Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Locke had mostly convinced himself this was an elaborate prank by the time they reached his grandma’s shop Moonlit Mysteries.
It had to be. Small town, someone who knew where he lived, Rowan’s weird sense of humor, it all added up. Sure, the guy was taking it really far with the silence and the pumpkin mask and the whole carrying-him-through-town thing, but theater people were committed to their bits.
Tommy had once stayed in character as a tree for six hours during a experimental production of Midsummer Night’s Dream. This was just... method acting. Extreme method acting.
Besides, Locke knew these streets. Had walked them his whole childhood before his parents dragged him to Portland. Mrs. Patterson waving from her porch. The Collins’s dog barking from behind their fence. The smell of someone’s backyard firepit mixing with fallen leaves.
Home. This was home, even if it felt smaller than he remembered.
And now they were at Grandma’s shop, and any second Rowan would jump out laughing and the pumpkin guy would take off his mask and it would be someone Locke vaguely remembered from middle school and they’d all go get coffee and laugh about it.
Any second now.
Then the guy pushed open the door to the shop and stepped inside like he owned the place.
Locke’s relief evaporated.
The shop was dark. Closed. Grandma was on a cruise and Locke had closed early for rehearsal.
And there was no Rowan popping out to laugh at him.
The pumpkin-headed man just kept walking. Through the shop, past the counter where Grandma kept her vintage register and her hand-written price tags, heading for the stairs that led up to the upstairs apartment.
Locke’s heart started pounding properly now, not the nervous flutter from before but actual fear. This was a stranger. In his house. And Locke had just let himself be carried here because he’d assumed it was all a freaking joke.
Pumpkin the cat, sprawled on the couch in a shaft of fading sunlight, looked up. Blinked once. Went back to sleep with zero fucks given.
“Traitor!” Locke called to the cat, his voice pitching higher. “No more extra treats for you!”
Up the stairs. The familiar creak of the third step from the top floor where the bedrooms were. The apartment smelled like Grandma’s incense and the lavender sachets she put in every drawer. The man moved with purpose, like he knew exactly where he was going.
Which was impossible unless he’d been here before.
But Locke had been back for three weeks. He would have remembered someone this tall and dramatic living in this town.
The man pushed open the door to his grandma’s bedroom.
The room practically hummed. That’s the only word for it.
Hummed. Something alive and breathing beneath the floorboards and in the walls.
Locke had felt it before, had always felt it when he visited as a kid, but he’d dismissed it as a wild imagination.
Old house creaks and have drafts. Not to mention his grandmother was a damn good storyteller.
Now, in the fading evening light, the room looked different.
Crystals lined the windowsill, catching the last of the sunset and throwing rainbow fractals across the walls.
Herbs hung drying from nails, their shadows long and strange.
The patchwork quilt on the bed seemed to shimmer, every stitch containing some intention or another that Grandma had tried to explain but Locke had never quite understood.
Had never WANTED to understand, if he was honest. Because understanding would mean accepting, and accepting would mean his entire worldview would have to shift.
And he wasn’t ready for that, at least not when all he wanted to do was run away from his stupid cheating ex and cry into his pillow at night and stuff his face with ice cream.
The man finally set him down on the bed.
Locke scrambled to his ass immediately, backing up until he hit the headboard. His hands pressed against the wood. “This is going too far!”
His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. Rowan wasn’t here. This wasn’t a prank. This was a stranger in his house, in his grandmother’s bedroom!
The man stood there, taking in the room. His carved pumpkin face…how did the expressions change? How was that possible?
The face was unreadable but somehow conveyed interest. Appreciation, even. Like he was seeing something Locke couldn’t.
Locke forced his voice steady, channeling every ounce of fake confidence he could muster. “Rowan isn’t here is he? Who are you? Like, actually?”
The man turned to face him fully. Even with the pumpkin head, he was imposing. Six-five at least, broad-shouldered, and something about his posture screamed authority. Royalty, almost. Like he expected to be obeyed.
“I am Lord Mabon,” he said, his voice resonant and formal. “King of the Equinox, Guardian of the Harvest, Master of Autumn.”
Locke blinked. That almost sounded like it came from the script but it sounded like someone stating facts.
“That’s… a lot of titles.”
“They are earned.”
Of course they are. Of course.
