Chapter 1 #2
“Seriously,” I laugh, pushing open the front door. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with the two of you.
Maybe I’ll just let them squabble until they both dissolve into puddles of sarcasm and glucose.
The idea isn’t without its charm.
The crisp autumn air carries the scent of fallen leaves and distant woodsmoke as we step into our sprawling pumpkin patch. The morning fog still clings to the ground in wispy tendrils, curling around our ankles like affectionate cats.
"We should have about fifty more ripening today," I say, crouching beside a promising vine. "If I can coax them along."
Jasper nods, surveying the field with eyes that see more than mine ever could. His werewolf heritage gives him vision that can detect the subtlest shifts in color, the earliest signs of disease or perfect ripeness.
"The ones on the western edge need your touch," he says, pointing to a distant corner of the patch. "They're struggling with the shade from the oak trees."
I roll up my sleeves, feeling the familiar tingle in my fingertips as I summon my magic. "Let's start there, then. The fence line can wait."
We walk between the neat rows, Whiskers scampering ahead, occasionally diving beneath the broad leaves with excited squeaks. The western edge looks anemic compared to the rest of the patch. The pumpkins are much smaller, their color more yellow than orange.
"Poor babies," I murmur, kneeling in the soft earth. I place my hands on the nearest vine, to better feel the life pulsing within the plant. "You just need a little encouragement."
I send my magic through my palms, gold sparks trailing from my fingers and along the vines like electric current.
The plants respond immediately, quivering as if in delight.
The vines thicken, strengthening their grip on the soil.
Leaves unfurl, reaching toward the sunlight with renewed vigor.
The pumpkins themselves swell visibly, their skin deepening from pale yellow to rich, burnt orange.
"That's my girl," Jasper murmurs behind me, his voice filled with quiet pride.
My heart does cartwheels.
I stand, brushing the dirt from my knees as I admire my handiwork before continuing down the row.
As we walk, I trail my fingers over the plants, whispering encouragement as I brush by.
The third row yields to my touch, twenty pumpkins swelling from sickly yellow to deep burnt orange beneath my fingertips, their vines strengthening as they drink in my magic.
Jasper occasionally carries off the largest pumpkins four or five at a time, his biceps straining against his sleeves with a sound like fabric protesting for its life. He hums under his breath, sometimes a low wolfish growl, sometimes a silly tune from a cartoon neither of us will admit to loving.
We are almost done when he taps his foot on a massive specimen. "This one," he says, "is going to be our centerpiece for the display at the town square."
I examine the pumpkin, admiring its symmetry and deep color. "Perfect choice. I can already see it carved with the town's founding crest."
Whiskers darts between us, zigzagging through the patch with boundless energy, halting in front of the champion squash and, in a very deliberate show, stretches onto his haunches and pats the thing like a prize-winning spaniel.
“I suggest you name her Bernadette,” he declares.
“She has strong opinions and a lovely complexion.”
Jasper snorts. "We're not naming our vegetables, furball."
"Why not?" I ask, surprising myself. "I think Bernadette is a lovely name for such a distinguished pumpkin."
"You're both ridiculous," Jasper says, but his smile betrays his fondness for our antics.
The last sickly vine perks up under my touch, and I brush dirt from my hands with satisfaction.
Carving pumpkins dot our patch like plump orange sentinels, ready for tomorrow's festivities.
I wander to the fence line where my army awaits—dozens of miniature jack-o'-lanterns lined up in neat rows, each no bigger than an apple.
Their carved faces peer up at me with vacant triangle eyes and expressions ranging from gap-toothed grins to menacing snarls, all waiting for the spark of magic that will bring them to life.
I inhale deeply, arms outstretched toward the miniature gourds.
Heat blooms beneath my breastbone, spreading outward until my fingertips tingle and spark.
Gossamer strands of amber light unspool from my hands, threading between the tiny pumpkins with the delicate precision of a drunken spider.
The tiny pumpkins twitch to life one after another, their carved faces seeming to gasp as they lift themselves inches off the ground, bobbing like apples in invisible water as they arrange themselves into formation.
"Go on, little ones," I whisper. With a final gesture, I send my tiny jack-o'-lantern army floating along the fence line, their carved faces glowing with inner amber light.
They hover and bob, performing a choreographed dance as they take their positions, spaced perfectly every few feet along our property's perimeter.
Not far from me, Jasper exhales frosty breath against his palms before pressing them to empty air.
