and carefully washed all of Belle’s remains from the beads. On one level, he knew there might be some way to use the evidence. On another, he had borrowed the rosaries with a promise to return them, and there wasn’t a question about the perpetrator. As he washed each bead, careful to remove all trace of the demon, he settled into a steady pattern.

Belle was loose. He and Michaela would have to secure, contain, and possibly destroy her. He would speak with the priest at that church again, but he needed more information. He could ask Ophilia and Micah. They might not know what to do, but if they didn’t know, they would know who knew.

Matt’s thoughts grew more distracted as the repetitive chore lulled him into a meditative state. He didn’t notice when the smell of burning sugar suffused the room. When hands chilled by the autumn air reached into the gap in his shirt and tickled him, he jumped.

“Whoa! Hey, Frank, don’t have a coronary. It’s just me. Not like anyone else could get in here.”

He frowned. He had to ask his godparents about Belle’s abilities, but Michaela might know as well.

“Are you sure? Belle couldn’t get in?”

Michaela’s grin vanished. “You’re right. I wasn’t thinking. What’s wrong with me?”

Matt dried his hands on a towel and reached down to cup Michaela’s face. “Tell me something. Are you a scholar?”

“Hardly.”

“Are you a planner? Someone who plots out schemes before she ever sets them in motion?”

Michaela grinned ruefully up at him. “Again, no. I think I see where you’re heading with this. Tell you what. You get dressed and I’ll tell you what I know about Belle.”

She handed him a bundle of clothes. He looked down at the bundle, then back at her, then back at the bundle. There was no way she’d been hiding his clothes in her pockets. He started changing, trying to ignore her blatantly lecherous observation.

“Actually, do you mind telling me a little about you?”

“I suppose that’s only fair. You’ve known me; you ought to know me, right?”

Matt grinned. “Something like that. Where were you hiding my clothes?”

Michaela frowned in thought. “I’m really not sure. I don’t think about what I do when I move. I just do it. It’s the same with stuff in my hands or stuff I’m wearing. If it’s there and I don’t want it there, it goes away. If I had it and I want it back, it comes back. I never really thought about it before.”

Matt pulled on his shirt and did up the buttons. After a few moments of searching, he realized Michaela hadn’t brough him boxers with the clothes. He looked up at Michaela with a faked severe look. “So since you can undress whenever you want, you think I ought to wear fewer clothes?”

She blushed, glancing away and then back as he pulled on his jeans. “No! That’s really not it! I got a little distracted and couldn’t find where you keep your shorts.”

“You were distracted. While alone in my apartment. Does it smell of sugar in there now?”

It took Michaela until he had his sweater on to figure out what he meant. When she did, she moved, and he had far more weight than she ought to have hanging from his collar. He heard the telltale straining of thread as the seams started to give.

“Look, you. I’ve got a few intimacy issues. Don’t make them worse, okay?”

Matt immediately put his arms around her. He didn’t care about his shirt, but he did care about her. “I didn’t think you’d mind the comment. You… You didn’t seem to have issues with anything we did.”

“Yeah, well. I hide it well.”

“Yes. You do. Can you make a deal with me?”

“What kind?”

“I’ll try to keep conversations PG, you try to remember that I’m not trying to upset you?”

She looked up at him. The warmth he saw in her eyes made all the terror of the past two days fade away. “Okay. We’ll try that.”

With one hand he held her to him, with the other he gathered up the cleaned rosaries with a dry towel. “You know, this conversation has rambled rather far afield. I wanted to know more about Belle, so we can try and stop her for good. I’ve been thinking about asking my godparents for some...”

Michaela interrupted him before he could complete the sentence. “Oh, shit!”

He couldn’t help a surge of irritation. “Well, I knew you had problems with them, but that’s hardly the response I expected.”

“Oh! No, no, no, no! Not what I meant at all! It’s what distracted me when I was at your place.”

“My godmother showed up?”

“She called. We’re…” In a sudden flash of sugar she huddled in on herself on the table, her face buried in her knees. He barely heard her finish her sentence. “We’re having dinner with them tonight?”

Something snapped in Matt. She hadn’t upset him, but this had to stop. He walked over to where she sat on the table, reached one hand under her chin, and then lifted her face up. He kept lifting, and she shifted so she knelt on the table. At that point she could nearly look him in the eye.

