A Very Nottey Halloween

“Trick or treat!” say the little nips, and I can hardly believe it’s happening.

There are seven of them, and if they’re even that many years old, I’ll eat my own arm. What in hell’s name are they doing all the way out here? It’s not a place for children, nor humans at all, long abandoned since the climate crisis took the water and the wind. There’s but monsters here now, and it’s no place for kids. “You li’l nippers for real?”

“Irish?” gasps the little girl in the dragon costume.

They’re killing me. This is too cute, this is impossible, they’re killing me, and I’m the killer. “Aye, and begorah,” I go, and they all laugh.

“Trick or treat!” repeats the boy with pink lenses.

Da’, where the hell are you? “How’d you get all the way out here? We’re miles from—”

They all babble at once, pointing back at the enormous four-row monstrosity that drove ‘em here, idling past the garden.

I don’t know who’s in that thing. Windows are dark. Wind is quiet. If a human were driving it, I’d know, but I get nothing—not a heartbeat or a breath, not a hint of stray thought.

My hackles are up.

The children are human, all of them, but none of them could’ve got here on their own. There’s no easy nav; there are gates, and warning signs. Fecking something’s sniffed us out here. I told Da’ Shell Beach was too close to fecking Pismo wilderness. “I might be able to find a treat for good li’l weans,” I say, playing along, leaning on the door frame and into the accent. “Wait here for a blink?”

“A wean?” squeals the girl in the space suit and Stetson, and then they’re all laughing.

I leave the door open a crack so light spills out, for what little protection that gives, and silently tell the wraiths to keep an eye peeled. Who or what is in that vehicle?

It’s a moment’s work to go to dust and fly around the house.

Whatever is in that damned SUV is real stealth, and a man’s got to respect that; I can’t tell anything beyond an adult-sized silhouette, head neck and shoulders, hands at ten and two. Which is itself suspicious. No light from a cell-phone. No relaxation with hands in lap. No music or talk shows, as I get closer. No conversation as if on a call.

I’m going to give them a surprise.

Some people might be cautious. Approach with fear or wisdom. Well, I lack both of those, as I’ve oft been told, so I just reform my body and knock on the driver’s side window.

Slowly, rotors humming, it rolls down.

My jaw drops.

“Perhaps you should join us,” says Notte, my Da’, the Lord of the Night Whispers, the feckin’ Naktam himself, sitting in this shiny new SUV. He’s slicked his curly hair back and down with something that smells good. He’s wearing a fitted black tux with white vest and shirt, a weird medallion with little stars on each of its six points, a black opera cape with a red lining, and—

“Are you Bela Lugosi?” pops out of my fool mouth.

The Father of Night does something I have not seen in ages: he smiles. His natural fangs are out, long and needle-like, gleaming in this half-moon night.

And from the second of those four rows, the feckin’ prince of the Unseelie Fey leans around him, evidently dressed as down-rent Legolas. “Oi.”

“Hello!” says a chirpy voice from the passenger seat, startling the hell outta me because I did not see him there, and I jump and I suddenly understand exactly what’s going on.

“Alex?” I manage.

The kid beams. Gods, he’s…

It just throws you, you know? Somebody lookin’ like that. Like what? I don’t feckin’ know. He’s just a blond kid. Too skinny. Bright blue eyes. Normal. But something…

It’s his heritage. Can’t help it. Sometimes you can’t see him at all, and others, you can’t look away, and he’s got no feckin’ control over either. Magic just evaporates around him. Real dangerous.

Leastwise I understand now why I couldn’t render what was in here.

“Terrance,” says Da’ again. “Join us.”

The children by the door have begun to wander a little. “Uh,” I say, all whip-like and clever. “Be right back. Got to get them candy.”

“Do you?” says Notte.

At the door, Jonathan smiles, offering them pre-wrapped mini-junk in a pumpkin-shaped bucket. The hell. “When’d he have time to do that?”

“Three months ago,” says Notte. “Join us, my child. I would have you see the world through this one’s eyes tonight.”

This one, maybe meaning Alex or Grey, I dunno. “Sure, uh. I don’t got a costu—”

I feel him ‘fore I see him, and spin.

