Chapter 37 Sumi-Zumi
Chapter Thirty Seven
Sumi-Zumi
— Sunday —
Our old Victorian lady feels alive tonight. There’s a buzz in the air—a current that electrifies every corner. The laughter starts in the kitchen, spreads to the front room, and spills out onto the wrap-around porch, where early evening shadows stretch long across the yard.
Everyone’s gathered: shifters, vampires, assorted Prescott weirdos, and Sue, who’s knocking it out of the park as our token human.
Tomas has an arm wrapped around me, and I let myself lean into him. It’s been a hell of a week, but tonight, we’re celebrating.
Rurik’s twisted little present from this morning—the severed head of the King of Texas—has sent ripples through our little corner of the world. Louisiana dropped us like an angry hornet’s nest, texting Tomas that we are no longer expected or welcome at the palace. Turns out Rurik can be useful after all.
He’s growing on me, I admit it. And hey, I do love presents. I shake my head enjoying the way my braids bounce against my shoulders, tied up with bright green bows.
Colton and Vivien are home, Texas is dead, and every single one of my favorite foods is sitting on my beautiful new dining room table. Boy, howdy, we’re livin’ in high cotton now.
Sue sidles up next to us, hands busy unwrapping a massive platter of fried chicken. She squints at my perfectly lovely centerpiece, one eyebrow arching like she’s about to say something profound.
Now, I’ll have you know that I do not have the head of the King of Texas in the center of my table with an apple shoved in his mouth. It was only momentarily under consideration.
But we couldn’t find a platter big enough. And, well, there are youngins running around who probably don’t need that image burned into their developing minds.
Instead of a severed head centerpiece, we have Mishka’s prize from his attic expedition—a taxidermied ‘possum, frozen mid-hiss, teeth bared in perpetual fury. Gemma adorned him with a lovely little lei, and honestly, I think he’s perfect. I’m planning on making him a regular dinner guest.
The food is spread out on the oversized trestle table—Southern comfort from start to finish. Cornbread, mac ‘n’ cheese, collard greens, tea so sweet it’ll make your teeth ache, and now, enough fried chicken to feed an army. I fill up a plate and find a spot to kick my feet up.
Shadow is in their element, bouncing between groups, making sure everyone’s plate is piled high. They’re a whirlwind of movement—all quick smiles and teasing touches—and watching them with Ben makes something inside me unclench, a worry I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto.
It’s hard to shake the memory of the bruised and battered shifter who suffered through withdrawal, convinced they deserved every ounce of pain they’d been handed. I’ve spent so long waiting for the cracks to show that seeing them like this—whole and happy—feels like standing in a warm rain I didn’t know I needed.
Grayson lounges in the armchair near the fireplace, a tumbler of Daddy’s good Scotch in his hand, looking more relaxed than maybe I’ve ever seen him. He lifts the glass in my direction—a silent toast—and I nod back.
For a moment, it’s just us. The noise of the room fades into the background. He doesn’t say a word—doesn’t need to. The weight of everything we’ve been through rests in the curve of his lips as he smiles, soft and a little crooked.
Our bond hums between us, feeding me a steady stream of Grayson-input that I can’t get enough of. Vampires are usually locked up tighter than a bank vault, so having this backstage pass to his emotions feels like I’ve hit the jackpot. I’m obsessed, it’s like reality TV but trashier.
Across the room, Vivien shoots me a look that could curdle milk. Yeah, I’m still not her favorite, but I’m wearing her down. Turns out, her icy heart is no match for a steady stream of designer handbags and skincare that costs more than my first car. Do vampires even need night cream?
A knock at the kitchen door cuts through the chatter, and the room falls into a curious hush. Daddy, who’s been leaning against the wall near Gray, pushes off with a start and announces, “Well, they came to the back door, so they gotta be friendlies.”
Tomas does not look entirely sold on Daddy’s advanced security logic and trails him into the kitchen, shoulders tense like he’s expecting trouble.
A moment later, I catch the low rumble of my Uncle Dalford’s voice—not loud, but clear enough to carry through the house—followed by the scrabble of paws on wood floors. Nails skidding, as something tries to take a corner too fast.
What in the world is in my kitchen?
My gaze lands on Mishka, who’s abandoned his game of checkers with Val to eye the swinging door with suspicion. All my shifters are accounted for.
I join the flow of curious faces and find Gemma and Lily already in the thick of it. The kitchen has devolved into the best kind of chaos—an excited puppy skidding across the floor, two squealing five-year-olds, and adults standing around, trying not to laugh.
Daddy watches it all with a look that says he’s rethinking his every life choice. The puppy’s tail thwaps against the cabinets, oblivious to the tension. Daddy turns to Dal, raising an eyebrow.
“This is… a surprise. We’d been saying the girls could get a dog—eventually. I was thinking, maybe, in a year or two.”
Dal shrugs, nonchalant as ever. “Puppy’s not for the girls—it’s for my new nephew.”
Ben steps up behind Mishka, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder. His voice drops to that reassuring tone he uses when things are big and new. “That’s Uncle Dal,” he explains quietly. “He’s special, like Sunday and Colton.”
Mishka nods, his gaze locked on the little Catahoula hound sprawled on its back, his pudgy belly being thoroughly scratched by Tomas. The pieces are falling into place. I see it in the way his shoulders stiffen, then slowly relax. He looks from the puppy to Dal, then back again. Finally, in a soft, almost disbelieving voice, he whispers, “Oh.”
The twins immediately whine in unison. “It’s not fair! Mishka can just be a dog. Why can’t we have a puppy?”
