by Amanda Milo
Just about every weekend, she’s been staying at the Pack dens to socialize with other werewolves and to practice being a wolf in her four-pawed form. Charlotte goes along with her faithfully, when she can. And when she has visitation with her dad and can’t, Susan joins Ginny.
It’s a crisp Saturday morning, and all of Susan’s household are at the Pack dens because not only do the girls not have visitation, today is a special day among the Pack: it’s Howl-o-ween.
Yes, three of the women I live with groaned when I announced the upcoming Pack holiday. But like I told them—I can’t take credit for this incredible pun.
“Incredibly bad,” Charlotte had complained.
Susan had winced for me. “I’m sorry, Deek, but it wasn’t good.”
Ginny, torn between her human family and the werewolf tradition she’s heard so much about, would say nothing and stayed mum.
“I like it,” Maggie claimed loyally.
It’s sad that none of them but Maggie has any taste.
“What do werewolves do for this ‘Howl-o-ween...?’” Susan and Charlotte had asked dubiously.
Today is the day they find out. We spill out of the car, Susan having parked us in the Half Moon House’s garage, where she’s been parking every time the family intends to stay the night at the Pack dens.
It’s going to be a sunny day, but so far the sunlight is barely burning off the chilly dew that’s painting the rolling hills a crystalized green. Dark kidney-shaped spots in the grass are shoeprints, dogged by circular pawprints that lead us past every house: Half Moon, Night Howl, London, Lángrén, Vlkolak. In the distance, you can just see the shapes of others, like Ōkami with its distinct roof.
“Where are we going?” murmurs Charlotte.
“To the field at the end of Pack territory,” I tell them, and it’s the sound of the smile in my voice that lets me know I’m grinning. I’ve always liked the Howl-o-ween games, but there’s even more thrill in sharing a day like this with Susan and her family. It makes everything… brighter. New. Fun. “Wait til you see it!”
“It’s really cute to watch him geek out like this,” I hear Susan whisper, making me silently bark a chuckle.
She’s wearing a bag slung over her shoulder that could double as a suitcase, but she insisted this morning that it’s a purse. Not that my opinion was solicited but to me it seems like it’s more of a pharmacy, lunch buffet, and bank. I feel bad that she has to haul the thing, but although I offered to carry it for her—I referred to it as a purse for her benefit, just to be polite—she declined, saying she's used to the weight.
And she wonders why her back hurts.
Our shoes get soaked in the dew, but the girls don’t complain. They’re almost as keyed up as I feel—and my system is humming. When we finally reach the field, I feel like howling. Normally, I would, and half the pack would sing back in answer.
I restrain myself though, not wanting to startle my pack of humans.
Maggie, who loves long walks, is just starting to ask if she can be carried or somehow driven by vehicle to our destination—when she stops speaking, because we’ve crested a hill, and she sees what we’ve come for spread before her.
Games, food tables, and for almost as far as the eye can see, there are rows and rows of twelve-foot-high corn stalks.
“It’s a giant corn maze,” Charlotte breathes. “Whoa.”
Ginny flashes her a delighted grin. “They told me about it last weekend. It’s been killing me to keep it a secret.”
“Do we get ice cream?” Maggie asks.
Charlotte slaps herself in the face. “WHY?”
Susan tilts her head to the side, regarding her youngest. “What are you going to do when it’s January and it’s freezing outside?”
Maggie looks up at the rest of us and shrugs. “Wear a sweater and eat ice cream.”
Ginny is shaking her head. “Do you think she was switched at birth? Maybe she’s from an Inuit family who eats nothing but seal blubber and Haagen-Dazs.”
Whooping with laughter, I swoop Maggie up and raise her to sit on my shoulders. “Or maybe you’re Pack. We don’t let a little cold keep us from ice cream. Come on,” I tell them. Let’s check in.”
I lead them over to tables set up near the corn maze. “Hey, Jenn,” I greet the first table, a spark of satisfaction flaring inside me when Jennifer calls out a cheery, “Hiya Deek and Deek’s family!”
My family.