Seishirou looms behind me, scowling. Gods, he must’ve seemed big as a devil in his time, a Japanese man as big as he is, and he’s lucky I got enough control not to start stabbing.

“Don’t startle me like that,” I snap at him.

“Here,” he says instead of sorry, offering a bag.

“Whatsit?” I say, hating that he surprised me. I’m Father’s knife, and sure, Seishirou’s bigger, and arguably stronger, but he also came from her side and I’m closer to Notte, and—

“Your costume,” he says in that low respectful voice of his.

Sigh. Jonathan and his far-sight strikes again. “Could’ve given a guy some warning, you two.”

“You’d have run,” says Seishirou.

“You’d have found an excuse,” says Notte. “I want you to be with me this night.”

Shit. “All you had to do was ask,” I mutter, because for Notte, I’d claw my way to the damn moon. I take the bag.

Seven squealing children come avalanching back our way, piling into the two back rows and obediently pulling seat belts on.

I slide into the second to last row, next to Grey. “What in Odin’s green asshole is going on?” I mutter to him.

“A kidnapping,” says Grey with all due melodrama.

The kid in the front seat who shouldn’t exist giggles.

”So you’re here unwillingly, too, eh?” I say, dry.

”No, I am,” Grey admits. “I’m getting a favor out of it. No, you may not ask.”

I raise my hands. “Your secrets are safe, damn.”

“Shall we continue?” says my Da’, and does another thing I never thought he’d do: he makes one little gesture, flipping on the music, and suddenly the old classic “Monster Mash” is playing in this truck.

“You know this song?” I cry as he drives us away from home and any kind of sense I ever knew.

“I have been introduced,” he says, and he’s definitely leaning on his accent, which isn’t like Lugosi’s, but it sure is something. I wonder if he’d let me play with him in that costume later—

“Well, I think it’s a lovely time,” says Grey as I rummage in my costume bag.

The kids don’t care if I change. They’re all high on sugar, anyway. “Silver lining?” I say.

“Do change,” Notte urges.

So it’s… a… peasant costume? Maybe a wizard? Soft leather ankle boots, simple home-spun style trousers, a black shirt held shut by lacing, and a marvelous green cloak with a hood, along with… “Is this a lute?”

“It is indeed,” says Notte. “You are now Kvothe the Kingkiller, the Arcane, ironically the Bloodless. As the only one of us with red hair, you seemed suited.”

I bust out laughing. “Fine, fine, you win,” I say, and make quick work of getting changed.

#

I’ve not played a lute in a dog’s age, but I muddled through some notes as we drove, and didn’t notice there was some trickery goin’ on, because this place is nowhere near Pismo Beach.

We’re not in wasteland. This is some kind of suburb, and it’s occupied. The homes are lovely, all an old-world movie-style comfort, brick-faced, two cheerful stories, and surrounded by old-growth trees in well-kept lawns. Numerous children (human—I checked) traipse up and down the sidewalks.

This doesn’t exist anymore. This sure as hell isn’t where we were. “A pocket dimension?” I say slowly, but that isn’t quite right.

“Ten houses on each side, then back in,” Notte instructs, ignoring the disappointed awwww of the fetuses in the very back, but they pile out anyway and go running full-on for the nearest painted door.

To my surprise, Grey goes with. Guess he pulled chaperone duty tonight. “Wait up!” He’s even got a plastic bow and arrow set.

Where we are isn’t even all of it. I stare through the window. “What is this place?”

“A safe location for them to enjoy,” says Notte.

“But he… what is this? This looks like some suburb from a couple hundred years ago.”

“Mmm,” says Notte.

“This looks like the other side of the country a couple hundred years ago,” I add.

“Mmm. Don’t you want to go trick-or-treating?” says Notte to Alex, like I said nothing.

“No, thank you,” the kid says in that polite way of his, always doing his best to avoid attention.

Which is a real shame, ‘cause he can’t always do that. “What about the rest of us?” I say, trying not to lose my gourd over what I think just happened. “Banged up and gussied out for naught?”

“We have been invited to a party later,” says Notte.

I’m feeling a mite crazy. “Who in hell are those children, anyway? Did we steal them?”

