Page 142 of Freed By the Witchbone Knife

The bungalow had never looked more charming.

I’d kept just enough decor outside to make sure it didn’t stand out on the street—a little string of orange fairy lights along the porch rail, a hay bale with a scarecrow propped against it, and a cluster of small pumpkins cascading down the steps. But pride of place went to our two carved pumpkins, glowing side by side in the early evening. Axel’s masterpiece—Basil and Sage rendered in expert relief, their little faces lit from within—sat beside my grinning jack-o-lantern with his cheerful triangle eyes.

I thought mine held its own, for what it was worth.

Next door, the lights were off. Iris’s porch sat dark and unattended beside mine—jack-o-lanterns unlit, no candy bowl, no one home. She was staying with Mona, her grandmother, while everything got sorted out. Bail had been granted. She was getting help, the kind she probably needed long before Ambrose ever walked through The Roost’s door. I didn’t know what would happen at the trial. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to look at her the same way again. What I did know was that I hoped she found her way through it. There was good in her—so much good.

I pushed those thoughts away. Tonight wasn’t for carrying things that were too heavy.

Beside me in the second Adirondack chair sat a man who was, technically, in costume.

Technically.

“You could have at least worn a cape,” I said, adjusting my pointed hat.

“Wolves don’t wear capes.” Axel reached into the candy bowl between us and extracted a mini Snickers, opening it and popping it into his mouth.

“True.” I reached for a little bag of sour gummy worms. “But it would have added a little…something.”

“I think you’ve got the ‘something’ covered.” He gave me a look that had laughter bursting from my chest.

I couldn’t argue. My witch costume was a bit on the nose. Perhaps even a little over the top. I had on a pointed hat, all black dress with purple lace spiders overlaying the fabric, and some gaudy bangles and rings. Striped stockings and Mary Jane’s completed the look. Not to mention the broom propped against my chair.

The only difference between us was, my costume took effort.

His? He’d merely shifted his hands into pointed claws and allowed his forearms to grow a bit of fur. And given the slightly-too-sharp cast of his features, the dark scruff that had crept past stubble into something more, there was no mistaking the werewolf he was going for.

A high-pitched squeal split the night air. A few more joined in. Down the street, children were beginning to step out of houses and cars. Redding’s Main Street was a whole vibe. It was no surprise that the neighborhood association required compulsory participation in Halloween’s trick-or-treating—with the exception of Iris, naturally. It was such a popular location that residents from all over the community drove in just to walk the streets of the historic district. Hence, why it was part of my lease agreement.

Not that I was complaining. This was one of my favorite things about Halloween. I couldn’t wait to see all the cute costumes.

The first trick-or-treaters arrived a few minutes later. A little ghost, a princess, and something that might have been…a dragon? I bit my lower lip in delight, taking in the glitter cardboard wings.

The three children were shepherded up to our porch by a tired-looking father. He gave us a little wave before reminding them to behave. They stopped at the porch steps, bags thrust upward.

“Trick-or-treat!” they chorused.

I stood to distribute candy. Axel stayed seated, watching with an amused expression.

“Cool costume, dude!” the little ghost cried, pointing at Axel.

“Thanks.” Axel’s voice came out considerably more growly than necessary as he waved his clawed hand.

“Woah.” The ghost took a step backward. “Sick!”

I pressed my lips together very hard and said nothing.

Another group of kids followed right after. Batman, a robot, and an infant in a frog onesie. I melted at the sight, putting some extra candy in their basket, since I knew it would probably go to the siblings and parents anyway.

The evening settled into a rhythm after that. Groups of children came and went. Main Street was alive with the sounds of laughter and shouting, rustling costumes, and parents calling after small figures in the dark. Every few minutes, Axel would acknowledge a child’s enthusiasm for his “costume” with the same minimal response—a nod, a grunt, the occasional rumbled word—and every single time, the children thought it was the greatest thing they had ever seen.

I was having the time of my life.

Around seven, Agnes from the pet store appeared at the foot of the porch steps, a plate covered in wax paper in her hands. “For you two,” she said, lifting it. “Frank and I make them every year. Candy apples.”

I took the plate with both hands. “Agnes, you didn’t have to⁠—“

“Of course we did. You two have fun now!”