“Look, Michaela. I know you’ve got some issues with what’s going on between us. I know you’ve got some things going on that are messing with your head. I don’t know if I can deal with either of those in the long run, but,” he paused, making sure she followed what he said, making sure she understood that he meant every word, “but for right now I’m here for you. I’m going to be here for you until you get everything that’s going on straightened out. Belle. Sex. Whatever else is eating at you. All of it. Until you’re steady on your own two feet, I’m here for you to lean on. You don’t have to run from me.”

Her eyes felt wet with tears she knew didn’t exist, but her mouth quirked with returning humor. “That’s not much of an incentive for me to get things straightened out, you know.”

“Hey, I didn’t say I was going to disappear when you got yourself together. I’m just saying when everything is said and done you might not be the same person. You might not be that into an oversized academic. You might just want someone…” Matt paused, forcing a grin. What he was telling her was painful to say, but truth was such an ingrained part of him he couldn’t help but say it. Tempering it with humor helped. “You might want someone who fits you better.” He glanced down her front significantly.

He was rewarded with a brilliant smile and a punch on the chest which left his pectoral smarting. “I hate puns.”

“Really? Why?”

“Don’t know. Think it’s because they make me start thinking of ways to shut you up, and we don’t have time for that now.”

Matt held the bundle of his damaged clothes out to Michaela. She took it, a quizzical look on her face.

“You’re right. We need to go and see if we can find Belle. We also need to make it to my godparents’ on time for dinner. Micah can get testy when things don’t go as planned.”

“So I’m your hamper why again?”

He smiled down at her, one hand gently cupping her chin, reveling in the smooth softness of her. Illusion or not, it was a fantastic sensation. “I could comment on you destroying my clothes, but that would just be petty. Mostly I wanted to avoid questions about why I’m carrying a bunch of ripped up clothes out of a morgue.”

She didn’t gesture, didn’t even move substantially. One second she was holding the bundle of clothes, the next her hands were empty. A thoughtful look passed over her face, rapidly chased away by a look of enlightened horror. “Oh, shit.”

Matt glanced around, but no one else was in the room with them. “What is it?”

“I just lost my virginity in a morgue. That can’t be good. Y’know, for the issues thing.”

Matt shrugged and headed for the door. “I seem to be handling it rather better than you. Maybe work will take your mind off of it.”

“Yeah, maybe it will. You have any idea how we’re going to find Belle?”

The lock stuck. The morgue hovered just above freezing, and ice had formed on the metal of the latch. He put his weight against it, and it came undone with a painful shriek of ice on metal. “I thought we’d go intimidate the local criminal population.”

She skipped around in front of him, ignoring the tech, who was sitting across the hall on a cheap plastic chair. “Do you really think that will work?”

Matt grinned down at her. “No, but I have it on very good authority that it’s an awful lot of fun. First dates are supposed to be fun, right?”

She laughed at him, the sound echoing down the seldom used underground corridor. “You know, I think we screwed that up. Isn’t the date supposed to come first? Do you owe me dinner and a movie now?”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“We’re both new at this. I figured you’d like scaring people better than sitting in the dark, and we’ve got dinner plans afterward, right?”

“That depends on who I’m sitting in the dark with, ‘cause…” she stopped speaking, her jaw still hanging open as she stared at him in sudden comprehension. He kept walking; they did have quite a bit of ground to cover. A moment later, she stood in front of him, her hands on his hips, holding him in place. “Wait a minute. ‘New at this,’ ‘handling it better.’—are you telling me you’re a virgin?”

“Well, I really rather think I don’t qualify after what we just did. Some people might disagree, but…” he shrugged his lack of concern for that detail.

“Okay, Frank. That was your first time? Seriously? You had no experience at any of that before now?”

“That’s correct. I can see why they made you a detective.”

“Smart ass. Remind me to look up the number for Taylor Rental when all this is over.”

“Certainly. Why?”

“I really think I need to rent an impact hammer.”

***

Michaela walked toward the Leo de Milan Museum, more than a little frustrated. They’d got no closer to finding Belle. Still, the local criminal population was nervous, so they hadn’t wasted the afternoon completely. Behind her, under the quick rapping of her heels on the pavement, she heard Matt’s long, steady strides. Through the course of the day he’d taken to walking one long pace behind her. Michaela wasn’t sure quite how to feel about that. On one hand, she couldn’t exactly walk behind him; she wouldn’t be able to see a thing, and technically Michaela had the badge. On the other hand, she really would like to walk beside him. They’d tried that, and both of them wound up tripping as they tried to match strides.