“Where’s the entrance to the maze?” Charlotte whispers, watching as other families begin to arrive, everyone assembling in excited clusters fanning out along the length of the field.
“Deek will show you in just a sec,” Jenn answers, handing me and Ginny each a bucket and an adjustable collar. The collars have big paper tags affixed to them, numbered and in different colors so that onlookers can easily identify the wolf players in each game.
She waves at us to move to the next table. “See Mason and Candice to get your apples.”
Mason and Candice are two of our high wolves, our resident Tíódéls. Ginny, Charlotte, Maggie, and Susan have had the pleasure of meeting them several times, and they’ve been made to feel warmly accepted. As they should be—my humans are amazing.
“Have fun today, Ginny!” Candice encourages, beaming over at her as she passes a sparkly sticker up to Maggie.
She accepts it, thrilled. So does Charlotte, when she’s offered one.
Susan takes one to be polite, and Ginny smiles awkwardly then shoots me a glance. (No sticker for her, or me, since we’ll be Changing soon.)
“What is it?” I ask, my gaze on her shoulder. Hands wrapped securely around Maggie’s little shins, I lean sideways a little, inviting her to tell me whatever’s on her mind.
But Ginny shakes her head, smiling in bewilderment. “I just can’t believe how excited I feel about this.”
I wave to the other werewolves gathering nearby. “You’re bound to feel keyed up. You’re catching a thrill from everybody. But,” I add, meeting her eyes for a beat, smiling broadly. “This really is great fun. Once you start, you won’t have any reservations left in you.”
“What is everyone excited about? What are you going to do, Gin?” Charlotte asks her, accepting the apple that Mason hands her. “Thanks.”
Ginny sucks in a big breath, and on an exhale admits, “Catch mice.”
“You’re what?” Susan asks, almost dropping her own apple. Candice keeps it from falling though, grinning as she passes it back into her hands.
Ginny hunches and shudders. “I know. It sounds gross.”
Susan’s wide eyes swing to me. “You’re doing what?”
I take an apple for Maggie. “Hunting mice.”
“Sticks and wax paper at the next table,” Mason informs us. “Y'all scoot.”
We move forward so the next group behind us can get their apples.
“Why are we getting apples?” Charlotte asks. “And why don’t you have one, Ginny?”
Ginny points to me. “Deek didn’t get one for himself either.”
“You can get one if you want,” I tell her. “But I like to run on an empty stomach.”
“You’re going to be running after… mice?” Susan says faintly, holding her apple aloft with dismay-weakened fingers as we stop at a washing station. We quickly remove the wax sheen from our fruit so that the upcoming caramel coating will cling.
It’s Charlotte who defends the mousing practice. “Wolves and canines of all kinds eat mice in the wild. It’s not so weird. Plus, the most common species of mice in North America aren’t native and do a lot of damage…”
She and Ginny begin to go brainiac on us about rodents until I feel it’s our duty to chase down these pests. Which I felt anyway, but their arguments would have swayed me if I’d been on the fence about the hunt. Susan, it’s a relief to note, laughs and says, “Okay, okay, I get it, this is a good thing!”
We shuffle to the next table where an aging concession stand is plugged into the only electrical
service around. “Hey, Deek’s family! Are you ready for the fun part?” Gail calls.
My chest is thrumming with pleasure. “We are.”
With Maggie on my shoulders, I walk up to the window, and although I’m not a tall man, she’s able to see inside the candy making stand, to the vats of sugar in various colors.
“Want to make a galaxy apple?” Rhyannon yips to her, grinning. I can scent her exhilaration even with all the food trying to overtake my senses. Group hunts have that effect on werewolves. It’s a wonder she hasn’t gone furry.
Maggie doesn’t know what a galaxy apple is, so she and Gail point to a set of apples already coated in the swirling purple and blue candy and drying on wax paper. “It’s the one that looks like a night sky,” Rhyannon explains.
“Oh, YES, PLEASE,” Maggie coos, clapping her hands as I hand over her apple.
It gets dipped and twirled until it stops dripping, and then it’s plopped back on its paper. “Take this to the toppings station and ask for stars if you want an authentic galaxy,” instructs Gail.
