“Not that I mind a good hug, and I’m fortunate enough that Dani isn’t the jealous type,” Zed asked, patting her back. “But I thought you didn’t like touching?”
“I’m telling you, it’s like hugging a person made of candy floss,” she sighed. Zed glanced up at Brendan.
“She’s had a rough day,” Brendan told him.
“Aw, I’m sorry, bebelle.” He patted her back again. “Why don’t you come meet some people and we’ll get you fixed up. You, too, Irish.”
With his arm still around Cordelia’s waist, Zed led her to his table, which he was sharing with a broad-shouldered woman with gray hair. Zed shooed Brendan and Cordelia into the empty side of the booth and pulled a chair up to the end, straddling it. Seated against the wall, Cordelia kept her hands under the table as she pulled on her gloves. He understood her nervousness. There were so many people in this small room, so many voices and fates. He reached under the table and squeezed her covered hand. She squeezed it back.
The mayor gestured grandly while introducing them. “This is my beloved maman, Clarissa Berend. Maman, Brendan O’Connor and Cordelia Canton.
The woman gave them a warm smile. “I’m sure you two have met a legion of people. Don’t worry, the introductions will stop soon. Though, I’m given to understand I should expect a marriage proposal from you at some point.”
“Treachery!” Brendan gasped. “Jillian seemed so trustworthy!”
“We’re going to need to talk about a dowry,” Zed told him.
“I will love you from afar,” Brendan promised Clarissa, who preened.
Zed gagged quietly. “Not OK, Irish. Not OK.”
A compact little woman with a grumpy, heavily-lined face shuffled over to the table and slid two plates in front of Brendan and Cordelia. “Here, this is what you need.”
“We didn’t order yet,” Brendan protested as the little woman eyed him suspiciously.
“It’s better to let Siobhan choose your pie for you,” Clarissa said.
“What?” Cordelia asked.
“Trust us, bebelle,” Zed replied.
“Has it been tampered with?” Brendan asked dryly. It pained him to be so flinty with another creature from his home country, but the brownie had violated his morning coffee. There were limits to what a man would tolerate.
“I told Jillian that was a bad idea,” Zed muttered.
“Worth it,” Cordelia said, scooping her pie into her mouth.
“No, it hasn’t been tampered with, bansidhe. Just keep to yours and I’ll keep to mine,” Siobhan told him.
His dark eyes narrowed at the brownie. “I don’t know what that means.”
“Don’t interfere with my work and I won’t interfere with yours.” She scowled at him.
“I think that can be arranged if you don’t dose my dessert with magical truth serum,” Brendan said.
“Fair enough.” The brownie shrugged her scrawny shoulders and walked off.
Of all the things he expected to find in front of him in a pie shop in southern Louisiana, banoffee pie was not on the list. He dug into the crust filled with bananas, toffee, and custard and tasted home—but better than home, because Lord love them, not one of his family members could make a decent pie crust. He felt a weight glide off of his shoulders and for just a moment, he didn’t have to feel responsible for the fate of every single person in the room.
“See?” Zed asked with a grin. “Siobhan’s got kitchen magic. Just looking at you, she knows what you need—pie for sadness, pie for the soul, pie to settle your nerves.”
Cordelia’s face was serene as she swallowed another bite. “Does she have pie for when you need bigger pants? Because I’m going to be spending a lot of time here.”
Brendan chuckled around his mouthful, just as an older bald man in overalls walked up to the table, accompanied by a pot-bellied man with an impressive walrus mustache. “Zed, I need to talk to ya with your mayor hat on.”
Zed straightened in his chair, suddenly very serious. “What’s up, Karl? And it’s Walter, isn’t it?”
The man reached out to shake Zed’s giant hand. “Yep, Walter Benson. You can call me Walt. Nice to meet you, Mr. Mayor.”
“Aw, just call me ‘Zed,’” he said, waving him off.
“Otherwise, his head gets even bigger,” Clarissa agreed. “Barely leaves room for a hat.”
Zed gasped in indignation. “Maman!”
“Well, I hate to interrupt your lunch date with these pretty ladies,” Walt said, winking at Clarissa and Cordelia. “But we’re having a bit of trouble with the potholes on our road. The big one—I call him Cranky Pete—has gotten big enough to get my tractor tire stuck.”
“You named your pothole?” Cordelia asked.
“It’s my fault,” Walt sighed. “The moving trucks were hauling stuff back and forth to the new house. I made it worse.”
“Well, my tractor didn’t help things, Walt. No use blaming yourself. Cranky Pete was bound to take one of us out eventually,” Karl assured him.
Cordelia giggled, amused by the personalization of road hazards. This prompted Walt to give her another wink. “Well, that’s the sweetest sound I’ve heard all day.”
“You bought the McNairy place, didn’t you?” Zed asked.
“There are people still moving into town? Even with all the problems?” Cordelia asked Zed.
He nodded. “We’ve had a few new families move into the bayou, which makes sense since the rift is expanding. Magique are feeling the call more than ever.”
Walt nodded. “A-yep, couldn’t resist the pull any longer. We’d heard about Mystic Bayou for years, and when my Lettie passed away, well, I just didn’t see any reason to stay in Bangor anymore.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your wife,” Zed said. “But we’re glad you’re here. Always nice to have another shifter around.”
Brendan returned his attention to his pie as Zed and his constituents talked about repair options for Cranky Pete. During this debate, Karl made a gesture and the back of his hand brushed against Brendan’s shoulder. Brendan froze as a familiar sensation spread across his skin, like frost taking hold, and he knew what would happen if he didn’t get up from the booth right that moment.
In his head, he saw Karl lying in his bed, holding his wife’s hand. He kissed her cheek, rolled over, and slipped off to sleep, a contented smile on his face. Within a few minutes, his breathing stopped, and so did his heart. He had a death that most people hoped for, in a warm bed, at an old age, next to the woman he loved.
Brendan held in the scream. Singing in a crowded room like this would only cause a panic. Yet when a death song wasn’t released, it always ended badly for the singer. Without a word, Brendan pushed to his feet scrambling around Zed and Karl, ducking around anyone between him and the door. He finally reached the street, running around the corner of the restaurant and vomiting his pie on the gravel parking lot.
Cordelia was suddenly behind him, rubbing his back through his shirt. She pressed a cold bottle of water into his hand. “Do you think she dosed the pie after all?”