“It’s a toss-up,” said Zed, noting that one of Bael’s younger relatives had shown up, a rarity on the Mystic Bayou social scene. Ben, the son of one of Bael’s more likeable cousins, was still debating whether to leave for college in the fall, a dilemma often faced by Mystic Bayou’s youth—whether to stay in the protective bubble in a community that accepted their unique nature, or to explore the wider world. The main difference was that Ben’s parents could afford tuition, so Ben’s explorations could take him much further afield.

Bael’s less likable relation, Balfour Boone, had skipped out entirely, instead of his usual habit of inserting his company where it wasn’t wanted. But that probably had something to do with the fact that Jillian was in attendance, and the last time Balfour had gotten mouthy with her, she’d attempted to Tase him in the junk.

Zed spotted another unexpected face manning the rack of boudin smoking over burning applewood. Ash Webster, one of Earl Webster’s boys, had been out of town for the last year, training as a federal Fish and Wildlife officer. Baldric Boone had pulled several strings to get Ash assigned to the district that included Mystic Bayou. It would come in handy when the town was trying to explain some of the odder creature sightings to the drole world.

Clarissa had been careful to arrange the picnic tables in one long continuous row. It was a pointed gesture to remind the League employees that they were all one big community. That they had to work together to accomplish the League’s goals. His maman was the master of unsubtle social engineering.

Normally, maman would have made her famous honey-pecan cake for a fancy dinner, but this was Mystic Bayou, and when more than ten people gathered here, pie was required. Dani dragged Zed toward the pie table, three times Siobhan’s normal pastry display, and he was happy to let her lead him. Her touch was warm against his skin, but not unpleasant, like a low electric hum that skimmed up and down his arm. He wondered if that was part of her gift, or just his response to her.

Siobhan, a squat, cranky brownie who as far as he knew, had no last name, stood guard over her pies like a watch-dog. She did not appreciate little cubs who tried to sneak sweets before dinner, particularly her sweets. She scowled a little as Dani and Zed approached. “No use, Mr. Mayor, your mama made me agree. No dessert until you ate at least one helping of real food. I will not be sweet-talked.”