“Thank you,” Maggie tells her with exuberant politeness.
We move to the toppings table while Charlotte and Susan get their apples dipped. Charlotte has an ice blue apple that she opts to coat in large grains of sparkling sugar.
“It looks magical,” Ginny declares, admiring her friend’s treat.
Susan chose to make a ‘poisoned’ apple—dipping it in a sugar mixture dyed to a deep purple-black—and she coats hers in peanuts and gummy worms.
“That is so cool, Mom!” Charlotte cries. She turns on Ginny. “We need to make you one of those!”
Ginny is nodding. “After the hunt, I am so getting one of those.”
“There should be plenty of apples,” Susan murmurs, eyeing the tables full of nothing but apples. There are stations to wash them, tables to cut them, mash them. There’s an apple press where apple cider is being made, and I let Maggie down so that she can help take a turn at turning the crank.
Apples are being made into sauce, butter, and pie.
There’s even apple cider getting added to root beer in a cauldron so big, Maggie could fit in it. It’s smoking spookily care of dry ice, and the children ringing around it are entranced as they wait for it to be ladled into mugs, their candy apples clutched in their hands.
“Want to get some apple-flavored Howl-a-ween root beer?” I ask.
Susan winces at the reminder of this event's name.
Maggie cries, “YES, please!” and rushes to join the line of kids.
“Is there some significance to apples and werewolves?” Charlotte asks carefully.
We hear Finn’s laugh in answer but don’t immediately see him. He sets down a series of baskets, stacked one atop another, that he'd been carrying. “Not really,” he says, answering her question. “This here is a tradition started because some of us got crazy for the Rave apples.”
“Rave apples?” Susan questions, eyeing her apple anew.
“The best flavored apple ever,” Finn declares.
“Better than the Honeycrisp?” Ginny says in disbelief.
“Even better,” Finn confirms. “It’s like a Honeycrisp and a Granny Smith sprouted a thousand delicious babies.”
“Screw waiting!” Ginny cries. “Guys, I’ll be back. I’m getting my own candy apple!”
“I’ll come with you,” Charlotte says, loyal as any packmate, and the two set out.
Finn waves to his tower of apple baskets and explains, “In order to secure enough Rave apples for everybody to have one, we had to outbid the local grocery store. Thus, we ended up with a whole donkey’s load of apples… enough for a grocery store,” he explains. He adds a deprecating shrug. “Or a whole pack of werewolves and their families.” He waves to the wide expanse of land around us, bordered on two sides by trees. “And should you bite into one that’s mealy or not as sweet and tart as they’re famous for, toss it out for the wood cows and grab another.”
“Wood cows?” Susan asks.
“Deer,” I translate.
She turns to me as if I’ve asked her a question. “Hmm?”
Finn goes still.
I’ve gone still too. My heart is thundering though. “Wood cows are deer.”
“Oh!” Susan’s cheeks go pink, and her eyes flash to mine. “I thought—I don’t know why I—” She laughs at herself. “We’ve been together so much I heard you call me ‘dear’ and didn’t even think anything of it.”
“I’m glad,” I utter with absolute sincerity. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to say; I don’t know what the proper response is, the string of words needed to take away Susan’s embarrassment. “You can call me a dear anytime, and I’ll answer,” I add, and then I swing my gaze to Finn, my lowered eyes seeing only his knees, but I’m hoping he’ll take my cue to jump in with an endearingly jackassed comment that makes Susan laugh before I scare her completely away.
“You can also call him a wood cow,” Finn tells her. “The dosser will answer to that too.”
“What’s a dosser?” Maggie asks.
Eyes at the level of his hand, I see him hook a thumb at me. “This lazy bampot.”
Ginny and Charlotte race up to us, breathless and holding sticky apples coated in various treats and toppings.
“Better choke that down fast,” Finn tells Ginny. “You don’t want to miss the mouse hunt.”
Susan, one arm crossed over herself and resting on her ‘purse,’ raises her other hand. “Um, why are you all hunting mice?”
Finn points to a man down at the end of the field. “That farmer mentioned to us one year that he was having a terrible problem with rodents. We offered to help him get control of the population—but he had to promise not to shoot us. Wolves weren’t out yet then,” Finn explains.
