Halloween Scarecrow

Tobias cocked his head, studying the carved pumpkin. The ends of the saw-tooth mouth were down turned. The eyes, rather than triangles were carved in the shape of a human eye with flared outside edges. They were also angled downward, as if in sadness. The nose was comprised of two simple slits in the pumpkin but still managed to add to the overall mournful expression.

"You know, that is passing strange," said Tobias.

"What?" Marcus asked.

"She's right, the expression is sad. Usually, with a jack o' lantern the expression is either silly or scary. Melancholy doesn't tend to make the list." He crouched down next to Philadelphia. "Excuse me, can I get in here?"

Philadelphia rose and stepped back to where Marcus stood. Tobias thoroughly examined the scarecrow, looking under the clothes, examining the limbs, and running his clawed finger along the cut edges of the jack o' lantern face.

"Are you going to at least buy the poor bastard dinner now?" Marcus asked.

"I'm checking for Vaseline, among other things."

"Yeah, that doesn't really make it sound any better."

Tobias gave Marcus a tired look over his shoulder, then rose up. "That pumpkin looks freshly carved. The body in the living room doesn't. You can seal the cut edges of a pumpkin with Vaseline to preserve it, but I couldn't find anything."

"So, you think our friend here is some sort of mage toy?" Marcus asked.

"Don't know. It's definitely humming with power, but whether it's a battery, a marker of some sort, or a boundary guard I couldn't say."

"What are the odds of him getting up and stalking us like some sort of bad horror movie?"

"While I would like to say between slim and none, I can't. I will say that animation is a really difficult magic to pull off. I've never seen it done. And looking at the structure, I find it less likely. It just doesn't seem that sturdy. I think it would take a lot of energy for this thing to move. All that being said, there is a lot of energy here. I just think it would be a waste to use it on a scarecrow."

Marcus sighed. "Okay, we make a note that this is here and keep moving."

Marcus roused Philadelphia, who was still strangely reluctant to leave the scarecrow, and escorted Tobias back to where the other group stood. He conveyed what they found and the group split into their previous pairs.

They resumed their search. Dead leaves crunched under foot, hiding roots and ground vines that tripped up the normally sure-footed wolves. Brambles became caught and painfully tangled into fur, forcing the captured wolf to stop and disengage. Overgrown weeds had to be carefully pushed aside in case something of importance was hidden either within or beneath. All of this served to slow and frustrate the wolves who were themselves uncertain of exactly what they were looking for.

Soon there was a spectacular yet brief sunset, in the ways of autumn evenings, followed by twilight, then dusk. The coming of night was normally not a concern to the Benandanti who were well habituated to night hunting and often preferred it.

However, in this place the coming of night brought tension; an unnameable unease that stole over the wolves, robbing them of their equilibrium. Howls erupted between the groups, reassuring each of the others' presence. After howling their position, Ballard looked to Violet. She raised her white-masked gray head to the sky and howled, carrying a determination sharp and bright as steel to her pack. They knew their duty and would do it.

As the light was waning, a mist began to gather around the hunting pack swiftly thickening to a dense obstruction. At first, the groups lost sight of each other, then sounds became dampened. When they abruptly lost the scent of each other it was already too late.

******************************

A lone figure sat amongst the brambles and roses, uncertain. Guests never came to visit the Magus and he was unsure how to proceed. True, the Magus was now dead and the object of his obsession was using what was left of its power, testing the strength of its tether. Someone coming to finish the Magus' work should be a good thing. But they seemed to be walking blindly into the danger. What to do, what to do?

It occurred to him that he should help them, warm them at least of the danger. But they frightened him. Their power, wild and primal, was unlike any he'd seen. Of course, what power had he seen before? Only the Magus and the obsession. To be honest, he'd never really seen the obsession either. The back yard wasn't his domain, and it had taken a few days after the Magus' death to steel himself to explore the yard. But he knew what it felt like, even in the relative safety of the house, and he knew what it wanted. It had already claimed the Magus, and if unchallenged, would claim these strange new-comers.

