“I’m an event planner for the supernatural community. I do vampire weddings and coming-of-age parties for were-animals . . . the ones who can predict more closely than tigers! Leadership struggles of one kind or another. And so on. Since the supernaturals are such a small percentage of the population and so scattered, that involves a lot of travel. I was hoping to put enough in the bank to retire after this year. At least I can afford to take some time off until I can figure out what to do next.”

Fiji said, “So, now that Diederik’s had his first change, it’ll be monthly from now on?” She had cut a piece of bread for herself, and she was taking a bite every now and then. She rose to pour herself a cup of coffee and to refill the men’s glasses.

“Yes,” Quinn said. “Though illness and environment can change that with tigers, that’s the ideal pattern.”

“And ranchers would lose a cow a month? That’s kind of hard for some people, don’t you think?” Joe was picturing the ranchers who came into Home Cookin, men and women who lived on a very narrow financial margin.

“Sometimes the Rev needs to hunt,” Quinn said. “We all do. Sometimes the instinct gets so strong you just have to. But mostly, he buys a cow and stakes it out in the open land just north or just south of town overnight.”

Until he can jump on it and kill it and eat it, Joe thought. He could see that a hunt would be far more satisfying and natural than stalking a bought-and-paid-for domestic animal, furthermore one that was stationary.

He remembered, thousands of years ago, fighting. The feral thrill of finding his opponent, the flash of the bright sword. But memories only brought bitterness, and he was out of the bitterness business. He shoved that cycle of emotion aside to return to Fiji’s kitchen, lit with sunlight and clean surfaces and good smells.

“You’re the father, and I’ve never had a child,” Joe said. “But surely the boy would be better off with you, instead of here. If, as you say, you’re going to retire soon, can’t his education wait until then?”

It was lucky that he’d put the question with so much gentleness. Joe saw that Quinn’s face tightened and so did his shoulders, the signs of an irritated man.

“I’m sure you don’t know this,” said Quinn with equally good manners, “but a young weretiger is prized for his fighting ability. When I was the boy’s age, I was in the pits, obliged to fight and kill, to clear a family debt.” Without warning, he pulled off his T-shirt and rose, turning to show them the scars crisscrossing his back. There were plenty on the front, too.

“Oh,” said Fiji, deeply distressed. “That’s horrible. I’m glad you survived it.”