Chapter 3 #2
Centuries of silence, of being forgotten, of fading in an empty castle only to be summoned by a warlock who didn’t even know what he was.
The absurdity of it was almost funny. Almost.
If it weren’t so desperately sad.
“Perhaps,” he said, raising his hand, “a demonstration.”
Locke watched as three pumpkins materialized in the air.
Appeared out of nothing. Palm-sized, floating, rotating slowly with no strings, no wires, just pumpkins suspended in midair.
This isn’t real. This can’t be real.
Jack-o’-lantern faces carved themselves into the orange flesh. One grinning, one surprised, one sticking its tongue out. They glowed from within, warm golden light that cast dancing shadows across Grandma’s walls.
The tops popped off like lids.
Three tiny figures emerged.
They had wings. Gossamer, translucent wings that caught the light and threw sparkles across the room. Each one wore a miniature pumpkin on their head. They were the size of Locke’s thumb.
And they were flying.
In Grandma’s bedroom.
In reality.
“Finally.” The first one stretched, adjusting its pumpkin-hat. The carved face was scowling. “Do you know how boring it’s been? Two hundred and fifty-nine years of NOTHING.”
It TALKED.
The thing TALKED.
“My lord,” the second one said, smoothing down a tiny vest. Its pumpkin was carved with a dignified expression. “I must say, this is quite the dramatic summoning. Are you certain we’re presenting ourselves appropriately?”
The third one yanked its pumpkin off entirely and tossed it in the air, catching it while doing a backflip. “Boss! BOSS! We’re back! We’re actually BACK! Did you see how we arrived? So much style!”
They swirled around the room, leaving trails of golden sparkles that smelled like the air before a rainstorm. Real scents. Actual scents coming from FLYING FAIRIES.
Locke’s brain was trying very hard to process and failing spectacularly.
“Look at him,” the scowling one said, perching on the bedpost and crossing its tiny arms. “Doesn’t know the first thing about magic. This is who summoned us?”
The one with the wild grin zoomed straight at Locke’s face, stopping inches from his nose. “We’re SO cute though! Hi! I’m Pip! What’s your name? Do you have snacks? Can we stay? This is the BEST summoning ever!”
Too close. It was too close. Locke could see its tiny face, the way its mouth actually MOVED when it talked, the individual segments of its wings.
“Pip, personal space!” The dignified one fluttered over, shooing the enthusiastic one away. “You’re being terribly rude. Apologize to the young warlock immediately.”
“He’s not a warlock,” the scowling one said, examining Locke like he was a disappointing science project. “He’s a baby. Look at him.”
Those aren’t… they can’t be…
Locke’s brain was cataloging details despite the panic. The way the light caught their wings. The perfect tiny details of their carved faces. The way they moved.
This wasn’t CGI or a trick. Wasn’t anything explainable.
“That’s not…” Locke’s voice came out faint, strangled. “Those aren’t…”
Every conversation with Grandma was replaying in his head. Every dismissed explanation, every rolled eye, every time he’d said “sure, Grandma” while thinking she was just eccentric, just superstitious, just OLD.
The crystals aren’t just pretty rocks, sweetheart.
The herbs aren’t just for smell. Each one has a purpose.
The wards keep us safe. The sigils keep us strong.
Magic is in your blood, Locke. You’ll understand when you’re ready.
He’d never been ready. Had never WANTED to be ready. Because being ready meant accepting something impossible.
“Magic.” Lord Mabon’s voice cut through the buzzing in Locke’s head. “Real magic. You summoned me, and by extension, you summoned them.”
Locke stared at the tiny flying creatures. At Lord Mabon with his pumpkin head. At the room that suddenly felt different, alive, humming with something he’d been ignoring his entire life.
The room tilted. Or maybe Locke tilted. Hard to tell.
Everything went dark.
Lord Mabon caught the warlock before he hit the floor, reflexes still sharp despite centuries of disuse. The familiars scattered with indignant squeaks as he gathered the unconscious young man in his arms.
Weight. Warmth. Presence.
The reality of him, the heat radiating through his clothes, the steady rise and fall of his chest after so long with nothing to touch, nothing to hold, it was almost overwhelming.
“Well,” he said. “That could have gone better.”
“You broke him, boss.” Bramble perched on the dresser, arms still crossed in perpetual disapproval.
Pip hovered nearby, genuinely concerned. “Is he okay? Did we do that? We’re very exciting, so that’s understandable.”
“Perhaps a more gradual introduction would have been prudent, my lord,” Russet offered, settling on the nightstand with careful dignity.
Lord Mabon carried the warlock to the bed properly this time, laying him down gently on the patchwork quilt. Locke’s head lolled, his breathing evening out into the slow rhythm of unconsciousness.
He brushed the light hair back from Locke’s forehead. His skin was warm, flushed with color. That autumn scent was even stronger now, like the magic in his blood was settling, recognizing what it had called forth.
In the fading evening light, with the familiars casting golden sparkles around the room, Locke looked young. Vulnerable. Nothing like the powerful summoners Mabon remembered from centuries past, who had known what they were doing, who had called him forth with intention and preparation.
This one had summoned him by accident.
Didn’t even know he had magic.
“What am I going to do with you, little warlock?” he murmured.
“Maybe start with not propositioning him five minutes after kidnapping him?” Bramble suggested.
Mabon glared at the tiny familiar. “I was offering an honor.”
“You were assuming. Big difference.”
“The modern mortal world may have different customs, my lord,” Russet said carefully, adjusting his tiny vest. “Perhaps we should… adapt.”
Adapt. Learn. Change.
After 259 years of stasis, of watching the world change through a scrying pool but never being part of it, Mabon was going to have to figure out how this new world worked.
How mortals thought now. What they believed. What they accepted.
“I like him!” Pip zoomed down to hover near the warlock’s face. “He’s pretty! Can we keep him?”
Locke slept on, unaware of the deity watching over him in his grandmother’s magically saturated bedroom.
Unaware that his accidental summoning had just changed everything.