A Wisp of Halloween (Halloween in Oriskany Falls #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Slate Blackwood stood at the edge of the Oriskany Falls town square and stared at all the people.

What a difference a year made. Last Halloween, he and Dash had repaired the damage to the Veil his great-grandmother had caused almost a hundred years ago.

The hum of restless spirits hoping to breach the weakened barrier was gone.

He could enjoy the festival as he did when he was a kid.

Every street was a riot of orange and black. Some people said it was too much, or they were catering to the tourists, but Slate noticed the ‘Halloween haters’ came every year. Multiple days. And they stayed for hours.

For Slate, the decorations were as normal as Christmas wreaths and candy canes. He was eight before he learned Halloween wasn’t a month-long holiday in other places. Twenty years later, he still felt sorry for the rest of the world.

Sure, there had been a time when he was lonely and his holiday spirit had lagged, but it was back in full force.

“If I see one more pumpkin spice advertisement, I might have to stage an intervention.”

And that was why. Dash Reeves.

Dash approached from the coffee shop, carrying two cups and his trademark smirk.

His perfectly tailored Victorian-style clothes matched Slate’s outfit.

The rich burgundy waistcoat complemented Dash’s complexion, and the cut of the jacket emphasized his lean, athletic build in a way that made Slate’s mouth go dry.

“What?” he’d asked when he came downstairs before they left for the festival.

Slate hadn’t answered. He just kissed his boyfriend. It said more than words.

A year ago, Dash had arrived in Oriskany Falls packing a deep-seated dislike of Halloween. He also had an unnatural dislike of pumpkin spice. Slate didn’t get it, but he supposed it was like lima beans. Those, however, were gross. Pumpkin spice was memories.

“Now you know how I feel about hoodies.” He accepted the cup and paid for it with another kiss. That always took the edge off Dash’s grumpy mood.

“If you make me associate pumpkin spice with your kisses, I’ll… I’ll…”

Slate cocked an eyebrow, daring him to admit he might come to like it. “You’ll what?”

“This is so not fair.” Dash’s complaint was hollow. “You’re scrubbing me of all the things that kept me salty.”

Taking a sip, Slate slid his fingers between Dash’s. “I like to see it as increasing the things you like.”

The snarky reply never happened. Dash’s lips, hot cocoa sweet and edged with whipped cream, covered his. The kiss was quick—Dash was still working on his aversion to PDAs—but it was the perfect comeback.

“You’re doing a very good job of that.” Dash smiled. “But pumpkin spice is beyond even your considerable skills.”

Slate wasn’t conceding, but he let it go. “I never said it at the house, but you look stunning.”

“Thanks.” Dash’s expression softened. “But don’t get used to it. These pants are way tighter than they look.”

A laugh burst from Slate’s throat. It was all the joy Dash brought him released in one sound.

“Don’t blame the pants if they’re uncomfortable.

Either you bought the wrong size, or you’ve gained weight—something I can personally attest didn’t happen—or you secretly enjoy torturing me with how hot they make you look. ”

A year ago, Dash would have fought to maintain his hard exterior shell. Now? He accepted the compliment gracefully, and his cheeks flushed from more than the cool air.

“Remember how you dragged me here for the first time?” Dash asked. “I wasn’t sure I’d survive all this Halloween cheer.”

Slate remembered. He’d been beyond thrilled Dash had said yes. “How could I forget? You wore a hoodie and a Cuban hat. I was worried you’d run away from my fashion sense.”

After a long drag of his hot chocolate, Dash held out the last three fingers on his hand. “First, it looked totally hot on you, but I wasn’t interested in the clothes, only the man inside them.”

“That sounds like three rolled into one?”

“Hush, this is my story. Two, you and Liv escorted me around like I was a felon on a day pass and you were my guards.”

So that wasn’t too far off the mark. He had stuck to Dash hoping he wouldn’t run off. “Can you blame me? You’re easily the hottest guy in town.”

“Stop distracting me with lies. Ask anyone in town who’s the hottest guy in Oriskany Falls and they’d say Slate Blackwood.”

