“Would you like to come inside for a drink?” Stefan asked when I pulled into his parking space, his voice courteous and neutral.

There was a part of me that did, a reckless part that wanted to throw caution to the wind, stop being careful and controlled, and dive into this dangerous affair that we both knew we wanted. Despite Stefan’s courtesy, the amused glint in his eyes gave away the fact that he knew what I was feeling. Hell, of course he did. Stefan always knew what I was feeling.

Well, unless I raised a shield against him, which wasn’t exactly a polite way to end a date. And the truth was, there was another part of me that was enjoying the prolonged suspense and the sense of being in control.

It might be an illusion, but it was an illusion I liked. Probably in the same way a lion tamer enjoys the illusion of control right up to the point that a big cat goes all Siegfried-and-Roy on his ass.

I shook my head. “Not yet.”

“As you will.” Stefan didn’t make a move to get out of my Honda, but he didn’t make a move to kiss me, either; he just sat there with that infernal look of amusement on his face.

Okay, fine. Against the restraint of my seat belt, I leaned over and kissed him, sliding one hand into his black hair. I felt a faint shudder run through him. So, this wasn’t easy for him. Good.

Settling back into my seat, I took a deep breath. “Good night, then.”

“Good night, Daisy.” Stefan’s pupils were dilated and glittering, but he opened the car door. “Shall we do this again next week? You may choose the time and place.”

“Mom and I are driving up north to spend Christmas with my grandparents,” I said. “How about the following week?”

“Christmas,” Stefan murmured, half to himself. “Yes, of course. Do you have plans for New Year’s Eve?”

“No.”

He smiled, and got out of the Honda. “You do now. And I’ll make them.”

It sounded like a promise, or maybe a warning. Probably both. I didn’t think this particular tiger was content to stay on a leash for long.

Between the general malaise that gripped the town and my complicated love life, it seemed like it might be a relief to get away for a few days—might being the operative word. Visiting the grandparents wasn’t exactly a chore, but there was always a certain awkwardness. I know they couldn’t help but feel guilty that they hadn’t been able to give Mom unqualified support and reconcile themselves to having a half-demon grandchild. I couldn’t find it in my heart to blame them. My grandparents were salt-of-the-earth types, hardworking descendants of Scandinavian immigrants. Growing up in hunting and fishing country, Grandpa had learned his trade from an early age. He was considered one of the best taxidermists in the state, and his business was his pride and joy. Up until his semiretirement a few years ago, Grandma helped run it and kept the books.

My mom was supposed to be the first one in the family to earn a college degree, not drop out to raise her hell-spawn daughter. And to say that I was a challenging child is a massive understatement. Lots of things spontaneously broke or blew their circuits when I had temper tantrums. I’m pretty sure that Grandma went through seven or eight toasters during my terrible twos.

It’s odd, but it never occurred to me to wonder about why that happened in a perfectly ordinary mundane setting. Conventional eldritch wisdom held that magic only worked in the presence of a functioning underworld occupied by a deity; as below, so above. I hadn’t thought of the supernatural side effects of my childhood tantrums as magic.

I guess they were, though.

All things considered, it was a nice visit. My grandparents were solicitous hosts in their own taciturn way. On Christmas Eve, we went to a candlelit service at the Lutheran church where they were members. It was a service I’d attended plenty of times before, but it was always reassuring to know that lightning didn’t strike me down when I crossed the threshold of God’s house, my tail curled discreetly between my legs. I’m pretty sure Grandma and Grandpa found it reassuring, too.

Afterward was my favorite part, when we drove around town in Grandpa’s SUV to look at the Christmas lights on our way back to their ranch house. It had been a family tradition since before I was born.

This year, it felt different.

Oh, the Christmas lights were the same. If anything, they were more spectacular than ever. Now that anyone could buy giant inflatable snowmen or pre-strung illuminated Santa’s sleighs complete with eight reindeer at their local Lowe’s or Menards, the ante on holiday displays had been upped.

And yet it felt hollow. No, that wasn’t quite right. I felt hollow, disconnected. This wasn’t my town, my place. I hadn’t fought for it, put myself on the line to defend it. I may have carried my own underworld inside me, but it made me feel alone and lonely, and longing for home.

In the morning, we celebrated Christmas and exchanged gifts. I already had the coat that Mom had bought me, but I’d purchased perfume for her, and fancy knitting yarn that Mrs. Meyers had recommended for Grandma, and a pair of shearling-lined leather slippers for Grandpa, who beamed when he opened the package.

“Well, won’t these just keep my old dogs cozy in the winter!” Grandpa declared, donning them right away. He smiled at me. “Thank you, Daisy.”

I smiled back at him. “I’m glad you like them.”

It felt like a genuine family moment. I wanted it to be real. No, that’s not fair, either. It was real. Of course it was real. I wanted it to be enough.