In his indecision, time was lost as night came and the mist gathered. He dickered until the trap was sprung. He felt the reverberation of it, a plucked strand of a spider web. The jack o' lantern suddenly came alight, flaring at first then dimming down as the scarecrow roused himself. He should do something, he decided. He had to at least try. Without thinking about it, he headed for the small black wolf with the pretty dark blue eyes. The one who saw his sadness.

*****************************

Philadelphia found herself alone. She desperately cast about for any scent she knew, but found only the smells of the plants and the mist. She shivered as fear began to well up in her blotting out her training as a Benandanti. She began to stumble about, panic dominating the moment without mercy or desire. Then she forced herself to crouch in a tight ball, burying her face until she could rein in her emotions. She clutched her legs and breathed deeply fighting for control.

When the panic subsided, she rose only to find herself human and no longer in the overgrown yard. She was still outside, and it was still night, but she was in the narrow confines of an alley. Panic rose anew as she recognized where she was. Then she heard his voice.

A guttural moan rose from behind her, a low and inarticulate sound of craving. Philadelphia turned and saw him, the man from the club. The one who came to catch her stand-up every time she preformed. He would sit off to the side and watch her hungrily. She'd seen him before, even mentioned him to the bouncer and the management, but he never spoke or approached her. So they watched him but did nothing more. Now, hours after close with no one around, he approached her. His eyes burning, his face set, and his raw need coming off of him in waves.

Philadelphia remembered all of this clearly and sharply though it had happened years ago. She remembered this night when the unknown and unsuspected wolf came crashing into her life. He had grabbed her and pushed her against a wall, tearing at her clothes in his desperation. Then everything Philadelphia knew, or thought she knew, about the world changed. She exploded into her wolf form and savaged the man in her frenzied attempt to escape. She ran four-legged and swift to her home. When sense came back, she again became human. She felt sick at what had happened. Soon after, the Benandanti found her.

But as Philadelphia reached for the wolf, nothing came. She stood, all too human before her attacker. He grabbed her, pushed her against the wall and tore her clothes. She fought against him, but it had no apparent effect. When she punched him in the throat, the face snapped forward and what she saw was not entirely human. The shape was right, and the features were recognizable, but the eyes that glared down were wrong. Twisted and misshapen, they held the lascivious need of her attacker but only as a thin disguise. Beneath it was a nightmare dark force that seemed as endless as it was merciless. Philadelphia's panic faltered and slid towards despair. As horrible as her attacker was, this was so much worse.

In the midst of the assault Philadelphia felt something rough and prickly on her shoulder, the unexpected sensation distracting her.

"May I have this dance?" a soft voice made of the wind asked in her ear.

Philadelphia shook her head and looked around for the speaker. For a moment the scene around her wavered like heat haze. There was a brief tussle between realities, then she was again standing in the yard of the old farm house. The night breeze was cool against her naked skin and the assorted foliage of the yard rough against her bare feet. Philadelphia again looked about and found herself facing the scarecrow from before.

The expression was no longer sad. The head was cocked, awaiting her response. His eyes and the corners of his mouth were turned up, hopeful, and will-o-the-wisps floating in the carved sockets implored her. Again he asked, "May I have this dance?"

Philadelphia dazedly nodded, and the scarecrow took her hand into his, which was comprised of twigs. He looked over to her attacker.

"She doesn't want to be with you," he said, with smug succinctness. "You should go."

The assailant stood dumbfounded by the creature in front of him. Then he lunged for Philadelphia. The scarecrow pushed her aside and got between them. The light in the jack o' lantern suddenly flared, bright in the darkness, fire licking the carved edges. Philadelphia felt heat coming of the scarecrow, and a sensation that made her skin tingle.

"GO!" he shouted, brandishing a hand scythe he'd pulled from his waist. The eldritch light from the jack o' lantern gleamed along the wicked looking edge of the blade as reflected light from the metal danced wildly. "BE GONE!"

The changeling human staggered and flinched, then faded away. The scarecrow returned the scythe to his waist and turned his pumpkin head back to Philadelphia, the light once again reduced to will-o-the-wisps floating in their sockets. He smiled at her, placed her arm around his waist then curved that arm around her waist. He tightened his grip on the hand we was holding and lead her in a waltz. Not necessarily a graceful waltz, as he was long limbed and lanky and didn't appear to have the most precise concept of the dance, but a waltz nonetheless.