Of course, right now Michaela wished she were walking behind him. If she were, she might be able to bolt before he realized it. She could be around the nearest corner and gone before he turned around.

And then he would track her down.

He wouldn’t do it because he was upset with her, either. He’d do it because he wanted to see her. She couldn’t do that to him. She wouldn’t do it because she was afraid to have dinner with his parents.

Godparents, but the idea was the same. The way he talked about them, they’d been parents to him since his mother died. Now he was taking her home to meet them. She didn’t miss the implications. She told herself it was because they had business, that the invitation was because she was his partner, but the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn’t looking told her another story. He had it bad.

So did she.

She was going to have dinner with his parents. She was going to try and eat a meal with the daughter of The Morrigan. She was going to try to eat a meal cooked by the daughter of The Morrigan.

His voice, soft, soothing, and deep, pulled her from her thoughts.

“If you’d like, I could tell them you had to work tonight.”

Just two days and already he could read her like that. Of course, she’d never been the hardest person in the world to read, but it was uncanny. Of course, he seemed a little obsessed with her. Not surprising if she was really his first. She was a little obsessed with him for exactly the same reason. She heard something change in his pace and realized she’d slipped back into her own head without answering him. She stopped, turned around, and looked up to meet his gaze.

“No. I said I’d go, and you want me to go, so I’m going to go.”

“I’m really not certain why you’re so upset. Micah is quite conservative, and most of Ophilia’s liberal tendencies have to do with body modification.”

“It’s not that, Frank. Your godmother… Do you know whose daughter she is?”

Puzzlement knitted his brow, “No, I don’t. I guess someone fairly highly placed in one of the Sidhe courts. There are indicators. I’ve always assumed Seeleigh. Why?”

“Oh, geez. Um, I’m not going to spill those beans, Frank. I’m going to leave it at ‘her family and I had some spats way, way back’, and hope you don’t get too irked with me.”

His frown vanished, replaced by a quirky grin. “I’ll probably be irked with you now and then, but I don’t see why I would be irked by you keeping my family secrets. I might be irked with you having them when I don’t, but that’s not your fault.”

“You’re too good to be real, you know. Where do they make guys like you?”

“My father is from the Poconos. I grew up there.”

“Yeah. You would answer. Okay, let’s do this.”

He reached down with one open hand, palm upward. When she realized what she wanted, it made her feel giddy all over again. She reached up and took hold of his huge paw. Her hand was absolutely lost in his, but she didn’t care. They walked the rest of the way to the museum hand in hand.

When they arrived, he led her around to the back of the building. Set to one side of the delivery entrance was a normal sized door with a mailbox tacked up next to it.

“They really live at the museum?”

“Micah is on record as the owner of the building. Both of them spend most of their time here anyhow. I think they thought this up one day when they realized neither of them had been to their apartment for the entire month.”

“A month?”

Matt didn’t reply. The door swung open and The Morrigan’s daughter was there, tattoos, piercings, green striped hair, and…

“Hallo, Detective Miles. Yes, an entire month. We had a lot of showings that month, and I was doing back to back to back restorations to be sure we’d have the artwork ready for showing. And before you ask, I don’t own a sweater dress. This is one of Micah’s.” Ophilia’s grin contained a great deal of wry self awareness. “It was my turn to do laundry. I forgot.”

Michaela blinked, taken off guard by Ophilia’s aggressive informality. She rallied, trying to put things back on a professional footing. She felt safe with professional. “Hello, Ms. Morgan. Please, call me Michaela.”

“And you’ll have to call me Phil. Please, everybody worth talking to does. The only people who call me Ophilia are my mother and my gynecologist.”

Michaela felt Matt squeeze her hand gently, reassuringly, and his voice, deep and soothing, sounded from beside her. “Hallo, Aunt Phil.”

“Hallo Matt! C’mere and give your aunt a hug.” Ophilia didn’t wait for him to move, but came out the door and put an arm around his waist. Michaela was beginning to feel an irrational surge of jealousy when Ophilia reached out with her other arm and pulled her into the hug. She went stiff, but otherwise didn’t react. Before she let go of them, Ophilia waved Matt down to whisper to both of them.