“It’s been tradition ever since,” I say.
“And every year gets a little more challenging,” Finn adds. “The game used to take place in his field but now we hunt in the barn. The shifter who catches—and kills—the most mice wins. Rats are bonus points.”
Susan, Charlotte, and Ginny look around us, at all the werewolves gathered. “How many wolves join in the hunt?” Susan asks.
“Oh, last count there was maybe a hundred,” Finn says. “The rest save up strength for the steeplechase races and the lure course.”
“Steeplechasing with wolves…” Susan murmurs thoughtfully, and Finn jerks his head to where they’re setting up for that behind her. A five hundred-yard stretch of flat grass bookended by starting boxes and a hay bale chute.
I hold up the collar I was given when we checked in. “That’s what these are for.” I’m a yellow tag with the number twenty-two. We generally run seven wolves per race, loosely (very loosely) following the tradition of the old equine version where participants raced from one church’s steeple to the next town’s church steeple. Tonight, all the adult shifters will join up for the wild night race, where we start at our church and end there too, running the whole property and taking to the woods with its downed logs for hurdles and leaping off cliffs and racing down ravines—all done in the dark by nothing more than the light of the moon.
My heart beats faster just thinking of the run.
Ginny looks at her collar. “We do races after the mouse hunt?”
“Only the best kind!” Finn confirms. “If you don’t nearly die, you aren’t doing it right. After we’re done in the barn though, if the lot of you aren’t knackered, Deek and I are going to perform routine surgery on your car.”
Susan opens her mouth. Closes it. Looks at me. “Huh?”
“An oil change,” I tell her. “I told Finn I wanted to learn how to take care of your car.”
“Why?” Susan asks, not frowning but definitely puzzled.
“Because it would be helpful,” I explain.
And because I’m scrambling to learn skills that might give me value in her eyes.
“You don’t have to change my oil—” Susan starts.
&nbs
p; And Finn, bless him, cuts her off with an affable finality that only an alpha can manage. “Naw, but he should learn, and your car is due. It’s a done deal. And don’t worry; I won’t let him muck it up.”
“How do you know my car is due for an oil change?”
Finn shrugs. “I looked at the sticker in your window.”
“Can I learn too?” Charlotte asks.
Ginny speaks through a mouth of half-masticated apple, “Me too, please.”
Finn shrugs. “Sure.”
Maggie turns to her mother and tugs on her hand. “Mom? Mom?”
Susan looks down at her. “Let me guess. You want to crawl under the car too?”
“We don’t crawl,” Finn points out. “We’ll use creepers like any mechanics worth their fur.”
“Creepers?” Susan asks.
I handle the interpretation. “The garage roller seats. You know, that slide under a car.”
“Oh! Thanks.”
I nod to her, my gaze tapping hers as I send her a smile.
“What is that?” Ginny asks, her nose in the air, her apple’s stick clutched in her hand. “Do you guys smell…?” Her brows go up and she sucks in a breath. “Something good. Really good.”
Charlotte shrugs. “I just smell caramel.”
Ginny is looking around like she’s confused.
Finn’s head is cocked, his gaze sharp on her face, a delighted smile beginning to stretch his mouth. “You know who I smell?” he asks. “I believe that’s one of the madra rua from Brazil.”
‘Dog with red hair,’ he means, and those would be our maned wolf visitors.
I inhale to catch the scent he recognizes, but get distracted by the loud ambulance siren wailing. Its peals are meant to catch everyone’s attention. It does that effectively. It also prompts every werewolf in the vicinity to throw back their head and howl.
“Awp, I’ll have to come back for the apples,” Finn says, reaching behind his neck to grab the nape of his t-shirt, which he rips over his head. He tosses it on his baskets and says helpfully to Ginny, “Get to the line, garl, you don’t want to hit the barn late. Ye only get the chance to pounce on those mice if they’re not expecting you.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t have sent them scrambling with a siren?” Ginny calls over her shoulder, tossing her apple’s candy stick into the trash can she sprints past on her way to the edge of the field.