Daddy sighs, the long-suffering sound only a father of small children can master. “Alright, alright, let’s not panic. Maybe Mishka can… share a little?”
Tomas manages to calm the little black-and-gray-spotted pup, then holds out a hand for Mishka. There’s a moment of hesitation before Mishka plops down beside him.
“You know,” Tomas says softly, his voice low and steady, “shifters can have amazing bonds with their pets. But there’s a right way—and plenty of wrong ways—to do it.”
Mishka scoots closer, his small hand brushing the puppy’s scruff. He looks up at Tomas, eyes wide with curiosity, hanging onto every word.
“But first,” Tomas adds, “he needs a name…”
Mishka studies the puppy, tilting his head as though considering the question with the weight it deserves. Finally, he nods. “His name is Sumi. It means ink in Japanese.”
Tomas ruffles his hair, his smile warm and approving. “That’s an excellent name, buddy.”
I grin, crouching beside them. “I like that, Mishka. He does look like he has ink spilled all over his coat.”
A voice from behind me interrupts. Grayson steps closer, peering over my shoulder with mild amusement. “Well, then his name should be Sumi-Zumi .” (Ink Spot)
Mishka’s head snaps up, his eyes wide with surprise. “ Nihongo o hanasemasu ka ?” (“You speak Japanese?”)
Grayson’s lips curl into a small smile. He replies smoothly, “ Hanasemasu. Itsudemo renshū shitai toki wa, watashi o mitsukete kudasai .” (“I do. Anytime you want to practice, just find me.”)
Mishka stares for a beat, the flicker of awe in his eyes growing into something steady and bright. His hand tightens briefly on Sumi’s scruff before he looks back down at the puppy, a small, private smile spreading across his face.
Dal lingers by the door, hands shoved deep in his pockets. This was a big gesture—coming to a house full of people just to make our little boy smile. It’s like he knew, somehow, that Mishka needed something that was just for him.
I get as close as I dare. “I’d be hugging you so tight right now if I could.”
Dal glances down at his scuffed work boots, the tips kicking at nothing. “Aw, shoot, wasn’t a big thing.” He pauses, then admits, “The pup washed out of my service dog program for being too friendly. Figured he could use a home where that’s not gonna be a problem.”
Daddy ushers the girls out of the room while Ben and Cady linger by the doorway. Colt grabs a beer and stakes out a spot next to them, occasionally interrupting Tomas’ careful lecture on shifter pet care with non-sequiturs like, “Do you think they call ’em leopard-hounds cuz there’s a leopard somewhere in the woodpile?” and “It’d be funny if you rode him around like a little horse. Hell, I’d make you a saddle.”
Even Mishka shoots him a look at that one.
***
There’s a bubble around Dal—a protective sphere we all respect. A space he keeps between himself and the rest of the world. His eyes sweep the room, calculating. Always doing the math: How far away does he need to stay from all of us? How long before someone says something they’ll regret, something he never wanted to hear?
And I wonder how long it’s been since he’s had a hug. Has he ever kissed a lover, or even shaken someone’s hand. What does being touch-starved do to a person after forty or fifty years?
When he finally moves toward the dining room, the crowd shifts naturally, parting for him like water around a rock. Arcadia steps in to help him with a plate, her movements calm, unbothered. Maybe she’s made peace with her secrets, or maybe Dal’s gift doesn’t touch her the way it does the rest of us.
It’s got me wonderin’…
Grayson murmurs something against my hair, and I pull myself out of the haze of the room. “What was that?”
“They’re talking about your new country home, better get over there before they make decisions without you.”
I roll my eyes, giving Grayson a playful nudge. “They wouldn’t dare.”
Still, I peel away from his side and head toward Dal, who’s surrounded by a small knot of family. Colton is there, stuffing his face with a piece of cornbread, while Sue offers me a warm smile as I step closer.
“What’s this I hear about the Packhouse?” I ask, letting my gaze settle on Dal.
“Just saying,” Dal begins, his drawl thickening slightly, “that we need to get your new farm warded. Sooner rather than later. It’s isolated enough to be a target, and I don’t want anything catching you unawares. I know a witch who could help. She’s good—real good.”
A stunned silence settles over the group. Colton is the first to break it, speaking around a mouthful of cornbread. “Wait—Dal knows a witch?”
Ben looks between Dal and the rest of us, clearly confused. “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”
Daddy chuckles, shaking his head. “Dal doesn’t exactly do… people,” he says, casting a sidelong glance at his brother. “Let alone witches.”
Dal shrugs, a faint pink creeping up his neck. “She brought back one of the dogs, once. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask. She’s got a whole coven in Yazoo City.”
That catches Ben’s attention. “When you say witch, do you mean…”
“Oh, she’s a real witch. Her house walks around the swamp.”
I blink, my glass halfway to my lips. “Wait… like Baba Yaga?”
Grayson, who’s appeared at my side like he always does, squeezes my waist and leans in close, his voice low and teasing. “Did you grow up hearing tales of Slavic witches, or is this a new fascination?”
I snort, glancing up at him. “You know I’ve read every book on folklore I could get my hands on. Baba Yaga’s iconic.”
Grayson hums thoughtfully. “Well, here’s hoping this witch is more ally and less eat-you-in-her-house-on-chicken-legs.”
I laugh softly, lifting my glass again. “To new allies,” I say, my voice carrying over the din.
The room quiets for a beat, everyone turning toward me. I raise my glass higher, catching Dal’s eye. “And to family watchin’ out for each other.”
For tonight, we eat, we drink, and we celebrate the small victories.