“Professional working partners generally don’t hold hands.”

She let them go with a significant glance at their hands, which were still clasped firmly together. Michaela was completely floored by how genuine her smile looked. Maybe she was as clueless as her Seeming pretended to be?

Ophilia guided them into the most eclectic living room Michaela had ever seen. A mix of mounted medieval weaponry, small primitive sculptures set on shelves, and small portraits in a variety of styles covered one wall. It took Michaela a moment to realize it, but every portrait on the wall was either Ophilia or an athletic dark-haired man. She assumed that was Micah.

She really ought to recognize him, given her time on the force, but Matt was right; by his record he really was a straight arrow. That thought calmed her a bit. Then she felt a gentle pressure on her wrist as Matt turned to look at the opposite wall. Her breath caught at the beauty of the scene painted there.

It was set up to look like a broad, paned, picture window. The center pane was opaque, with a small shelf set into the wall in its place. The shelf had a variety of pictures and keepsakes. Matt stared out at her from a frame that looked like it had come from a grade school classroom. It fascinated Michaela. Other than being a little ganglier, if that were possible, he looked the same as he did now.

Ophilia interrupted her examination of the picture by stepping in front of her, a rueful smile on her face. “Sorry, the picture window was a gift from my mother. It makes some people go all tharn like that.”

Michaela blinked and looked back at the surrounding panes. They depicted a primordial forest in the evening. It was impossible to tell if the sun had just set or was just rising outside the forest, but the light held the eerie quality Michaela always associated with twilight. The picture had a soothing quality to it. It called to her, making her want to rest. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the edges of things in the picture that suggested if she succumbed to that temptation, it would be the last thing she ever did.

Michaela grinned. The picture probably would lure most people in. The sense of serenity was powerful. She had a different measure, though. She closed her eyes a moment, touched that place inside where she’d last been touched by the Presence, and sighed. “It’s okay. I was looking at Frank’s baby picture.”

Ophilia laughed, the tones clear and bell-like. “Wait till he goes off to talk with his dad. I’ll give you all the juicy details of his childhood.”

“Aunt Phil!”

“What? You’ve never brought someone home before. I’m certainly not going to pass up this chance. Oh, by the way, your father decided he couldn’t make it down for Thanksgiving this year, so he came over today instead.” Ophilia shrugged with one shoulder. “I don’t get how coming to dinner on a random day in November is the same as Thanksgiving, but it’s more than he usually does.”

Matt glanced at Michaela, suddenly wary. “I guess it is. Is he…?”

“He’ll be fine, Frank. You know he’s pretty good outside the lab. If he goes off, I’ll have Micah take him to look at the latest in the da Vinci exhibit.”

Matt looked like he was ready to bolt, but squared his shoulders and nodded. When Ophilia turned to lead them into the next room, he leaned down and whispered in her ear. “My father never really recovered from my mother’s death. In the lab he’s a genius, but socially he can be… awkward.”

Michaela looked up at him. It felt a little strange for her to be reassuring him, but he seemed to need it. “It’ll be fine, Frank. After all, I’m not likely to die and leave you, am I?”

He grinned down at her. “Not very likely at all. And if you do, I’ll just summon you up again.”

He reached down and undid the belt on her trench. For a moment she stood frozen by his forwardness, but she trusted him. He took off her coat and hat, hanging both from a coat rack by the door. More to shake herself free of the paralysis than anything else she rallied to his verbal prodding. “Oh, really? You’re a sculptor, too?”

His grin got wider. Any wider and it would split his face “Nope. I’ll just make a mold of what’s left of you and fill it with jello.”

“Jello.”

“Yes.”

They walked into the dining room together. It was of a piece with the living room; homey and eclectic. The table was set, and an older gentleman was seated on the far side, preoccupied with jotting things in a spiral bound notebook. Working sounds came from the kitchen. She didn’t think anyone in the kitchen could hear their conversation, but she kept her voice low.

“Okay, I’ve got to know. Why jello?”

“Did you know jello has an electrical resistance remarkably similar to human nervous tissue?”

“No, I did not.”