“Okay, Lord Mabon, King of…all that stuff. I’m Locke.
Just Locke. One name. Very simple.” He managed a slight smile despite his confusion, despite his racing heart, despite the fact that he was pretty sure he was having a breakdown.
“Now that we’ve been introduced, maybe you can explain what’s happening?
Because I’m still pretty sure this is Rowan messing with me, but not even he would let it go this far. ”
Lord Mabon. What kind of name was that? Who was this guy?
The man studied him with that unreadable carved face. “You summoned me.”
“I was reading lines from a script. For a play. A fake play.”
“The words were real. Your magic called to me across the veil.”
There it was. Magic. He kept saying magic like it was real, like it was just a fact of the world.
Locke laughed, but it came out nervous and too high. “My magic. Right. Because I’m secretly a wizard.”
“Warlock.”
Oh good. Specificity. That helps.
Lord Mabon began untying the clasps of his robe.
Locke’s brain short-circuited. “Whoa! Hey! What are you doing?”
Mabon paused, genuinely confused by the panic in the warlock’s voice.
What was wrong? This was appropriate. Expected.
“I don’t know what happened earlier and I don’t care. You summoned me. This is how the celebrations begin. We can include the others later.”
He looked around the room again, taking in the layers of magic saturating every surface. Protective wards woven into the quilt stitches. Blessing sigils carved into the window frame. Decades of intentional work, done by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
The song of this room was beautiful. Complex. A master’s work.
And this warlock was attractive. Lean build, warm eyes, that spattering of freckles across his nose.
Young and confused but undeniably appealing.
Centuries of solitude, of touching nothing but fading walls and empty halls, of slowly becoming translucent around the edges, having someone solid and warm and present in front of him felt like waking from a long sleep.
This was how it was done. Sacred space, willing summoner, the beginning of proper celebrations.
He would let this warlock taste his body.
The rest of the town would follow once they remembered.
Once he reminded them. But first, this. The joining of deity and summoner, the start of harvest festivals that would carry through the season.
He didn’t always fuck his summoner but he didn’t always have such a pretty one sitting in front of him.
Why was the warlock looking at him like that?
“NOPE.” Locke held up his hands, pressing back against the headboard. “No no no. All the nope. We are NOT doing that. Stop! Why would you think…I don’t even know you!”
Mabon lowered his hands, studying the young man with new interest. The fear was genuine. So was the confusion.
“You summoned me. I am offering you an honor mortals used to pray for.”
Centuries ago, summoners would have been overjoyed. Honored. It was a gift, to be chosen by a deity for the opening rites. A blessing that would carry through the harvest season.
Why was he refusing?
Unless…
“You truly don’t know what you’ve done.”
“I read some lines from…”
Locke stopped. Something shifted in his expression. His eyes flicked to the nightstand, to the book sitting there, and he went still.
Like a memory was surfacing, unwelcome and undeniable.
The book. Grandma’s book. The one she’d told him never to read from out loud. The one she’d said contained “real workings” in a tone that Locke had dismissed as superstitious nonsense because magic wasn’t REAL, couldn’t be real, and Grandma was just eccentric and into weird spiritual stuff.
The book he’d used to grab the incantation from that would summon the harvest god when Jimmy had a hard time coming up with an the right words for the scene.
Oh no.
Oh no oh no oh no.
“Those words were a summoning,” Mabon said, stepping closer. “Real magic. And you carry magic in your blood. Untapped, untrained, but powerful, you smell divine.”
Locke backed up until he couldn’t back up anymore, pressed against the headboard. “Okay, the smelling thing is creepy….”
Was it? Mabon didn’t remember that being a problem before. Then again, that was centuries ago. Perhaps mortal customs had changed. He’d have to adapt. Learn what was acceptable now.
He gestured around the room, trying to explain. “This room is saturated with magic. Old magic. Protective wards, blessing sigils. Someone powerful created this space.”
“My grandma.” Locke’s voice went defensive, protective. “It’s my grandma’s room. She’s into… witchy stuff. Crystals and herbs and—it’s a vibe. Doesn’t mean it’s real.”
Ah. So the older magic belonged to his grandmother. The song he’d been following, the beautiful melody woven into this space was hers.
Not all knowledge had been lost. Someone still remembered.
The thought made him feel at ease, just slightly.