The scarecrow towered over her, his seven feet to her five foot six. Held against him, Philadelphia could feel the wooden structure of the scarecrow under the clothes and padding that gave him some bulk. His scent was like the autumn, all leaf mold and pumpkin and wood smoke. Held in the curious dance of this creature, Philadelphia felt her mind clear as if the mist had been in her head as well and was being driven out.

"You must know you are in great danger here," the scarecrow was saying.

Philadelphia stopped the waltz mid-turn. "Who are you?" she asked.

He released her and dipped his head in embarrassment. "Of course, where are my manners? My name is Manhattan," he said with a low and formal bow. He rose up, caught her hand again and raised it, brushing it against the sawtooth mouth. Philadelphia felt the cool, tight skin of the pumpkin against her hand and had to resist the urge to curtsey.

"My name is Philadelphia," she responded as he released her hand. "And I'm Benandanti. How did you get here?"

"The Magus made me to assist him with the keeping of the house."

"The Magus? You mean Mr. Campbell, the raven?"

"I have never heard him called a raven, but his name is...was George Campbell."

"What happened back there? What was attacking me?"

"Oh, that's the obsession. It's not very nice. Speaking of which, it will go after your friends. Probably has already."

"Oh shit," Philadelphia exclaimed as the wolf form came surging back. "We've got to go help them. Come on."

Philadelphia stepped, then faltered. Help who first? She looked about and saw none of her pack near her. A lower-ranked wolf, Philadelphia was far more used to taking direction then determining it herself. Panic began again to gnaw at the edges of her reserves, threatening to fray her resolve. Uncertainty gripped her and for a brief moment the urge to run flared strongly enough that she almost took to flight on four swift legs. But Violet's howls echoed in Philadelphia's memory and she bit back her fear, snarled in the face of it. She was Benandanti, she would continue the hunt and now she knew where she needed to go.

She cast about for scents and was pleased she was able to detect her pack. She found the one she needed and with an acknowledging glance to the almost comically-confused Manhattan headed towards her alpha.

********************************

Violet snarled as the scents of her pack were lost to her. She craned her head about, breathing in the air in deeply, casting for any scent she knew. Only one came to her, faint on the breeze. One that should not, could not, be there. She shook her head sharply, trying to dislodge the imagined scent even as it caused the slow burn of desire to rise in her. But it would not disappear. It only grew stronger. Violet closed her eyes tightly, trying to drive away the scent and the feelings it brought up in her. Then a voice two years gone spoke.

"Violet," it softly whispered sending shivers down her spine. Almost against her will, Violet slowly opened her eyes and turned to the voice. There, barely an arm's-length away, stood Aidan, her first mate. Even as desire rose stronger in her, a heat spreading from her center, her mind denied it.

"No," she said. "You can't be here." But even as reason told her Aidan's presence was impossible, her body, her wolf, reveled in his physical nearness. His scent, the curves of his body, the sound of his voice, the lulling depths of his eyes. Oh, she wanted him.

Aidan stepped closer to her. "But I am, my love. I am." As he approached, the mist seemed to enclose them both, shutting out everything in the world save them. Violet grasped for reason, for the belief, the knowledge, that Aidan couldn't be here. That whatever this was, it wasn't her beloved mate dead for two long, agonizing years. But reason fled in the face of her desire and grief. When he reached her and drew his hand along her face she collapsed into his arms, the wolf shape disappearing as flesh touched flesh.

Aidan's mouth sought Violet's and they kissed, deep and long. He ran his hand through her hair then down her back, his touch eliciting a shudder throughout her body. But even as her need built to an unbearable crescendo, guilt began an unsettling counterpoint.

As much as she loved Marcus, he could never kindle such intense desire in her. And she did love Marcus, just not as much as she had loved Aidan and this knowledge rent her spirit even as it soared at Aidan's presence. So it was with a choked sob and desperate sigh intermixed that she accepted Aidan's touch upon her body.