Notte laughs lightly. “No. They are descendants of Merlin—technically Kin, but unfortunately born without magic. Their families try to ensure holidays are special for them, and Merlin took a hand this season.”

“All that makes sense, but how did we’re get here?” There was no Fey portal. No agonizing human-tech transportation. As far as I know, Merlin can’t do this—maybe across the country, but back in time? For a lark? Is this even safe? Nobody in the vehicle has that power—

I look at the kid. The mystery kid, raised by Death, some weird genetic combination that can’t be, a real head-scratcher for the Twins. And whose powers are largely unknown, beyond that pesky canceling magic thing.

He’s hunched again, not looking back.

Cold washes down my spine. “Da’. Did he…”

“I know you will say nothing,” says Notte, which confirms exactly what I was thinking.

Yeah. Yeah. It won’t matter if he’s Death’s adopted kid, if anybody learns he can do this. What in hell. “Took us a long way for a holiday,” I say.

“Merlin asked me to,” says Alex, glancing over at me. “I made a way earlier so the children wouldn’t realize.”

Made a way? “The children? You are a literal child. And how did you do this? Seems a tricky bit to do.”

“Oh, no, sir. It’s easy,” he says, his almost-Scots accent strong tonight.

“Easy? But you block magic!”

“That wasn’t magic,” he says. “It was…”

We wait.

“Like pushing through curtains,” he says.

I don’t have a clue what that means. It’s not magic? What is it, then? “Aren’t we risking changing something? Step on a butterfly, and all that?”

He shakes his head. “The Tapestry’s not as fragile as that, and I made sure we went nowhere that could have an effect beyond slightly less candy to go around.”

This is far above my understanding. “Right,” I say. “Makes sense. Except not at all. How did this plan even happen?”

“I’m afraid that’s my fault, sir,” says Alex, rolling those Rs, peeking around the seat at me.

He’s… maybe twelve, now? Lemme think. Yeah. Twelve. “How’s it your fault, then?”

Fuck, he’s staring at me, blue-silver eyes and dark lashes somehow eclipsing everything else I see. It’s hard to look away from him, and he’s not doing it on purpose. So feckin’ dangerous. “Well,” he says, “Mister Merlin was by, and told us about these wee ones, and then Dr. Blood said I should maybe go along because it would be good to play with peers for once who were, um. Alive?” And he smiles, doubt in his eyes and grin crooked, knowing his little explanation is absurd but hopeful anyway. “Alas, there’s a bit of a problem with that idea.”

There’s a bit more than that. “Aye. They’re all like, six months old.”

He grins. “A little young for me, yes.”

“You’re like seven months.”

And there it is—the thing I’d been hoping to see since he got dropped off with Death at age four: a little bit of attitude, sarcasm, a dry look with one eyebrow raised. “And a half, sir.”

Ha! “I might like you. You know, when you’re feckin’ weaned.”

He wrinkles his nose at me.

Notte watches all this bullshit through the rear-view mirror, and he’s still smiling. Dressed up like a movie star from a billion years ago and smiling.

I would do anything to keep this going. “How’d they rope you in, anyway?”

“I’m afraid it was a bet lost,” says Da’.

“You?” I gawk. “You? Lost a bet?”

He just smiles and doesn’t tell me what in hell happened.

The door behind us opens, and embryos on feet pile in, laughing, their little goody-bags full. Grey follows, chewing illicit candy.

“Did you beg at the door?” I ask him.

“Tax,” he says, pointing at his mouth.

Oi.

“We shall now deposit them at home,” says Notte, pulling away and ignoring the chorus of denial behind us.

“Why the fuck are we driving, anyway?” I blurt.

“Because Alex could not accompany us if we did not,” says Notte.

Alex cancels magic. That’s the rub. We couldn’t take him the usual way, going to dust; but apparently, he can take us. Suddenly, we’re back in modern times on the west coast.

It was seamless. I felt nothing. Saw nothing. I only know it changed because abruptly, the houses are new—solar powered, efficient, and small. A few telephone poles still stand, silent sentinels from when power and communication were wired.

Can anything go through a way? Or does the kid have to be here? Did we leave the barn door open?

