“But...” I don’t finish. I know where Zaki is going with this. Yes, this is the healthier option, but the lemon pepper chicken tasted better, and I was actually enjoying it. Having my food choices policed by shifters I met last night is its own special kind of irritating, even when they mean well.
“As queen of the Bouda Clan, you must be mindful of what you put into your body,” Zaki says. “And I have not seen you drink water since our arrival.”
“That’s because we were living out of an action film with you jumping on helicopters and making them crash onto the freeway,” I mutter.
Zaki’s lips twitch, almost smiling. She looks to Kojo and gives him a nudge with her elbow. He clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable being drawn into our little standoff.
“It is good that you eat healthy, Kendra,” he says softly.
I sigh, looking between them. This is clearly a battle I’m not going to win. “Well, since you suggested it so nicely, I’ll do it.”
I pick up the fork and spear a strawberry, lifting it to my mouth. It’s a little tart. It reminds me of how health-conscious I used to be before I lost my tech job, when I could afford tocare about things like organic produce and balanced nutrition. A small box of strawberries cost five dollars in Detroit, and when you’re counting pennies, you make choices based on calories per dollar, not nutritional value. It’s easier to stay healthy when you have money. People who’ve always had it don’t think about that.
I eat the fruit bowl quietly and drink the water. The flavors blend pleasantly, and I have to admit it’s refreshing after the heavy, salty chicken. Every time my glass gets half-empty, Zaki appears at my elbow to refill it.
“You don’t have to serve me,” I tell her, but she ignores me completely, pouring more water without looking at me.
Why bother fighting it? They’re clearly happy doing these things, and I’m starting to realize that pushing back against every aspect of their culture is exhausting for all of us. I finish my breakfast and push the empty bowl away.
“I must go out and collect wood for the night,” Kojo announces. “You winced when your feet touched the cold floor this morning. I am afraid our furnace,” he glances at Zaki before continuing, “is not enough.”
“Go, brother,” Zaki says with a nod. “I will stay with her.”
“How long will you be gone?” I ask, and it’s ridiculous because he’s probably just going around the house, but here I am feeling a flutter of anxiety at the thought of him leaving. I don’t understand why his absence should matter to me at all, yet it does.
“I will not be gone long,” Kojo assures me, his voice gentle. Zaki shoves my glass toward me. “More water.”
Lord, Zaki is going to drive me nuts with this hydration campaign. Kojo, of course, can’t walk away without bowing his head, which he does before heading to the door. No coat, just a shirt, sweatpants, and bare feet. I have to remind myself they run hot. Temperatures that would give me frostbite in ten minutes don’t register for them.
When he opens the door, I feel a rush of winter air that makes me shiver. Then he’s gone, and I’m left looking at Zaki, who grins at me the moment the door closes behind him, all teeth.
* * *
An hour of Zaki’s village stories and I retreated to the small sofa by the window. Her stories of communal hunts and moonlit ceremonies were fascinating at first, but her constant asides about how “westernized humans have lost their connection to true living” wore on me until I needed a break.
I stare out the window while Zaki moves around the kitchen, opening cabinets and making disapproving noises at their contents. She hisses at something in the refrigerator, and I can hear her mumbling about preservatives and processed ingredients like they’re personal insults.
Well, I’m not a homemaker from the 1920s. I’m not chopping up fresh meat that they’ve hunted, nor am I baking bread from scratch or churning my own butter. And what’s wrong with being a city girl anyway? They make it feel like growing up in Detroit is some kind of character flaw rather than just a different way of living.
Through the window, Kojo is already at work in the yard. The snow has started again, fat flakes drifting lazily around him as he arranges logs on what looks like a chopping block. He’s gathered an impressive pile of wood already, stacked neatly. He grabs an axe leaning against a nearby tree, tests its weight in his hand, then lifts it high and brings it down in a clean, powerful arc that splits the log in two.
His shirt moves with each swing, steam coming off his bare arms in the cold. He doesn’t look up once. I can’t look away.
Behind me, Zaki paces with her hands on her hips. She seems deep in thought, her ridge occasionally spiking when she turns too quickly, the blades rising and then dropping back.
“Is something on your mind?” I ask, still watching Kojo through the window as he splits another log, the wood falling away cleanly from his blade. The snow is coming down harder now, creating a curtain of white around him.
“I am strategizing,” Zaki says, stopping her pacing momentarily. “We must always be ready for what is coming next.”
That pulls me around to look at her. Her eyes are somewhere I’m not.
“There are more of us, Bouda,” she continues, her voice softer than I’ve heard it before. “We are not all dead. I know it.”
The vulnerability in her tone catches me off guard. Behind all that rigidity, there’s something raw. Pain and hope.
“Do you want to go looking for them?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. Then she catches herself. “Well, with your approval of course, maj---I mean, Kendra.” She looks frustrated that she has to correct herself, her jaw tightening around my name.