Page 61 of Something Handsome This Way Comes

A mate.

A talking spider who had appointed himself familiar. And now, apparently, a baby ice dragon named Esmerelda. Milo reached down and scratched gently behind her ears. She rumbled sleepily and leaned into his hand.

Yeah. I could get used to this.

CHAPTER EIGHT

grievance

The spirit of the Pumpkin Festival arrived long before the sun dared show its face. It came on a breeze of spices and mischief, whispering of the wicked things in the night. A promise that after this final sun went down, all the devils and demons would come out to play and howl to the moonlight.

That is what made the Pumpkin Festival so… perfect.

Grievance woke to darkness, warmth, and Milo’s cold feet shoved between his calves. He opened one eye. His mate was still asleep, curled toward him beneath the blankets, copper-brown curls sticking out in every possible direction. One hand rested against Grievance’s chest. His mouth hung slightly open.

Grievance smiled.

My perfect, beautiful mate.

Then Milo’s toes shifted, pressing higher up his thigh, which was about as pleasant as ice cubes on hearth-warmed skin.

“Lanterns, you are freezing,” Grievance said, trying to wiggle away.

“Mmm.”

“Are you even alive?”

“Mmm.”

Grievance reached beneath the blankets and wrapped a hand around Milo’s foot.

“Don’t just grab it!” Milo tried to yank it away.

“How else am I going to work some life back into them? At this rate we’ll have to amputate.”

“You’re—a—menace—” Milo said, punctuating each word by hitting Grievance with a pillow.

Grievance laughed, caught his wrist, and dragged his mate closer until Milo grumbled and buried his face against his chest.

“Good morning, my love,” Grievance said, kissing the top of the witch’s head.

“Mrnin,” Milo replied with an indignant muffle from between Grievance’s pecs.

It was a good way to begin Pumpkin Festival.

Unfortunately, they had work to do.

By the time they left the cottage, dawn had painted the horizon a pale lavender. Milo carried a wooden crate tucked against his hip, packed with the last of their popping crystals for the Wicked Whisk. The tiny orange crystals snapped and crackled inside their glass jars whenever the crate jostled.

They were one of Milo’s seasonal bestsellers. And, according to Rowen, the secret behind his wildly popular Pumpkin Pop Toffees.

Grievance had eaten exactly one.

The toffee itself was delicious. The problem came thirty seconds later when he’d hiccupped, and a flock of tiny glowing bats flew out of his mouth. They had circled his head three times before exploding into orange sparks.

Milo had laughed so hard he nearly choked. Grievance had not been amused.

They were halfway down Elderberry Lane when someone came barreling toward them. Not quite running; it looked more like a struggle against gravity as she hiked up the steep hill on very short legs.