“And so decadent,” Berg sighed. “I feel like I’m eating evil. Pure, unadulterated evil.”

“But good evil,” Finn added. “The finest evil ever.”

“Come!” Carl, the unabashed history fan and future historical “re-creator” of the lot—an activity Irene had always thought was an incredible waste of time for any human being with a brain—cried out,

“Let us tell the others of this glory and what we have learned here today from the enemy She-wolf!”

“Huzzah!” they all cheered and ran out the kitchen back door.

The female turned to her and said, “Bless their hearts.”

Irene had the distinct feeling that wasn’t necessarily an actual blessing, but she couldn’t prove it and she didn’t want to get into a discussion about religion.

“So you’re in love with our Ulrich?” Irene asked, always one to cut right to the heart of the matter rather than dance around it.

“I reckon.”

“You reckon? Is that . . . some form of agreement?”

“Yep.”

“Where are you from exactly?”

“Tennessee.”

“Well, the Southern states are known for their colloquialisms.” The She-wolf took out more bread and made two more sandwiches, giving one to Irene. She handed it over on a paper towel, turning the sandwich into decadently relaxed dining. Something Irene hadn’t experienced since the eighties when Holtz, her personal nickname for her husband, had made it absolutely clear that peanut butter and crackers—her favorite “work” food—was no longer accepted in his house. It hadn’t stopped her from eating her favorite delicacy, but she often did it when he was out of town on business and there was less chance of her being caught in the act of “betrayal” to his cooking, as he insisted on calling it.

The Van Holtzes took their food very seriously and Irene had come to terms with that. It seemed only fair since Holtz had come to terms with the fact that nine-point-three times out of ten, Irene would insult or completely terrify his friends, Packmates, family members, and business associates. Not on purpose, but still . . .

Irene bit into the sandwich made with average white bread—not sour dough baked fresh that day, but white bread Dee-Ann Smith had brought with her from the nearby 7-11—and relished the taste of generic grape jelly and peanut butter. She ate while Miss Smith found tall water glasses, and took out fresh milk from the refrigerator. She poured them both a glass and joined Irene in eating.

And as Irene neared her last bite, Holtz stepped through the kitchen door, coming to an abrupt halt when he spotted her, his eyes wide.

“What are you eating?” he asked. He made it sound like he’d found her fellating one of his teenage male cousins.

Irene tried to reply around thesticky substance tacked to the roof of her mouth, but it took too long and the enemy She-wolf answered for them both.

“Made a couple of P.B. and J.s for your boys and wife. You want one?”

“Demoness!” Holtz exploded. “Out of my kitchen!”

“Are you trying to sweet talk me?” the female asked and Irene almost choked on her sandwich.

“Ulrich!”

Ulrich rushed into the kitchen. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Look what she’s doing . . . in my kitchen.”

Holtz’s young cousin sighed and shook his head sadly. “Oh, Dee-Ann.”

“What? We were hungry. Ain’t that right, Irene?”

“Starving,” Irene finally managed, enjoying the way her husband’s face turned all red like that.

Of course, that could be due to the words the She-wolf was speaking or the fact that she’d sullied up his kitchen counter with jelly and peanut-butter-covered utensils that she hadn’t wiped up as she’d gone along.

Irene secretly admitted that his clear OCD issues surrounding his kitchen still amused her after all these years.

“And we had no clear idea how long you would be in congress with your cousin,” Irene added.

“Then you come get me, woman! You don’t let this She-wolf feed my young, defenseless pups crap!”

Those strange yellow eyes that Irene simply couldn’t get enough of because they were so fascinatingly strange narrowed a bit. “I’m hearing a nasty tone I’m not a fan of.”

“First you seduce my young, hopeless, pathetic cousin,” Holtz accused.

Ulrich glanced up at the ceiling in confusion. “Wait . . . what?”

“And now you come here to seduce the rest of my family with your unhealthy food products?”

“Good Lord, man, it’s a sandwich not some Satanistic ritual callin’ up dark demons . . . which I wasn’t planning to do until midnight or so.” She glanced at Irene and added, “The witchin’ hour.” Irene laughed and Holtz’s aghast expression had her clearing her throat and honestly admitting,

“I find her amusing. But I’m laughing with you,” she told the She-wolf. “Not at you. That’s rare for me.”

“Out of my kitchen!” Holtz ordered. “Everyone out of my kitchen!” Ulrich went around the kitchen counter and grabbed the She-wolf’s arm, pulling her out of the room. “See everyone at dinner!” he said before the door closed behind him.

“I like her,” Irene told Holtz and when he barked at her in outrage, she did her very best not to let more laughter trickle out. He was—as was she—getting older and she didn’t want him to suffer a stroke from the strain.