“Yes. It shows up on EEGs. Also, it’s remarkably flexible.” He grinned down at her wickedly.

She was about to respond when Ophilia walked back in carrying a small covered casserole dish. Steam leaked from the edges of the cover, her hands protected by embroidered oven mitts. The dark haired man from the photos in the living room walked in behind her carrying a larger tray that looked to be part of a set with the one Ophilia carried. They reached the two open spots on the table and froze. Ophilia looked up at the dark haired man with a wry grin.

“Micah dear, you set the table.”

Before she met Matt, Michaela would have called Micah’s voice a bass. Now she thought of it as a deep baritone. When he spoke, she realized where Matt had picked up his habit of controlling the power inherent in such a deep, strong voice.

“That I did, Sweetling.”

“Perhaps you forgot something?”

Micah looked at the table. A wry grin that mirrored Ophilia’s flashed across his face. For a moment Michaela lost herself wondering about how couples who were together long enough started acting the same. She thought about herself starting to act like Matt, moving with that sense of tightly controlled power. Losing that much of herself ought to terrify her, but somehow it didn’t.

Matt’s voice snapped her out of her daydream. “You remember an extra place setting, but forget to put down pot holders?”

He was laying down knitted circles as he spoke, first one in front of Ophilia, then a pair in front of Micah. Each of them set their dish down, then without any outward sign of coordination, they whipped the covers off simultaneously. Glorious smells filled the room; onion and oregano, aromatics and cheeses, with just the faintest hint of gamey fowl beneath it all. If her mouth could water, she would have drooled. As it was, she spent the next few moments trying to figure out how to try some without making a horrible mess of herself.

Micah sat at one end of the table, Matt’s dad to his right. Matt stood next to the chair to Micah’s left, but he stopped before sitting down to pull out the chair next to him for her. It took everything she had to keep from rolling her eyes at him. Instead she smiled at him and sat. He lifted her, chair and all, and set her a comfortable distance from the table. She couldn’t help herself.

“Show off.”

“I can’t help it. You bring it out in me.”

Ophilia pulled her own chair up to the table to Michaela’s left. She saw Ophilia come to an obvious conclusion about what she and Matt had been up to. To keep Ophilia from starting a conversation that couldn’t go anywhere good, she grabbed at the first thing that came to mind.

“Who else is coming to dinner?”

Ophilia let herself be distracted. Whatever the reason, the new topic amused her. She smiled affectionately down the table at Micah when she spoke.

“No one.”

“So why the extra place setting? You two don’t seem real religious.”

Ophilia’s laughter filled the room like a warm breeze. Even when she spoke, the laughter was clear in her voice.

“Finally someone is calling you out on it, dear. Go on, explain.”

Micah shrugged. “Occupational hazard of working too long as a museum director. I can’t leave the table with a blank place setting. The display would be off balance.”

“Oh, stop it. It’s more like the OCD you picked up from all your security jobs leaking through to setting the table.”

Micah grinned down at her. “Problems?”

“Not a damn one.”

For some reason that set the two of them laughing again. Michaela turned to Matt. “Do they do this often?”

He looked down at her. Something hid behind his eyes, some emotion she couldn’t identify. Wistfulness maybe? When he spoke, it became clear. He knew what was going on, and envied what his aunt and uncle had. This was not a man who was going to run screaming if she wanted to settle down.

“They’ve been together for decades, Michaela. Old married couples get like this.”

“How do you do that?” She looked up at his eyes, brown and green, and wondered if she could ever look at anyone else and not think there was something missing.

“Do what?”

“Manage to get me thinking about… us?” She wasn’t sure why, but it was important.

“I don’t mind that you do, but are you sure it’s me?”

Suddenly it became clear. She settled back in her chair, a satisfied smile on her face. “No and yes. And no I’m not explaining it to you. A girl has to have some mystery, right?”

He smiled down at her, and then reached for the larger casserole pan. It turned out to be full of goose lasagna that smelled even better once he started serving it. She handed him her plate and indicated how much she wanted with a finger and thumb held less than an inch apart. Ophilia interrupted him when he went to cut.

“You can’t be serious! That much wouldn’t keep a bird alive!”

The teasing tone in Ophilia’s voice brought out Michaela’s own sense of humor, such as it was. “Hey, I’m just a little bitty thing. If I eat more than that I’m going to balloon up like a blimp.”

