The Last Halloween

They retired to the living room and made a picnic of cookies and champagne, curling up in each other's lap to watch Gone with the Wind (her favorite movie, which he'd never seen in its entirety). While the opening credits rolled and the bubbles from the first sip were still tingling on Chann's tongue she told him about her shift at the hospital, about her progress on the book of poetry she was writing, and about the night yoga classes she'd started. Because of her schedule they saw each other only once a week or so, but they'd been dating for 10 months now and they talked two or three times a day, often, just to hear the sound of the other's voice.

She did most of the talking in the relationship, which was a relief; Chann was never much of a talker to begin with. At work (he chopped for a butcher over in the Dogpatch--the old nights were behind him now, but he still knew his way around meat) he pretended not to know English. His Spanish-speaking coworkers thought he only spoke Cantonese and his Chinese-speaking coworkers thought he only spoke Spanish. Conversation was a chore (or a minefield), but not with Diana. With Diana, everything was good. Best of all, everything was normal.

The movie went on. Diana regarded Vivien Legh's haughty face and said, "What do you think of Scarlett?"

"She's pushy."

"I mean the name. Would it be good for a girl?" She looked back at him. They were curled up very close in each other's arms, electing for the carpet over the couch. "If I had a daughter, I'd like the sound of Scarlett. I...don't know if I can really have children. But I might like to adopt. When the time is right."

"I'd like that." He blurted it out, and when he saw the look in her eyes he backpedaled so hard he almost pulled something. "I mean, hypothetically. If it ever came up. And the time was right. And...Scarlett is a good name."

Anxiety sweat was pooling on the small of his back, but in the flickering light of the television he saw her thousand-watt smile. Lacing her fingers in his curly hair she pulled him down for a long, open-mouthed kiss. Their bodies nestled even closer together. Chann realized all at once that she was not wearing a bra, and he could feel one of her hardened nipples. He thought of the last cookie on the sheet, still in the kitchen. Is now the time, he thought? Or should I wait? Voices still came from the TV:

"Sir, you are no gentleman."

"And you, Miss, are no lady."

Diana nibbled his lower lip playfully. He stammered. "We're missing the movie."

"I've seen it before."

"I haven't."

"I'll make you watch it again. Shut up and kiss me."

They rolled over, Chann laying half on top so that he didn't bury her under his weight. She pulled his hair and dragged his lips down her chin and neck. She smelled like fresh, sun-dried laundry and daffodils. How did she manage to smell so clean after working in a hospital half the night? Her skin under his lips was cool and clean. Used to be whenever his blood got pumping and he tasted warm flesh on his tongue--even just a little, like when he licked Diana's bare shoulder and nibbled her collarbone--it would rile up him and threaten to send him right back into old habits. But he that problem had finally disappeared when he met Diana. That was one of the reasons he knew she was the one.

When he pictured a life with her as the centerpiece--and when he felt the way his heart raced and ached when she kissed him and teased him and shimmied her strong, lovely body against his in a rippling embrace as they rolled over each other down on the floor--it seemed complete and completely satisfying. The house wasn't much, he never saw any of his old friends, and one day was always almost exactly like the next, but that was all right as long as she was in the picture. He pulled down the straps of her dress and rubbed his unshaven face against the sensitive skin of her breasts, and she squealed.

"Oh, you brute. I should send you right into that bathroom with a razor."

"Should I?"

"...later."

He licked one of her large, red nipples. He was still dressed but he ground his body against hers anyway. He muted the TV without ever taking his eyes (or his mouth) off Diana. There'd be time to watch the movie later. There'd be time for anything they wanted. They had a whole life ahead of them and--

The sound outside made all the hairs on the back of Chann's neck stand up. Diana sat up straight and huddled in his arms. The temperature in the room dropped two degrees. "What the hell was that?" she said.

"I'm not sure," said Chann, which was a lie.

"It was some kind of howling."

"Must be coming from the park. Kids or something, having fun."

"No, it sounded really close." And it came again, long and cold and plaintive. "It's right outside!"

"It can't be," said Chann, but even as he nudged the curtains aside he knew what he'd see. A half dozen big, shaggy shapes loped on all fours on his lawn, their huge yellow eyes turned toward the window. They all howled together. Diana was at the window with him. "How weird," she said.