What a weird night this is turning out to be, but if it’s got Father in a good mood, I don’t care how much candy it takes, or mystery I got to carry, or socialization I got to fake to keep it going. I turn to the kids in the back seats. “Hey, you. Pink glasses. What’s your name? Charlie? Right. Tell me about your costume.”

#

Charlie, a Jekyll-Hyde cleverness of two costumes sewn together, has some opinions on politics that might actually be his own.

Giulia, the sparkly purple dragon, wants to travel the world, and shows me drawings of what she thinks that looks like. (Which sets off all of them showing me drawings on their tablets. Some are pretty good.)

Ana, a vampire not too far off from Da’s do, tells me all about a video game where Night-Children go to therapy. Hint from the universe, maybe?

Terri, a fish-monster Dagon would be proud of, made her costume herself, and describes with gusto about A Wizard of Earthsea.

Lynn, an absolute classic sheet-ghost, wrote a song last week, but won’t sing it for me. Will tell me all about it, however.

Jasper, a tuxedo cat complete with whiskers, is a dancer, and relates their latest performance with gestures and exuberance.

Amanda, a space cowboy because why not, wants to draw comics, and shows me several of her attempts.

Be still my beating heart.

I never spent time around kids, not even when I was one. Couldn’t, back then; not like there was a school for my kind to go to, and anyone else working my dad’s land was grown. Well. At least in their teens, which was grown back then.

Life like I lived, under the thumb of the damned English, left no room for childhood. Since then, I… well. I hang around family. Da’. Other adults among the Mythos, friend and foe, keeping my eyes on ‘em for nefariousness.

So this is new.

They’re whole people, aren’t they? I think as Terri shows me the web-fingered gloves she made, with spurs like a platypus.

“You should eat more candy,” Giulia informs me, holding out a handful of chocolate that suffers from some of her costume-sprinkles getting into it.

“Why?”

She blinks up at me, dark eyes huge. “Because it’s good for the heart to be well-fed,” she says, clearly quoting some adult in her life.

“I drew you,” says Amanda, holding up a startlingly good sketch on her small tablet.

Fuck me, they’re adorable. “Not too shabby, wean.”

They giggle again.

“We’re here,” says Grey, and slides out of the car to open their door.

A chorus of boos and noes follow, but they scramble out obediently.

Ana lingers, staring up at Notte through the driver’s side window, which he’s rolled down.

He looks back. Ana has to know Notte’s irises glow like that for real. That part’s no costume.

“You’re pretty,” Ana declares, then turns on and runs after the others.

Endearing zygotes. “That was a thing.”

“Aww,” says Grey.

I turn and look again.

The seven kids are bouncing up and down in the doorway of the house they went to, apparently waving at us.

Little fuckers. Didn’t know kids could be that cute. Glad I didn’t make a habit of killing any.

And we’re driving away.

Grey flops on the back seat, sprawling and claiming it for himself. “At last. Freedom! Oh, gods, there’s caramel in my hair.”

I laugh at him.

“Cruel thing,” he mutters, taking out the stickiness with magic.

#

The party’s actually real damn nice. Held in one of those castles the Ever-Dying can’t see, in a pocket-dimension with breathable air and good weather, it’s got a fair number of important people in it. Folk from the sea and folk from the city. Fey of all kinds (and Grey enters in a guise and won’t be taking that off tonight). Bright-flash sparkles from fairies, who might actually be guests instead of working the lights. Numerous dragons—I wave at Ahaana, who’s been promoted to the dragon council. Good for her.

Katie’s here, grinning like an imp. She’s got suitors all around her again (always does, and always turns them down), and knows how to have fun in any situation; I ought to check in with her later.

Bran and his new-discovered offspring, some blond guy whose name I can never remember, are damn near the center of attention. Said guy’s husband—who’s like an angry Chinese attack-dog—seems fair determined to keep anyone from getting too friendly. Good for him. Bet we’d get along.

Bran is dressed as a pirate, eye-patch and all. Oh, pardon me, a pirate king. Figures.

Da’ sort of fades into the background, a trickery of predation and the dark, and speaks quietly with some shadowy figure I can’t make out. It’s a smart move. He risks stares and challenges otherwise, especially with him bringing the Sun into everything like he has.