Holy pumpkin seeds, they were a sappy pair. “I won’t argue about how wrong you are. What was number three?”

“I was too worried I’d ruined things wearing a hoodie and jeans on our date.”

Slate hadn’t been sure it was a date, but clearly Dash had. “Well, you’ve come to your fashion senses.”

“No, love.” Dash pulled their hands to his lips for a kiss. “I still prefer my hoodies, jeans, and fedora. I wore this for you.”

Not that he needed a reminder of the reasons he loved Dash, but this was one of them. He’d worked snark into something romantic and made it work. “I know. And I love you for it.”

They strolled past the bakery, where Mrs. Finch was arranging a display of cookies shaped like ghosts and bats. She spotted them and waved enthusiastically.

“Oh my, don’t you two look dashing tonight?” She patted her chest as if her heart were beating fast. “You’re like something out of a storybook!”

Dash’s cheeks colored slightly, but he smiled and returned her wave. Dash did like the spotlight focused on him, but as descendants of the town’s two founding families, he and Slate garnered a lot of notoriety.

“Mrs. Finch seems extra cheerful today,” Dash said once they’d cleared her earshot.

The older woman was the town gossip. Staying on her good side didn’t hurt. “She tells everyone she was the first to figure out we were a couple,” Slate said. “She thinks it gives her bragging rights.”

The square buzzed with the energy of the first night of the festival. People shopped, sipped warm drinks, and let their kids dress up and play in the square. Slate and his siblings once tore about the grounds, as his parents socialized. Those were wonderful memories.

So were these new ones.

Dash tensed, rubbed the back of his neck, and glanced right just as a familiar prickle alerted Slate their friends had arrived.

Two translucent figures materialized beside a pumpkin display.

They were a mismatched pair, one in a high school letterman jacket, the other dressed in impeccable Victorian attire.

The taller one, Thomas Keller, pointed at an elaborately carved pumpkin depicting a haunted house.

Oliver Rhodes leaned in with wide-eyed fascination.

Thomas had styled his blond hair back instead of the usual side part, and Oliver had changed his vest to a burgundy one with an embroidered silver pattern. It screamed date night.

“I don’t understand how they carved such intricate details.” Oliver circled, phasing through the display table. “In my time, we simply cut triangle eyes and a jagged mouth.”

“We didn’t have these in my time either,” Thomas explained. “They use special tools now.”

Oliver examined the pumpkin for another few seconds before acknowledging Slate and Dash. “You weren’t lying when you said it was worth visiting the festival.”

“It won me over,” Dash said. “Slate says it was our first date.”

Slate tried not to smile too widely. He and Dash had several spirited debates on whether it counted if neither party thought it was a date. “You don’t have to name it for something to be a date.”

“I agree in general.” Dash had the pained expression he got whenever they revisited old, unresolved topics. “We don’t need to call tonight a date since we live together, but first dates are important.”

For someone who avoided dating and relationships, Dash certainly had strong views on the subject. “They are, but I thought it was a date, so to me, it was our first.”

“At least one of us is a hopeless romantic.” Dash kissed Slate’s cheek. “And I hope you never change.”

“I don’t know, Dash,” Thomas said. “Wearing clothes to match Slate’s is pretty romantic.”

Dash glanced down, but that didn’t hide how his cheeks flushed. “I asked Oliver for help.”

“While I was happy to assist, you didn’t need my advice.” Oliver’s smile reached his eyes. “The burgundy waistcoat was an excellent choice. It is formal without being stiff. Very much what a gentleman would wear for an evening out with someone special.”

Oliver’s eyes darted around as if he’d said something wrong. The action drew more attention than if he hadn’t reacted. Thomas, as usual, was hard to read, but avoided eye contact.

“The apple-bobbing contest starts soon.” Dash’s voice filled what could’ve been an awkward silence. “Shall we go watch normally serious people act like children for no apparent reason?”

It didn’t totally defuse the atmosphere, but Slate wanted to kiss his boyfriend for trying. “The winner gets a trophy and their name on the wall of champions. They’re on the sixth plaque.”

“That sounds interesting,” Oliver said, his eyes darting toward Thomas. “Or did you want to see something else?”

