Free Feral by Sheri Whitefeather

think we could have hot chocolate or something like that?”
    “I’ve got herb tea.”
    “I want to keep talking, too. I want to know how you became a shapeshifter.”
    “I know. We’ll get to that.”
    He left and went to the master bath. Returning to his human form, he got in the shower and scrubbed clean.
    About five minutes later, he shut off the water. As the steam dissipated, he dried off, slicked his hair back, and slipped on a thick cotton robe.
    Wrapped in the dark, heavy fabric, Noah arrived in the kitchen first, but Jenny soon followed, soft and elegant in the crimson silk.
    “You look the part,” he said.
    “What part is that?”
    “Mistress of the immortal manor.”
    Her hair, slightly damp at the ends, waved softly around her face, and a slight residue of mascara remained on her eyes. “Is that what I am?”
    “For tonight, I guess you are.”
    A second later, she asked, “Just how immortal are you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Are you actually going to live forever?”
    “I haven’t died yet.”
    “How old are you?”
    “A hundred and sixty. Give or take a few.”
    She gaped at him. “I assumed that you became a shapeshifter around the time you opened the club.”
    “You assumed wrong.” He retrieved the tea. As he riffled through the box, he made an uncharacteristic journey back to his youth. “We used to drink sofkee when I was growing up.”
    “What’s that?”
    “A beverage made from corn, hominy, rice, arrowroot, or grits, and boiled down into a hot soup. It was served at every meal. We drank it in between meals, too. My descendants are probably still drinking some form of it.”
    She got bright-eyed. “Can we make some?”
    He should have kept his mouth shut. “Let’s just have tea and forget it.”
    “I’ll bet there’s a modern recipe online we can follow.” She dashed off to get her cell phone, which she’d apparently left in the bathroom with her purse and clothes. She returned and started looking around online. “How about this? It uses rice and cornstarch.”
    “I don’t have any cornstarch.”
    She found another recipe. “This one uses baking soda. Do you have that?”
    Would she keep trying until the right ingredients appeared in his cabinet or until she finagled a trip to an all-night market to get them? “Yes, I’ve got that.”
    Against his better judgment, he agreed to help her with the recipe.
    They brought the water and baking soda to a boil and added the rice.
    “It says to let the rice overcook,” she said. “So the sofkee is the consistency of runny oatmeal.”
    “This isn’t going to be the big cultural experience you’re expecting,” he warned. “You’re going to think it tastes like shit.”
    “I’m having sex with a hundred-and-sixty-year-old shapeshifter who drank it when he was young. I have a right to be curious. Besides, I’m the mistress of the manor, remember? Tonight is my night.”
    “You’re going to wish you opted for the tea.”
    She ignored him and went back to the recipe. “It says that you’re not supposed to add salt, pepper, or other seasonings or it won’t be genuine sofkee.”
    “We used to make another hot drink from boiling tomatoes with summer fruits and sweetening it with sugar.”
    “Really? That sounds good.”
    “Yeah, well, too late. We’ve already got the rice goop going.” He reached for two coffee mugs, and when the sofkee was ready, he ladled it into the hearty containers and handed her one.
    She took a small sip. “It’s nice. Bland. Easy on the stomach.” She went for another sip. “I actually kind of like it.”
    It tasted like home to him, making him too damned aware of what he’d lost.
    “Can we drink this in bed?” she asked.
    He gripped his cup. “I guess.”
    They entered his room, and he removed his robe, got into bed, and draped the sheet across his lap. She got under the sheet, too, but she kept her silky garment on. Both of them sat upright, with pillows propped behind their