Honest, I get it, anyway. Parties aren’t a thing I ever got used to. Either it’s hanging out with somebody you know like a breathing shadow, or creeping around the periphery, and that latter’s my goal tonight.

It takes me a while to realize Alex is on my heels.

“Fuck!” I say, twitching my hand away from my knives.

He winces. “Sorry.”

“What’re you creeping up behind me for?” I say, more accusatory than I’m proud of, but he feckin’ spooked me. Bad thing to do to an assassin.

“You’re good at moving unseen,” he says. “I’d like to learn how you do it.”

Oh, what’s this fiddling now? “Boyo… the way I do it ain’t the way you’re going to do it.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m learning techniques.”

I blink at him. “Why?”

There’s that keen look again. “You want the truth? Or the pat answer?”

Still can’t place that accent, and for an ear as old as mine, that’s a whole thing. “Truth.”

He nods. “I can hardly use magic, can I? So I learn techniques that don’t need it, giving me a better chance of living a responsible life.”

“A responsible life. You’re thinking far ahead for a twelve year old.”

“Someone has to,” he deadpans.

What a thing. “What’s it like, living with Death?”

And he goes soft, fond. Warm. “Good, sir.”

“Never understood that.” I shake my head. “Growing up where nothing grows.”

“I’m growing up with kindness,” he says firmly.

Well, he’s right on that. Hades is kind, even if Dis scares me shitless. “Sure,” I say. “Well, all right. Here’s how I work my feet when I walk. I’ll show you how I look at walls, the shadows. Try to figure where lights draw most people’s eyes. Takes years to learn it, but eh. You got time.”

And the smile is back, like the feckin’ sunrise after being locked in a dungeon for a thousand years. As he smiles, though, and though he don’t mean to do it, the magical protections on this place waver all around him, like reflections in water, like he might just blow the sun-strong spells of this pocket-dimension to hell if he sneezes.

This kid’s so damned dangerous. But Da’ says to leave him living. So. “Follow me.”

I lead him around the room, nodding at folks I know, ignoring folks I don’t. Nobody will start anything with me; they all know I’m Da’s knife, allowed to kill and more than capable.

I catch sight of Katie giving something to Grey, which he tucks away. Guess I know who owed the favor, then.

After a while, Bran gestures me over. Introduces me to his kid (nice guy, suspiciously so) and the spouse, who eyes me with exactly the look I gave him. One knife to another, we nod.

There’s folks offering fresh blood along with punch and shit. Now, that’s a party.

I forget the kid is there again until I take a step back and bump into him. “Fuck! Sorry. Shit. I forgot you were there.”

Alex laughs. “Perhaps I learned too well,” he says, and waggles his eyebrows.

I snort. He might be interesting if they keep working on him. I swear, Death hiring a psychiatrist was the weirdest fecking move, but if it works…

Notte comes to me, then. He’s smiling, red—been drinking recreationally too, I’m glad to see, as he’s not done for a while beyond basic nutrition—and gives me a quick kiss. “I believe I am ready to go home.”

“Uh.” I glance at the kid.

“Grey will take him home,” says Notte.

“To Death?” I blink at Grey. “You got a key to Death’s door, now?”

“You wish,” says Grey, which could mean anything, and puts his hand on Alex’s shoulder so as not to lose him.

Clever. I should’ve thought of that myself.

The night’s cool as we step out of that place, wind sucking the party-heat away from our skin and clothes. I stretch, inhaling; it’s all heather out here, a lovely and impossible scent. I do love pocket-dimensions.

“Thank you,” says Notte.

“For what?”

“Coming along. This would have been… far more difficult without your familiarity.”

I think he means the party, not the other mess.

He’s been depressed for so long. My Da’, the Lord of the Night Whispers, the most damn powerful person in this whole place, was more sociable tonight than he’s been in years. I’ll take it. “Any time. You only need ask. Shall we?”

“Not yet.” And he sits.

I join him just because, sitting on the cold grass, staring out at the sea.

It’s Earth’s sea, but not quite; Earth’s sea, but clean of petrol, sporting giant monsters I might want to hunt someday. Smells feckin’ grand.