The banter continued through the rest of serving. The other tray had a bean and onion casserole. Michaela took about a tablespoon. It looked right next to the tiny portion of lasagna on the plate. It also looked like it was a serving size for a three-year-old.

The family skipped grace, and dove into eating as soon as the food was served. Matt’s father ate mechanically, taking notes the whole time, ignoring conversational gambits from his son. Michaela, hoping she could smooth things over, tried the food. She took a bite of lasagna…

She’d forgotten what food tasted like. It held the blissful sweetness of caramelized onion, agonizing tartness of tomato, the thick texture of the al dente lasagna noodles, the slight chewy resistance of the goose. The molten cheese and sauce tied the whole thing together. For a while, she lost herself in the experience of eating. Then her plate was empty, and Micah grinned at her.

“These poor gourmands can’t appreciate it the way it ought to be done, right out of the oven.”

She scanned the other three. They were all blowing at their food, trying to cool it to avoid burning their mouths. Matt grinned at her around a mouthful. Ophilia grimaced at her in mock anger. Matt’s dad just ignored her, still taking his notes.

Now she had a problem; she couldn’t talk with the food crammed into her throat. She wished she could sink through the floor as they waited for her to reply. For a moment she thought about doing just that. If the floor was thin enough she could move right through it.

Inspiration struck. She moved without moving, sending the food in her throat away. She grinned back at Micah, but before she spoke the grin became an honest, broad smile. “This food is incredible. Which of you is the chef?”

Micah finished his next bite before he replied. “Depends on which you mean. The lasagna is mine, Phil is hopeless with pasta.”

Ophilia let out a squawk of outrage, and a roll flew down the table to bounce off Micah’s head. “You’re the only one who thinks so. Just because you’re from Italy originally is no reason to mock my pasta skills. Besides, you’re the one who can’t make vegetables worth a damn.”

Michaela winced slightly at the casual use of the word ‘damn,’ but she was having too much fun listening to the pair to really care. Micah’s next volley had her covering her mouth to avoid laughing aloud.

“I never bothered learning to cook using nothing but what food eats.”

“You should listen to your consort, daughter. He has excellent taste in victuals.”

The voice echoed quietly through the room, a thousand silent whispers repeating her words. From the other room Michaela heard the creak and rustle of a deep forest. Across the table from her sat an older woman. Wrinkles only added dignity to an otherwise pretty face framed by hair the color of beaten silver. Her eyes…

Michaela remembered the Enemy. She might not be the person who had warred with the Enemy for an eternity any more, but she still had the memories. This entity wasn’t her ancient foe, but something about this one reeked of the same antipathy, the same misanthropy, the same malevolence. Michaela tensed, ready to move into action. Before she did, Ophilia spoke, breaking the tension.

“Mother! Remember that conversation we had about calling before you come over? Ringing the doorbell? Knocking?”

The thing across the table ignored Ophilia. Without a word, she reached over to the lasagna and filled her plate. One small corner of the plate was reserved for a half serving of the onion bean casserole. She lifted her glass, looked disdainfully at the crystal clear water that filled it. She blinked, and the water disappeared. She poured from a wine bottle that appeared in her hand, a red so robust the bouquet rolled across the room.

Michaela couldn’t decide whether she should assault the thing across the table, run away, laugh, or cry. Eventually the smell of the wine and lasagna overcame her. Before she realized what she was doing, she reached for another serving of lasagna. With a defiant look at the thing across the table, she filled half her plate with casserole.

After a few bites of each dish, The Morrigan spoke once more. “Daughter, your cooking has improved. I might not guess that no beasts died to make this dish. It is, in fact, almost edible. My compliments.” She turned to Micah, her smile widening a touch more than a human’s smile ought to. “Your cooking is, as always, superb.”

Michaela took a moment to scan the rest of the table. Ophilia’s expression was pure ‘outraged and offended daughter,’ but she showed no fear. Dr. Franklin’s expression hadn’t changed. Although he’d also grabbed another serving of lasagna after The Morrigan depopulated the serving tray, he hadn’t reacted to her presence in any other way. Michaela looked carefully at his eyes, and realized that he wasn’t quite dealing with the same reality the rest of them were. Madness had its uses, apparently. Micah wavered second to second between longsuffering patience and abject terror. He ate slowly, mechanically, trying to politely acknowledge his new guest while at the same time ignoring who she was.