Ice crystallizes at his touch, spiders materializing between his fingers, their delicate legs stretching into webs that bridge the fence posts.
Jasper's frost sprite abilities never cease to amaze me; the way he can pull ice from nothing, shape it with the same delicacy I might use to arrange flowers.
Our magic flows in tandem, the quiet between us broken only by Whiskers' occasional squeaks of approval or theatrical sighs of boredom, until a sharp whistle cuts through the morning air, making all three of us freeze.
Mrs. Henderson from the neighboring farm stands at our gate, waving frantically. Her usually pristine silver hair is disheveled, and even from this distance, I can see the worry etched on her face.
"Delia!" she calls, her voice thin with distress. "Jasper! Did you hear?"
I exchange a glance with Jasper, his expression mirroring my concern.
Mrs. Henderson isn't one for dramatics. Once, the woman had calmly informed us that her prize rooster had been decapitated by a fox while she was hanging laundry, as if discussing the weather.
"Hear what? What's wrong, Mrs. Henderson?" I call back, already hurrying toward the gate with Jasper close behind me.
The older woman stumbles through our gate, her cardigan buttoned askew. “It’s Dan!” she says, clutching at her throat, her eyes wide with terror. "He's dead, Delia. Dan Wolfpert is dead. Sheriff’s office just announced it on the morning news."
My lungs seize mid-breath, and the magic that had been dancing at my fingertips vanishes like steam. I feel myself go hollow, as if someone has reached inside and scooped out everything warm, replacing it with carbonated dread that bubbles from my crown to the soles of my feet.
I can’t believe it.
Jasper’s arms are suddenly around me, steady, and I lean into him because that’s the only thing that’s keeping me upright.
Dan Wolfpert is—was—the sweetest guy in town, always first to donate blood for the hospital raffle, the kind who returns shopping carts when no one’s looking. I can’t believe he’s dead.
“Did they say what happened?” Jasper asks, voice low and taut.
Mrs. Henderson swallows, her mouth working as if she’s chewing cud, then spits out, “They say it’s being investigated as a homicide, and that there will be a meeting this evening at town hall to address the recent murders.”
Jasper's arms stiffen around me, his body language transforming from comforting husband to vigilant protector in an instant, like the hybrid frost alpha warlock is catching the first scent of danger on the wind. Whiskers goes uncharacteristically silent; his little head tucked beneath my hair as if even the world’s sassiest familiar knows when to lay low.
I want to say something reassuring, something wise and calm, but my tongue stumbles somewhere behind my teeth.
Three deaths in two weeks.
What on earth is happening in Pennington Falls?
Weird things happen all the time in our sleepy little town—runaway garden gnomes, the occasional levitating teapot, the occasional poltergeist infestation, minor property damage from a rogue werewolf pup, but murder isn’t usually one of them.
I give Mrs. Henderson’s hand a reassuring squeeze, “Thank you for telling us. I know how hard this must be for you.”
Her eyes glisten like wet marbles, rimmed in crimson. I remember how Dan used to mow her lawn every Sunday after her husband passed, refusing payment except for a slice of her famous rhubarb pie.
“I’m fine,” Mrs. Henderson says, lying so hard her dentures probably ache. She dabs at her face with a wadded handkerchief and squares up, “Just…be careful, all right? Both of you.”
“You be safe too, Mrs. Henderson. And you call us if you need anything at all.” Jasper says.
“Will do, “she nods, her lips pressed into a tight smile. “Will I be seeing you two at the meeting tonight?”
“Absolutely.” I assure her.
“Well, my daughter is on her way, so I best get going.”
Jasper takes a step forward, releasing me from his grip. “Let me walk you back to your house.” He insists.
“You’ve got your own wife and farm to look after,” Mrs. Henderson says, waving off Jasper with a hand that’s steadier than her voice.
“I made it here, didn’t I?” She gives one last weak smile and a little wave, then pivots on one orthopedic sneaker and begins her march back home, disappearing back into the morning mist.
After Mrs. Henderson disappears, neither of us speaks. The enchantment that had danced through our pumpkin patch moments ago now feels distant, like a half-remembered dream. In its place, a cold weight settles at the base of my neck, sending tendrils of dread down my spine with each breath.
Something dark has come to our town, and I can feel it like a splinter beneath my skin. Tonight, at the town hall meeting, we'll discover just how deep this darkness runs—but for now, our little jack-o'-lantern army stands guard, their amber eyes watching, waiting for whatever comes next.