“Play for me?” he says.

Well, that’s a thing. “You know it’s not my strong suit.”

“I don’t mind.”

Well, sure. Why not? I tune the lute again—shocked I remember how, honestly, given it’s been an age—and play an old tune I think my father used to sing working the field.

I think. I could be wrong. Maybe I heard it somewhere else. The fact is, you forget shit even over a normal human life, and mine’s been a lot of those stacked atop the other.

I sing a little. I think that’s how it went. Gods, it’s been a long time. “Mo ghrá den chéad fhéachaint thú, Eileanor na rún. Is ortsa a bhím a’smaoineamh tráth a mbím ar mo shuaimh. Mo ghrá den tsaol thú ó mo chéad searc. Is tú is deise ná ban Éireann …”

You are my love at first sight, Eleanor my darling, it’s of you that I am thinking while I am at rest. My love and my first treasure, you are the fairest of the women of Ireland…

No, my father didn’t sing this. It was later than he was around, so why am I thinkin’ of it now, this cold night after harvest?

Because my mother’s name was Ailaneor. Oh, gods. I’d not recalled her name in… years.

I don’t remember stopping the singing, but I keep playing. Got to. This has unlocked something in me, some memory; for some reason, I almost have her face.

Almost. It’s been centuries. And I almost have her face.

Notte sits with me, quiet, looking at stars that have gone through so many names even he doesn’t know them all, and he waits.

Did he know this would happen? I’ll bet Jonathan did. Damned costume is spot-on.

I play, and think, and close my eyes. I remember her hair as red as mine, and… almost her face. Almost.

Her eyes. I might not have them true. Might be putting someone else’s over them in my mind, but who knows? It’s closer than I’ve been in ages. I wasn’t much older than those single-cell souls we carted around tonight when she died.

When I’m done, the lute sings briefly on its own, an echoing of harmonics, then stills.

Tears mark my da’s face.

“Who were you thinking of?” I say, thick, because that’s not what I expected to see.

“Someone.” He stirs at last, gone from mountain-still to river-quick in an instant. “Let us return home.”

“Oi, this was fun. We should do it again.”

“Perhaps we will, if I lose a bet.”

“What bet did you lose?” Still can’t believe it.

He smiles. “Whether or not Bran would find his son.”

I blink at him. “Really?”

“He felt it,” says Notte. “Felt it to be true, that another shared his essence, and had for some years, but could not find him.”

“Wait. Who’d you bet? Why? When?”

“Merlin bet me,” says Notte. “And he offered a thing I could not refuse. Alas, that I lost; I would have liked what was on offer.”

“What was on offer?”

“A memory,” he says, and doesn’t tell me what it was. Figures. “Come, my child,” he says, takes my arm, and we go to dust.

The trip home is quick, out of this pocket dimension, into the Earth held together by the Sun’s generosity given at Notte’s request. Past the empty places where humans once lived. All the way to our manor, tucked away on the edge of the sea, protected by magic most fane.

I can’t help but think the kid might destroy those protections someday if he keeps coming around, but… that part’s not my choice to make.

“I needed to see them,” says Notte suddenly. “The children. Living their lives, loving their parents, weaving their tales. Continuing to be their flawed, fascinating selves. They are as they were. They have not lost themselves, though their world trembles on the brink of its end.”

Shit. “We’re that close?”

“It will not take much more.” He’s so grim. “Xu-Kai can only do so much, and all has gone so far. I fear one more catastrophe will be enough to end it.”

If it ends, the humans die.

If the humans die, we die.

“What do we do?” I say, soft.

“I am… working on a solution,” he says. “But I needed tonight. Needed to be reminded of why I will give so much.”

He gives me no more on that, but that ain’t so surprising. It’s bigger things than my pay grade, to fuck around with species survival, and I really don’t want to have to juggle it. Besides: I know he’ll do us right. “In for the night?”

“Yes.”

Time to change the mood. “Then I get to help you out of your costume.”

He laughs. “As you wish. If you wish.”

Ha! “I sure as feck do.”

We go inside, and the ocean sweeping the rocks below seems to chuckle at my brazen self, but it ought to know better. I could never be anything else.