“We can.” Thomas smiled at Oliver, then looked down. “There’s plenty of time to see everything. The festival runs all month.”

Oliver’s face brightened. “Outstanding. I wish to see if this was different in my time.”

“The only thing that’s changed is the people,” Thomas said, leading Oliver toward the people gathering at the far end of the square.

Slate took a big sip of his coffee to delay moving a few seconds. When their spectral friends had moved into the crowd, he shook his head softly. “Are we ever going to tell them?”

“As the former expert on avoiding romantic entanglements, I don’t think it will do any good.

” Dash finished his hot chocolate. “They’re completely oblivious.

Thomas looks at Oliver like he hung the moon, but turns away before Oliver notices.

And Oliver swoons—actually swoons—when Thomas does something nice for him, then gets too shy to speak. It’s painful to watch.”

For someone who claimed to have little experience with romance, Dash sized others up with surprising accuracy. “We need to talk to them, or else they’ll be dancing around each other until we’re ghosts.”

“I know you mean well, but if you embarrass them in front of each other, they will make it worse.” Dash tugged them toward the apple-bobbing competition. “Just because I was okay with you kissing me after all of three days, doesn’t mean everyone is.”

Slate felt warmth creep up his neck. “I kissed you?”

“Yep.” Dash pointed with his cup. “Right over there during the midnight waltz.”

“Yes, we kissed during the waltz. I distinctly remember two sets of lips involved.”

“Of course I was there, but do you really expect people to believe I would be so bold as to kiss Oriskany Falls’ favorite son unless he kissed me first?” He glanced down his nose. “What kind of boy do you take me for, Mister Slate Blackwood?”

Slate belted out a laugh at Dash’s terrible southern belle accent. “The kind who kisses really well and makes me incredibly happy.”

“Flattery only works if you want kisses or sex.” Dash wiggled his eyebrows. “Back to the topic at hand. I suggest a more subtle approach.”

Dash’s “subtle approach” could drag out this courtship twice as long. “Why am I scared?”

“Because you’re worried I’ll be right?”

“Hardly,” Slate said. “I love it when you’re right. Proves you’re more than just a cute face and a hot body.”

It was Dash’s turn to have cheeks so warm, snow melted on contact. “Love you too.”

Slate was pulled forward, and a pair of warm lips covered his. It was short, but its effect was immediate.

“Oh, my God,” Dash groaned. “New rule. No kissing when I’m wearing these too-tight pants.”

Slate had the same problem, minus the tight pants. “You realize I’m never going to honor that rule, right?”

“We need to focus on the problem,” Dash said. He altered his gait, twisted, and finally gave up and adjusted himself. “Back to my idea. Have them work together on a project—forced proximity and all that tropey stuff—and then we give them a small nudge.”

Slate had to admit the idea didn’t suck. In fact, it was every bit as good as promised, and more. “I like it. And since it’s your idea, come up with the project.”

Before Dash answered, he stiffened, stopped walking, and looked around. Slate didn’t miss how Dash’s hand rubbed the back of his neck. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s another spirit in the area.” Dash kept scanning the area. “Its presence is powerful, and it’s watching us. Before you ask, it’s not Thomas and Oliver.”

Slate followed Dash’s gaze but saw nothing unusual among the throng of people. “A new spirit?”

“Probably.” Dash shrugged. “It’s similar to Thomas and Oliver, yet different. More energetic.”

A vendor called out, distracting Slate for a moment. When he looked at Dash, he was still frowning.

“It’s probably nothing,” Dash said.

Which meant it was something, but Dash didn’t know what. “If you feel it again, try to locate it.”

The vendor who sold caramel apples had set up his booth at the edge of the Commons. Dash’s expression brightened, and Slate knew the moment his boyfriend spotted the booth.

“Okay, I’ll admit some autumn treats are worth the hype,” he said, already changing direction toward the food stand.

Slate followed, amused by how quickly Dash’s sweet tooth overrode his suspicions. Whatever Dash had sensed would have to wait. Dash hated pumpkin spice, but he loved caramel apples. Slate was the lucky winner. He liked them both.