It wasn’t.

It’s not that I didn’t care for my grandparents. I did. Seeing them age between visits filled me with a sense of terrible tenderness. Somehow that made it seem even more bizarre that I was dating someone whose life span eclipsed theirs six or seven times over. Which, by the way, came up at Christmas dinner. Apparently Mom had mentioned something to Grandma in the kitchen.

“So I hear you’ve got a young man, Daisy,” Grandma said in a chipper tone as she passed me the cabbage. “What’s he like?”

I choked on a bite of ham and shot my mom a look.

She gave me a helpless shrug in reply. “Your grandmother asked if there was anyone special in your life.”

Oh, Stefan was special, all right. “It’s nothing serious,” I said. “Not yet, anyway. We’ve just been on a few dates.”

“Is he a local fellow?” Grandpa asked.

“No,” I said. “He’s not originally from the area.”

“Oh.” He seemed disappointed. “One of those transplants from the east side? Or is he from the Chicago area?”

It made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. Sitting in my grandparents’ dining room over Christmas ham, potatoes, and boiled cabbage, I really, really couldn’t imagine myself explaining that I was involved with a six-hundred-year-old immortal Bohemian knight and former hell-spawn hunter who’d been cast out of heaven and hell for murdering his uncle.

“No,” I murmured. “No, he’s, um, European.”

That didn’t sit well with the grandparents, who expressed immediate concern that Stefan was after a green card, but my mom managed to play the diplomat and reassure them before changing the topic.

By the time Mom and I headed back home the following afternoon, I was more than ready to return to Pemkowet. It had been good to spend a few days away, but a few days was enough to remind me that even with the specter of a lawsuit hanging over the town, Pemkowet was where I belonged.

This was my home, and whatever was coming, I meant to defend it.

Assuming I survived my New Year’s Eve date with Stefan, anyway.

      Thirty-eight

On New Year’s Eve, I had no idea what to expect.

All I had to go on was a cryptic message from Stefan saying that I should come to his condo at nine thirty and plan on a late dinner. So I did, wearing the midnight blue shantung silk cocktail dress that Mom had finally finished for me.

“Daisy.” Stefan greeted me at the door. I was glad I’d gone semiformal. He was wearing a dark suit with an immaculate white dress shirt beneath it, no tie, collar unbuttoned, but crisp French cuffs fastened with ornate cuff links. He helped me out of my coat. “It’s good to see you.”

“You, too.” Hearing music, I peered around him. His condominium was strung with a tasteful array of white Christmas lights and there was a young man playing a cello in the living room. “You decorated. And hired a musician to serenade us?”

“I did,” he confirmed. “And a caterer.”

I caught my breath in a half laugh. “Stefan, you really didn’t need to go to this much trouble.”

His eyes gleamed. “Oh, but I wanted to. Is that not my proper role in such a scenario? To dazzle a young ingénue such as yourself with an ostentatious display of wealth and sophistication?”

I eyed him dubiously. “Oh, my God, what have you been reading?”

Stefan laughed and led me over to the dinner table, where a bottle of champagne was chilling in an ice bucket. “Don’t worry. You make a rather uncooperative ingénue, and I do not think you will be overly dazzled by the lengths to which I have gone.” He poured a glass of champagne and handed it to me. “The young cellist is Dylan Martinez. I made his acquaintance through his mother, Luisa, who is a nurse at Open Hearth.”

“I remember,” I said. “I met her on the Night Hag case.”

“Yes, of course. Dylan is saving money to attend college in the fall on a musical scholarship. I promised to pay him handsomely for tonight’s entertainment and release him in time to attend a party with his friends.” Stefan nodded toward the kitchen, where two women in aprons were working quietly and efficiently. “That’s Maureen Capaldi, and her sister, Meghan, assisting her. Maureen was a regular at the Wheelhouse.”

“I’d heard,” I said, which was basically a polite way of saying I’d heard Maureen Capaldi was a total meth-head, at least before Stefan banished the drug trade among the Outcast.

“Maureen is attempting to start a new business after taking part in a rehabilitation program,” Stefan murmured discreetly. “I’m told she was once a rather promising young chef. I offered her a chance to demonstrate it.” I contemplated Stefan for a moment. “What is it?” He looked uncertainly at me. “Forgive me, but have I somehow offended you with these arrangements?”

“No.” I was touched by his uncertainty. “Quite the opposite. You’re trying to help people whose paths have crossed yours. Tikkun olam, right? Believe me, I like it a lot more than if you’d flown in Yo-Yo Ma and some private chef to impress me.”

“Yo-Yo Ma?” Stefan raised his eyebrows. “I fear you vastly overestimate my resources.”

“It’s possible.” I had no idea what the extent of Stefan’s resources were. “Can we apply your resources to dinner?”

“Of course.” He smiled. “Let us see what Ms. Capaldi is capable of.”