In the furnace room, the bits of Hell left off the newly formed personality, sent out invitations.
As the first group of kids climbed the stairs, the wards incised into the threshold with a salad fork…
“Why a salad fork?”
Claire shrugged. “It was the first thing I grabbed.”
…remained dark.
Only two of the four wore anything recognizable as a costume. One of the others had rubbed a bit of dirt on his face although it might not have been intentional. They stood silently holding out pillowcases as Dean offered the bowl.
“Do you want to take a handful or should I do it?” he asked enthusiastically.
After a silent consultation, the largest of the four jerked her head toward the bowl. “You do it. You got bigger hands.”
“Aren’t you guys supposed to say ‘trick or treat’?” Claire wondered as Dean dropped the runed candy into the bags.
A little boy, dressed vaguely like Luke Skywalker, giggled.
“What’s so funny?”
Their spokesman rolled her eyes. “Trick or treat is way uncool.” Clutching their pillowcases, they turned as one, pounded back to the sidewalk, and raced away.
“When I was a kid, I’m sure we worked harder at this,” Claire muttered as she closed the door.
Cross-legged on the countertop, Jacques rematerialized. “When me, I was a kid, we knock over Monsieur Bouchard’s…How do you say, outside house?”
“Outhouse. Privy.”
“Oui. We knock it over, but we do not know Monsieur Bouchard is inside.”
They turned to look at Dean.
He shrugged. “I don’t really notice any difference.”
One princess, one pirate, and four sets of street clothes later, the wards on the threshold blazed red.
Claire opened the door.
The Bogart grinned, showing broken stubs of yellow teeth. “Trick or treat.”
She dropped a handful of unruned candy on its outstretched hand. “Treat.”
“You sure?” It looked disappointed at her choice. “I gots some good tricks me.”
“I’m sure.”
Without bothering to rip off the wrappers, it popped a pair of chocolate bars into its mouth. “Good treat,” it announced after a moment of vigorous masticating and an audible swallow. “Same times next year?”
“No promises.”
The Bogart nodded. “Smart Keeper.” A backward leap took it to the sidewalk where it paused, almost invisible in the increasing dark. “Biggers coming,” it called and vanished.
“That wasn’t a kid in a really good costume, was it?” Dean asked as Claire stepped back and closed the door.
She checked the wards. “No. And on any other night you probably wouldn’t have seen it.”
“What was it, then?”
“Do you remember those sparks off the energy that I told you about the first day I was here?”
He frowned thoughtfully and scratched at the back of his neck. “The ones you see that keep you from driving?”
“Essentially. There are places where the fabric of the universe is practically cheesecloth tonight so a lot of sparks are going to get through. Once through, it seems some of them are being called here. That was a Bogart.”
“Humphrey?”
“I doubt it.”
“Was it dangerous?”
“No.” Dropping down onto the stairs, she stretched her legs out into the lobby. “But it could’ve gotten destructive if I hadn’t bought it off.”
He glanced down at the salad bowl. “With chocolate bars?”
“Why not?”
“Okay. What did it mean by biggers?”
“Bigger than it. More powerful, more dangerous.”
“Will they be coming all night?”
“I don’t know. They might stop coming if we blow out the jack-o’-lantern and turn off the front lights, but they might not.”
“So we should blow out the candle and turn off the lights and see what happens.”
Her eyes narrowed. “No.”
“No?”
“I’m not cowering in the dark.”
“But you didn’t even want to do this.” He was wearing what Claire had begun to recognize as his responsible face. “It was my idea and…”
“So?” She cut him off and stood as Austin announced more children approaching. “Since we’ve started it, we’re going to finish it. And you might as well enjoy it.”
The gypsy and the ghostbuster—although they might’ve been a pirate and a sewer worker, Claire wasn’t entirely sure—looked startled when she opened the door before they knocked.
“How did you know we was coming?” the gypsy/pirate demanded.
Claire nodded toward the window where Austin could be seen silhouetted beside the pumpkin. “The cat told me.”
The ghostbuster/sewer worker snorted. “Did not.”
“My dad says this place is haunted,” the gypsy/pirate announced.
“Your dad’s right.”
“Cool. Can we see the ghost?”
“No.”
They accepted her refusal with the resigned grace of children used to being denied access to the adult world.
“The cat told me?” Austin asked as she closed the door.
“Hey, it’s Halloween.”
“Then you should have shown them the ghost,” Jacques pointed out with a toss of his head.
“Jacques!”
Catching it one-handed, he set it back on his shoulders at a rakish angle. “If you give me flesh, I could not do that.”
Suppressing a shudder, Claire glared at him. “If I gave you flesh right now, I’d smack it.”
His grin broadened. “D’accord.”
“No.”
“Tease.”
The wards blazed red.
“Well…” Claire glanced around at the man, the cat, and the ghost as she reached for the door. “…let’s check out the next contestant.”
A young woman stood on the step. She had short brown hair, brown eyes, and matching Satin Claret lipstick and nail polish.
Claire tapped her own Satin Claret nails impatiently against the doorjamb. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
The young woman shrugged. “Trick or treat?”
Behind her, Claire heard Dean gasp. “Boss. It’s you.”
“Not quite. It’s a Waff, a kind of Co-walker. Technically, it’s a death token.”
“A what?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Folding her arms, Claire looked the Waff in the eye and said in her best primary schoolteacher voice, “You’ve no business being here. Go on, then. Off with you! Scram!”
Looking embarrassed about the entire incident, the Waff slunk down the steps and out of sight.
“Honestly,” Claire sighed as she closed the door. “They used to get chased off by mortals, you’d think they’d know better than to even try against a Keeper.”
“I doubt it had a choice,” Austin pointed out, scratching vigorously behind one ear. “Once it was called, it had to come. Things are going to get a lot worse before they get better.”
“Do you know that, or are you pontificating?”
He licked his nose and refused to answer.
Three sets of street clothes, a couple of Disney characters and a Gwyllion later, Dean headed for the kitchen under the pretext of getting coffee. He was going to get coffee, but that wasn’t his only reason for going to the kitchen.
The Gwyllion had looked rather like one of the city’s more colorful bag ladies and had been mumbling what sounded like directions to the bus station when Claire’d banished it with an iron cross she’d pulled out of her backpack. Without a backpack of his own, Dean opened the bread box for the next best thing.
A fairy bun.
Technically, it was a leftover brown’n’serve from supper, but in a pinch it’d have to do. As an Anglican minister, his granddad had fought a continual battle against the superstitions that rose up in isolated communities and had told him how even in the sixties many of the more traditional men would carry fairy buns into the woods to protect them from being led astray by the small spirits. Dean had never thought to ask what exactly his granddad had meant by small spirits but reasoned that anything that could make it up the steps to the door had to count.