"Dogs. Must belong to some neighbor."

"Those look pretty big for dogs."

"Coyotes, then. They run around the canyon."

"I swear, those look like wolves."

"There aren't any wolves in the city."

"I know. But that's still what they look like..."

The biggest of the pack looked Chann dead in the eye. Chann's pulse picked up, and a feeling like fire prickled all along his spine. Anne had asked if he remembered what it was like in the old nights: The ugly truth was, he remembered all too well. Nights like this--Halloween and a full moon to boot--were perfect for running on all fours, going in packs, and howling at windows. He remembered the coppery taste of meat right off the bone on nights like this, too. He held onto the windowsill too hard. If he looked down, he was sure he'd see his hand had become a paw. And once it had started, there would be nothing to stop it...

But Diana slipped her hand into his and the cool, soft sensation banished the bad old feeling immediately. The tension that had been collecting evaporated. He remembered where he was, and who he was. Pointedly, he shut the curtains again. He waited to see if there were any more mournful howls, but the night had gone quiet. He turned back to Diana, who was looking at him with a combination of curiosity and wonder. "What do you suppose that was all about?" she said.

"No idea. But it's nothing important. There's nothing important tonight but me and you."

"For a guy who doesn't like to talk, you sure do have a way with words."

She reclined on the couch and he got down between her legs, pulling her skirt up and finding she was wearing nothing down there either. He pressed his mouth against her but she hissed and pushed him back. "Don't be in such a hurry. Go slow, like this." He chastised himself and followed her instructions, kissing first, then licking, and then, as the sharp taste of wetness became more and more prominent, he brought his mouth up to her again. She arched her back and grabbed the arm of the couch, pushing her hips up and purring. "That's right. That's very good..."

He put the tip of his tongue in, licking the cream from the inside of her. He went to put a finger in but stopped himself, remembering that his nails were too long and too ragged. Instead he rubbed her clit, just barely peeking out from her swollen lips. She squirmed. He let the taste of her hit the back of his mouth and went down for more. I can be happy with just this, he thought. I don't need to run and howl as long as she's here for me. Part of him still held back...but another, more immediate part of him was aching like a wound and eager for the relief Diana's body offered. He continued licking until the quivering of her gratification sent tremors all through him.

When he came up for air she kissed him again, her lips smearing with the taste of herself and her tongue tangling with his. She pulled him up on top of her. Their bodies jostled for position before settling into perfect comfort, her curves accommodating him. Her hardened nipples poked through the fabric of her dress and he tugged it down on one side, exposing her for a second until his mouth closed on that too. Her hands crept under his shirt, tracing the outline of the muscle flexing underneath. In the middle of another kiss he thought, what about now? Is now the time? He didn't want to stop, but maybe it would be better if they both could--

He froze again. He couldn't help it: Turning his head ever so slightly, he caught sight of a ghastly, leering face in the rear window, with great popping eyes and a sneer that turned his blood turned to ice. He nearly bit his tongue in half.

Diana followed his gaze, but by then the face had disappeared. Shivering, Chann stood. Diana grabbed his arm. "What is it?"

"I heard something in the yard. I want to make sure it's not some kids breaking in."

"I'm sure it's not."

"I'll just be a minute. Stay warm for me."

He slipped out the backdoor, with an odd feeling like he was a thief leaving his own house. Jezibaba had set her cauldron right in the middle of the yard (which he was certain would prove terrible for the grass). The porch light gleamed off her iron teeth. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he asked what she wanted. Or at least, he tried to: The words wouldn't actually come. Had she hexed him, or was he just that scared? Whatever the case, she was the one who broke the silence.

"Since I see I'm not interrupting anything, let's you and me have a nice chat," she said.

Chann's cheeks burned. "I told Anne no already."

"I'll bet you did, bless her little black heart. What did she do, ask you nicely? With sugar on top? Remind you of the good times? Probably flashed a little leg at you too."

He blushed harder.

"So the nice way doesn't work on you. Well, I don't do things the nice way. So let me ask: Are you willing to come back to the fold for one night and remember who you really are? Are you willing to change your shape, howl at the moon, and make the Day Children afraid again on Halloween?

