Nate glanced over to where he’d left his backpack on the counter. Maybe instead of going the lost-jacket route, he could call Mrs. Mary and ask if there was a room in Luchas House for a caretaker person type thing. It was his only shot at being there on a regular basis, and for setting up a cross-paths with Elyn: Obviously, he couldn’t work at Safe Place because males were not allowed in there—well, and he had no counseling degree or experience. And he couldn’t be at Luchas House as a social worker for the same reason. But maybe if he lived there as lower-level staff?

Because maybe he’d been wrong about Elyn leaving?

Although who was he kidding. She hadn’t called him and like that wasn’t a tea leaf he should read?

“—he’s right here.” Murhder frowned and looked across the table. “Uh-huh. Okay—well, lemme talk to him and Sarah. Sure. Yeah. Later.”

As the Brother hung up, he frowned. “That was Rhage. He said that Mary’s looking for a little help at Luchas House tonight. Guess there’s a young female moving in there and they need the furniture in her bedroom set up—”

Nate jumped out of his chair. “Yes! Did you tell him I’ll do it, yes? Yes!” He wheeled around for his backpack and fumbled to get his phone out. “I’ll text him—”

“You can sit the fuck down,” Murhder snapped, “and tell us what the hell is going on here first.”

“Nothing?” Nate lowered his butt back into his chair and put his hands in the air like it was a stickup. “I just want to help. Over at Luchas House. You know, they’re doing really special things—you know, the helping of people. Over there.”

Murhder looked at Sarah. She looked back at him. And then they both eyeballed Nate.

“I am not doing drugs.” He put his backpack onto the table and opened every zipper the thing had, flashing pockets and pouches that showed a whole lot of nothing-illegal. “And you can go through my room. Each drawer, under the bed, in the closet . . . all the jackets and pants I have. I’m not into that stuff and I’m never going to be.”

“So it’s really about the Shuli thing?” Sarah said. “I am honestly sorry—”

“No, it’s not. I mean, I thought the Shuli move was weird, but I don’t really care.”

There was a long pause while his parents x-rayed him with all kinds of what-are-we-going-to-do.

“You can always come and talk to us,” Sarah said as she sniffled and patted under one eye. “Anytime, about anything. And again, I do apologize for getting Shuli involved. I had no idea he would take it as far as he did, and I should have come to you with my concerns first.”

“Well, I’ve fixed that ‘too far’ thing,” Murhder muttered. “Trust me.”

“Can you text Rhage?” Nate asked in a hurry as he rezipped everything. “Call him? I’ll call him. I’ll go over there right now—”

“What the hell is over at Luchas House that’s so important—”

As Murhder went on another roll, Sarah got a strange look on her face. And then put her hand on her mate’s forearm, some kind of aha draining the anxiety out of her and replacing it with a soft surprise.

“We’ll text Rhage,” she said. “And of course, why don’t you head over there right now.”

“Great! SeeyouforLastMealokaythanksbye!”

Nate bolted for the sliding door behind the table, yanking back the glass and all but falling out onto the terrace. Slam-closing his eyes to dematerialize, he shut things back up and had to slow his breathing and—

Nothing close to dematerializing happened.

He stayed where he was, his beating heart skipping in his chest.

Taking a deep breath, he ruffled his arms. Refocused.

When that didn’t work, he double-checked on the ’rents. Murhder had his phone in his palm, but he was focused on Sarah and looking a little poleaxed. And as the Brother glanced out through the slider, Nate reshut his lids—

This time, he managed to ghost out.

Traveling in a scatter of molecules, he couldn’t get to Luchas House fast enough, and when he re-formed, he bolted across the lawn to the front door. He was all but choking on the excitement and the hope and the—

Well, the all kinds of everything.

Except he had to remind himself to chill. It could be another female—but then why would Rhage call? The Brother knew what was up, and come on, they had other hands on deck to help assemble furniture.

Unless they really did need help.

“Shut up,” he told his brain.

As Nate rang the doorbell once—and then wanted to push the button a hundred thousand times—he had the dampening thought again: What if it was someone else, what if they really did just need another—

The panel cracked, and half a face entered the seam.

As Nate recognized the features, he started to smile. “Hi,” he said.

• • •

Tallah was not a good cook.

As Mae started to run some water over the mound of dirty pots and pans in the cottage’s kitchen sink, she thought it had been so sweet of the elderly female to insist on making a meal the night before, but . . . yeah. In addition to her being incredibly inefficient with the utensils and anything with a handle, Gordon Ramsay would not have let that stew out of service, and probably would have thrown a couple of plates on the floor to make that point. But like Tallah had ever had to cook anything in her old life? Her previous household had been filled with doggen, and not only had there never been a reason for her to learn how to prepare food, it would have been considered way beneath her station to do so.

And since then? Well, she reheated Stouffer’s frozen dinners like a pro.

Sahvage hadn’t seemed to mind the stew, however, and afterward, when Tallah had insisted on playing Monopoly, he had humored her on that, too—and so had Mae, until she’d fallen asleep on the sofa halfway through the game. At some point, someone had thrown a blanket over her, and when she’d woken up a few moments ago, it had been to find Sahvage asleep sitting in the armchair across from her. Tallah had no doubt retired down below, and the Monopoly board, like the pots and pans, had been left in a state of post-use disorder, green houses and red hotels dotting the properties, fake money in scattered stacks cluttering up the coffee table, the shoe and the dog still on Park Place and Pennsylvania Avenue, respectfully.

The second Mae had stood up from the couch, Sahvage’s right eye had cracked open, but it didn’t stay that way. As if she had passed some kind of review—perhaps an unconscious one—he resettled and seemed to fall back to sleep.

Mae wasn’t hungry, her stomach still churning over Tallah’s home-cooked splendor however many hours later, but she couldn’t sit around.

Besides, every single thing you could put on the stovetop had been used for that stew. If somebody wanted eggs for First Meal, they had nothing to cook them in, and this exposed another truism about females of worth from the glymera.

Not only couldn’t they cook, they didn’t know how to clean up, either.

Hitting the pool of warm water with a squeeze of Ivory dish soap, she glanced back to make sure she wasn’t making too much noise. Fortunately, Sahvage’s heavy-treaded boots were in the same position, crossed at the ankle, so he remained where she’d left him.