Page 68 of Something Handsome This Way Comes

“C’mon, you know we have to show.”

Grievance stumbled back a step. “Cruel.”

“We have to at least make an appearance.” Milo straightened his clothes where Grievance had already begun rumpling them. “Besides, I want to see the festival. Don’t you?”

Grievance did.

He wanted to see the lanterns glowing along Main Street. He wanted the music and cider and fireworks. He wanted to watch Milo laugh with their friends and complain about whatever ridiculous disaster Rowen inevitably caused before midnight.

But not nearly as much as he wanted to see his mate naked and writhing beneath him and⁠—

“Hurry up, let’s go.”

Grievance blinked. Milo was already halfway to the door. He sighed and followed.

The sacrifices he made for this town.

They tucked Marigold into her straw bed before leaving. “Goodnight, my girl.” Milo kissed between her horns. “No parties.” Marigold bleated.

Pip received strict instructions not to destroy anything else. Esmerelda received even stricter instructions. Grievance waited until Milo turned away before slipping the dragon an extra piece of turkey. Esmerelda swallowed it whole.

“Do not tell your father.”

“Grievance.”

He froze. Milo stood in the doorway with his arms crossed.

“She looked hungry.”

“She had dinner.”

“She is a growing girl.”

“You’re spoiling her.”

Grievance gave Esmerelda another piece.

Milo groaned. “You are impossible.”

“So I have been told.”

Night had swallowed Pumpkin Hollow completely by the time they reached town. There were no stars. No moon. Only thousands of jack-o’-lanterns burning against the darkness.

They floated above rooftops and crowded windowsills. They grinned from fence posts and hovered between crooked buildings, their orange light spilling across cobblestones thick with autumn mist.

Shadows stretched impossibly long. Some moved when nobody did. Laughter carried on the wind, as did the music.

And Lanterns—the smell of it all.

Burnt sugar. Woodsmoke. Pumpkin pastries. Someone was roasting chestnuts. Someone else was absolutely violating several local ordinances with caramel.

And of course, the MythFolk, who emitted so much joy that it permeated the air. Grievance breathed deeply. He could have gotten drunk on its scent alone.

Instead, he got cider for both of them, and they sipped as they wandered. Letting their feet walk without purpose, shoulders brushing, fingers intertwined whenever their cups allowed it.

They watched children race enchanted broomsticks around the square, sparks bursting from their tails whenever they overtook another rider. They stopped for the annual pumpkin regatta, where miniature carved pumpkins sprouted tiny legs and sprinted madly through an obstacle course while their owners screamed encouragement.

One pumpkin cheated by tripping the others. Grievance respected it.