He ran his hands along her breasts and down her sides. He brought his mouth to her chest and licked her breasts. His tongue teased around the nipples, hardening them more than her burning arousal had. Then his mouth closed around her breast and suckled. A shuddering sigh escaped Violet as her head tipped back even as the teeth felt too sharp and the tongue felt not just wet but slimy. She shifted slightly, dislodging her breast from his mouth. She though she heard him snarl.

Violet's head snapped back up but she saw only Aidan's smile, so much as she remembered it. She brought her hands around to his face. He lay her down and straddled her, his member seeking entrance. Violet hesitated, recrimination damping her ardor. She looked imploringly at him.

"Aidan, beloved, you're gone and time has moved on. I've taken another mate."

"Shh," he crooned. "That doesn't matter now. Nothing will matter again."

Violet found something about the way Aidan said that unsettling. Before she could comment, he leaned down and kissed her again, deeply. Breaking the kiss on her lips, he trailed kisses down her body to her sex. He delicately kissed her soft mound before licking it and the sensitive skin around her thighs.

Her damped ardor flared once more within her, the crescendo building again as her passage became wet. But Marcus was still not far from her thoughts. Though if Aidan was truly returned, had she betrayed Aidan for Marcus or was she betraying Marcus with Aidan? Aidan mounted her, thrusting into her waiting sex with a roughness Violet had never experienced before with Aidan. She moaned in discomfort and squirmed under him.

It felt good, the lust, the grief, the guilt. This female was shaping up to be exactly what was needed. The obsession wanted to prolong the taking, to reap more of the heady mix of want and misery, but it could only hold out for so long. It thrust again, ramming deeper and harder, her pain a heady wine.

Violet cried out, the pain far greater this time. She snarled up at Aidan and seized his arms, prepared to put a stop to his mistreatment. But what met her gaze was no longer Aidan. It bore a resemblance to her love, but nothing more. The flesh was dark and rotted. Where her arms gripped, her fingers sank into the rancid flesh until they were stopped by bone. The hair was missing from portions of the scalp. But the eyes, the madly glaring eyes, were whole. Obscenely misshapen, they held an infernal light that spoke of ancient evil and madness, and they laughed soundlessly at her.

Violet lay in stunned silence. She wanted to look away, turn her gaze anywhere but at the obscenity in front of her. But she could not, the gaze of those eyes bore down on her and held her in place, held her eyes.

Before she could respond, she was aware of movement behind the rotted corpse of Aidan. Two glowing points of light were coming through the mist. In her peripheral vision, she briefly thought she could make out the shape of a jack o' lantern when light erupted in the darkness.

Aidan, or the thing appearing as Aidan, Violet wasn't sure which was correct, had just started to turn when the light flared bright. The thing flinched back from the light as a gleaming crescent shaped blade (moon-shaped, Violet thought with hope) was plunged into its head, to be buried deep into the skull. Then the body was hauled off of Violet, much like a side of beef tossed about by a butcher.

Sense, such as could be found in this place, returned to Violet and she scrabbled away. Suddenly, Philadelphia was beside, her holding her. Violet vacillated briefly between crying and retching then retching won. She pushed herself away from her pack-mate, her stomach violently emptying.

Philadelphia looked over to Manhattan who was hacking away at a swiftly fading form. She saw enough to determine who it looked like and the stab of grief ran deep. Philadelphia lay her hand across her eyes and over her snout as she looked away.

Manhattan rose from his work as the figure faded out and regarded the two females, one wolf one human, before him. Philadelphia's turned away, covered face and hunched shoulders told him this sending was different. The human female was rising, her face taut, but her eyes carried a hurt he recognized all too well.

"Who was it he was made to look like?" he asked.

Violet looked between the scarecrow and Philadelphia. Her emotions raged within her: longing for Aidan, confusion at what just happened, despair as her mind put together the most logical answer. It had never been Aidan. With effort, she put it aside to deal with what was in front of her, an animated scarecrow and her pack-mate, bowed under her own pain. These concerns took priority. But she feared the uncertainties and doubts raised would not stay quiet for long.

She went over to Philadelphia and seized her shoulders, giving them a shake. "Phil," she said urgently. "I need you here, we have a hunt."

Philadelphia lowered her hand and nodded, moving her body to a more assertive stance even if she didn't entirely feel it inside.