"And before you answer," she continued, cutting him off, "think about this: If you DO say no, what do you suppose I'll do to punish you? That's a fine morsel you've got in your house right now. I'd hate to see anything happen to her..."

Now Chann felt himself go white. If it had been anyone else--ANYONE else--saying a thing like that, he'd have ripped her throat out on the spot. But witchcraft got blacker and more dangerous the older the witch, and Jezibaba was the oldest of all. He'd be as helpless as a child trying to fight her, and she knew it. He balled his fists up and bit his lip, but he dared do no more than that. She nodded, as if in approval.

"So that's settled: You'll send your little tart home, and then you'll get ready to come out and howl at the party." She looked at him like he was a worm. "You're a weakling and a spoiled brat, but you're still one of us. They're all coming, all the ones who are left from every corner of the world, and you're not special enough to think you can get out of it. So say your goodbyes and make yourself respectable."

Maybe I'll take a piss in her cauldron, Chann thought. She'd probably curse my dick right off, but it would be worth it. As if reading his mind, Jezibaba sneered again.

"I'll never understand what Anne sees in you. She could do better."

"But has she?"

She answered with a rude gesture. "It's almost the witching hour. I don't want to have to come here again. Get ready to go to work."

With that she was gone.

Chann went back inside, feeling numb. His mind raced: What was he going to say? How could he get Diana to leave without seeming like--

"I should go."

Chann blinked. She'd fixed her clothes again and retrieved her shoes and purse, standing near the entryway with an expectant look.

"Why?" he blurted out.

"I remembered I have an early shift tomorrow. A very early shift. I shouldn't even have come, but I missed you so much..." For a second she seemed to vacillate, but came back with a firm, "I need to go."

She knows, Chann thought. Not everything, of course. Not even half of everything, unless she's insane. But she saw the look on my face and heard the fear in my voice when I looked out the window, and she knows I lied to her about it. I'll never be able to explain that lie, and she'll never forget it.

He thought this even as they somewhat awkwardly hugged good night. Don't go, he wanted to say. When she left, he hoped she'd look back at him before she reached the end of the walkway, but she didn't. The night swallowed her up.

He didn't bother to lock the door. He felt gutshot. Walking to the kitchen, he found the last cookie still on the tray and crushed it in his hand. Picking through the crumbs, he found the ring. He'd gone with silver over the traditional gold, because it complemented the diamond better.

He spun the ring in his palm once and watched it fall over and become a weight in this hand. "Bastards," he said out loud.

He cleaned up, locked everything again, then lay down on the living room floor, staring at the ceiling and fuming. He wasn't going to the sabbat; he wouldn't give them the satisfaction. Let Jezibaba do whatever she wanted to him. He honestly didn't think it could get much worse than what he was feeling now. Shadows crept through the slats in the blinds and stretched across the ceiling like prying fingers, but he didn't stir. To hell with all of them, he thought.

He'd assumed he was too angry for sleep, but before long he felt it tugging at him and rolled over, drifting off into a dark, dreamless place...

And awakened moments later to a grating scream beneath his window. Diana? Chann jumped up, unlocked the door, rushed out and found:

Pandemonium. Hundreds of figures danced around dozens of fires burning in the street, orange and blue flames leaping and laughing and throwing shadows. Witches of every shape and size mingled and cavorted, drinking blood and eating baby's fat and giving amorous looks to the incubi and succubi they'd dredged up for the night's merriment. Those ghosts able to leave their haunts and those corpses strong enough to leave their graves howled and rattled chains, while loping wolves dragged their prey in and added it to the buffets. One of the biggest of them looked at Chann and, quite distinctly, winked at him.

A coterie of ghouls had arrived, and a few genuine Welsh goblins joined them, the two crews competing in rounds of bawdy drinking songs. A couple gargoyles had managed to unperch themselves and fly down from the cathedral on the hill, and from their hidden lairs under the ground had come ogres, fiends, imps, bogies, and trolls, while all manner of scaly bunyips and grindylows had come out of the sea to join them. Someone had even liberated an ancient Egyptian mummy from a museum; he was too tightly bound to really join in any of the festivities, but he at least expressed his (muffled) thanks to anyone within earshot.