Matt… When she looked at Matt, he was already gazing back at her, a silly smile on his lips. She couldn’t help it, she ‘swallowed’ and the word left her mouth before she had time to think.

“What?”

“You. Us. It’s been… I can’t remember how long it’s been since I had a nice sit down family dinner.”

With the edges of her awareness, Michaela sensed everyone at the table swivel their gazes to stare at Matt. Even Dr. Franklin stared at his son in disbelief. After a few moments, the only sounds in the room were the faint forest noises coming from the window in the other room. Matt looked around at everyone else, confusion furrowing his brow.

“What?”

The Morrigan’s laughter was beautiful and terrible. Michaela’s mind shuddered under the unintentional assault, and ripples flowed through the air. A disgruntled cry cut through the air, rescuing them.

“Mother! That is quite enough. If you can’t behave yourself, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

The laughter, with its accompanying pressure, cut off immediately. The Morrigan stared at her daughter, satisfaction radiating from her like the warmth of a house fire. Michaela distracted herself with the taste of Ophilia’s casserole.

“It is good to know you’ve matured somewhat, Daughter. Now if only you learned manners. Introduce me to your guests, if I’m to treat them as such.”

Ophilia rolled her eyes, but she was speaking as she did it.

“Fine. Mother, you already know my partner, Micah. Next to you is Dr. Abraham Franklin, my godson’s father.”

“So you’re the one I have to thank for my daughter having an heir. So good to finally meet you.”

She held out her hand, palm down. The Doctor gripped it in his own hand and shook it once, firmly. “Good to meet you, Mrs. Morgan.”

The Morrigan looked a touch put out, then smiled with comprehension. “You’ve broken this one inspiring him, haven’t you?”

“He begged me to. We’re not talking about that now, mother. I’m introducing my guests. Next is my godson, George Matthew Franklin. George, this is my mother. May I skip the titles tonight, Mother?”

“Of course, dear. We’re all family here, or nearly so. As close as we get, anyhow.”

Ophilia stared a moment longer, then shrugged her resignation, “Fine. Matthew, this is my mother, The Morrigan.”

“Ms. Morrigan. My godmother has told me about quite a lot about you. I’m honored you could join us.” Michaela was proud of the way Matt’s voice didn’t waver. The pride confused her until she realized why she felt it. When she realized, the confusion transmuted itself to happy embarrassment.

“It is November, Grandson. It is cold, and the troublemakers are mostly holed away in their lairs, preparing the next wave of trouble. Besides that, Ophilia is the only one of my children who still speaks with me.”

Ophilia turned to Michaela. Michaela ‘swallowed’ to clear her throat, because she didn’t want to offend The Morrigan by speaking with her mouth full.

“Mother, this is Michaela Miles, my godson’s partner.”

The Morrigan turned to her. She looked in the black pits that were The Morrigan’s eyes and saw recognition. That terrified her more than anything else she could think of.

“I remember you. Ophilia’s consort does well with this,” she waved a hand at the lasagna, “but you, you have presented me with meals of such glory I cannot begin to compliment you enough.”

“I’m afraid you must have me confused with someone else.” What was she doing? She had just contradicted The Morrigan. She hadn’t drawn her spear, she hadn’t moved free of the confining chair. Without thinking, she took another huge bite of casserole to soothe her nerves. She ‘swallowed’ it the moment she realized what she was doing, trying not to miss any of what The Morrigan was saying. The dark queen of the Unseeleigh had her eyes half closed as she reveled in memory.

“Oh, I’m certain it must have been you. Fourteen… no. Was it fifteen centuries ago? Rome, was it? No, Vatican City. That feast was positively divine.” On the last word, The Morrigan’s eyes snapped open, her gaze fixed on Michaela’s face. Michaela didn’t drop her eyes. The Morrigan wasn’t trying to eradicate her. She’d simply tried to make her flinch. Without looking down, she filled her fork and brought it to her mouth. She chewed, the flavors still intense on her virgin tongue. When she’d leached all the flavor she could from the bite, she swallowed. The Morrigan still waited for her to speak. Reaching deep within, leaning on her recent memories of the Presence, bolstered by the warmth of the man beside her, she smiled brightly.