Garlands of nightshade, monkshood, and hemlock strewed the street, and everywhere was the sound of music and songs, in voices that croaked and groaned and cackled and howled. Chann reeled at the sights and smells, the grotesque carnival putting him off balance so that he had to hug the door. Stokes separated from his brothers and sisters to come slap Chann on the back. The old ghoul was drunk.

"'While ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, you may forever tarry,'" he said. "Come join the fun, old sport."

"You brought everyone here?"

"You were the only one who didn't show. We decided we'd bring the mountain to Mohammed, as it were. Quite a crowd, yes? I can't remember the last time I've had such fun."

Feeling stronger now, Chann stood up straight. "Where's Anne?"

"At the blackthorn trees, preparing the offerings. But come have a round with us before you go find her." He sloshed a gurgling concoction in a flask. "No? Well, if you change your mind." He recited: "'When Mother comes commanding, death away will fly; Ever understanding, drinking souls will never die!'"

Anne was indeed under the blackthorn trees, kneeling and laying offerings at a low stone altar. Chann stepped over the prone body of a drunken bloodybones and elbowed through a pack of redcaps playing knife games. She pretended not to notice his approach, but he grabbed her by the hair and hauled her to her feet, inciting a squawk of protest.

"How dare you!" she said.

"You think this is funny, don't you?"

Anne shook her hair out. "This is as good a place for everyone to meet as any. Don't like it? Then go back into your dollhouse and pretend it's not happening. That's what you were going to do anyway, weren't you?"

Chann's blood boiled. "Everyone can see you out here."

"We want to be seen." She raised her chin.

"You'll get yourselves killed."

"Maybe we want that too. Who knows what we all want? How about you, Chann? What do you want?"

"To be left alone, and to be normal."

"Then what are you doing out here? Does any of this look normal to you?" She swept a hand over the street, glowing with hellfire. "Why not admit that you miss it? Admit that you miss me." She slid up to him and put a hand on his chest. She smelled like jasmine and calamus. He simmered some more.

"Of course I miss you. But..."

"But what? You're afraid? Embarrassed? Too many regrets? What's your excuse?"

"Don't talk to me like that."

"What are you going to do about it?" She slapped him across the face. He yelped, and his whole body twisted with the force of it. She wound up for another one but he caught it and pushed her back. She jostled the altar, upending candles into rivers of dripping wax.

"That's the spirit," she said. "Do it again. Harder."

Chann's hands shook. He saw that his fingers had grown longer, and the claws were coming out. Licking his teeth, he found them growing to points. The muscles of his face and back stretched. I can't hold it, he thought. Now that he was out under the moon, away from the house, surrounded by so many sights and smells that reminded him of the old nights, it was too much to keep in check. And there was Anne, her naked body sprawled across the altar...

She grabbed his wrists and put his hands on her breasts. "Squeeze hard," she said. "Like you used to."

His erection grew. He dragged his claws down the front of Anne's body, breaking the skin in four places. Shallow streams of blood painted her, mingling with the melted wax on the altar stone. She moaned and stuck one of his fingers into her mouth, licking the claw. "You could skin me alive, couldn't you? You can do whatever you want to me and I won't care, as long as it's the real you."

It was hard to talk, so Chann answered by wrapping his paws around her throat and squeezing until her breath stopped. She gasped without any noise and wriggled underneath him as he climbed up onto the altar and spread her legs. Her eyes rolled back and he heard her heart begin to slow before he released his grasp and let her suck breath back into her lungs. Then she bit him on the chest and kissed him, doing both so fast he couldn't retaliate.

"I hate you, you bastard. Do you hate me? Is that why you left me alone?" She pulled him closer. "If you hate me, then come hurt me."

His cock was so hard it hurt. He stuck it into her and she screamed, thrashing. The candles burned higher and the partiers screamed louder. The moonlight was in Chann's blood now, making him wild and drunk. He held Anne down and pumped her harder and harder. She was slippery with sweat, and the salty scent of it tingled in his nostrils. Blood, sweat, flesh, moonlight, the smell of the trees and the night; it was just like old times.