“I’m glad you liked it, but I can’t take any special credit. I was just doing my job.”

The Morrigan’s gaze faltered as her smile finally reached her eyes. When she spoke, her voice still carried the power of a being that had lived far longer than anyone else at the table, but it no longer threatened to erase the minds of those around it accidentally.

“I am so glad I had Ophilia. At least one of my lines of descendants has acceptable taste in companions.” The dark goddess tilted her head, sniffed at the air. “Daughter, if you’re making crème brulee for desert, I think you really ought to be in the kitchen.”

***

After Matt helped her put her coat on, Ophilia pulled Michaela into an embrace. She wasn’t sure how to respond, but she tried. When Ophilia pulled back and smiled at her, she knew she’d done it right.

“I’m sorry about Mother. She shows up without warning, and there isn’t much I can do about it. I’ve thought about bricking up the window, but she’d just knock a hole in the wall then. I think she was trying to be on her best behavior tonight.”

“No need for apologies, Ms. Morgan…” Ophilia frowned at Michaela’s choice of names, “Phil.” Her smile returned. “I’m afraid I might have set her off just by being here. I think I recall she and I having some altercations a while back. It’s been a long time.”

“Oh, no, that’s not it. Well, really, it might be. Sorta. She might remember all that, she might still be holding a grudge, but I can tell you one thing,” Ophilia paused. When Michaela nodded, she continued, “Mother likes you. Really and truly. She’s just epically not good at showing it.”

“Well. We really do have to return to work. There are bad guys out there.”

“Yeah, well. It was wonderful meeting you,” Ophilia stopped speaking and slapped herself in the forehead. “I forgot, after reminding myself half a dozen times. Micah and I would be thrilled to have you two at the play.”

“What play?”

“A bit of a fundraiser, although it looks like all but a few of the audience will be kids from local schools in the floor seats. We’re doing a cut down version of Romeo and Juliet.”

Michaela looked up at Matt, her eyes crinkling. “That sounds like fun, Frank. You still owe me a movie.”

“You’d take a play instead?”

“Yeah, I know, right? I’m learning all kinds of new things about myself this week. I think you’re good for my self-actualization.”

“Ok, then, Aunt Phil. We’ll be there.”

***

Phil dropped back into her chair, sighing with relief. She dropped Micah’s sweater on the ground beside the chair, ignoring his chastising look. She’d clean it up later. Or he would, and she would reward him appropriately for his acts of domestic heroism. Giggles welled up in her, and she forced them down. Micah turned to Dr. Franklin, a look of concern on his face.

“When do you intend to tell him, Abraham?”

Dr. Franklin looked far more coherent than he had earlier. He had good times and bad ones. Now was a good time, so Phil kept herself to herself while he answered.

“I don’t see a reason to do so now. His Words are in place. They have been for years. My experiment is a smashing success, it seems. He even passes muster with that angelic young woman he brought this evening.”

***

Sammie’s Door Warden looked out from her lair, a feral snarl on her lips. The thing outside disturbed the rest she needed to recover from the mortal’s manhandling on the prior day. She didn’t care about Belle’s long, flowing blonde hair, her aristocratic nose, her high cheekbones, or her flared eyebrows. Even her delicately pointed ears were nothing to the Door Warden. She could mimic all of that herself once she rested. Of course, the power residing in the thing was something else. She couldn’t ignore that.

“Tell me again what you want?”

“I need you to perform a transmutation.”

Transmutations could be difficult. The effort expended would delay her recuperation. She sneered openly at the thing beyond her door. Besides that, Sammie had forbidden her from hunting on her own.

“Why should I do this for you again?”

“Beyond my eternal good will, and the goodness of your heart?”

“Neither exists. Give me a reason.”

“Vengeance on the one who beat you.”

“I’m listening. Sweeten it for me.”

The thing reached beside the door, outside the warden’s field of vision. The warden tensed, but all the thing pulled from hiding was a pair of scrawny young women. The thing dangled them each by an arm, and they didn’t seem to notice or care. The warden smiled inside, but kept her face displeased.

“These are nearly dead already. Offer me more.”

“There will be a host of children at the site. Many will be dead, or nearly so, by the time I am done, but you may have as many as you can take.”

What Sammie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

“Done and done. Tell me more.”