fic, original: how sam met the ghoul of his dreams. pg-13, 20K.
Part One / Part Three
The taxi bumped along the cobbled street and rolled to a stop in front of the tavern. Sam stared out the window. His breath fogged the glass, blurring the images of the people and the buildings. No turning back now, he thought as he opened the cab door and stepped out.
After Pete woke Trevor up and helped him out of the cab, the three of them stood huddled together on the street; Trevor rubbed his eyes and yawned hugely, stumbling a little so that Pete had to put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
Sam gulped. The nervousness he'd been trying to ignore hit him full force like a punch to the stomach: a gut churning, oh-God-why kind of nervousness that made him break out into a cold sweat. Thirteen years was a long time to run away from home.
"Ready?" Pete asked, laying a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder.
Sam stared up at the carved wooden sign swinging over the entrance where intricate letters in old-fashioned script proclaimed "The Witching Hour." The words curled around an image of a witch dressed in a ragged cloak flying on a broomstick over a full moon. He remembered when one of his mom's boyfriends had carved it; he'd let Sam etch the straw on the end of the witch's broomstick.
"Ready as I'll ever be," Sam said, taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders.
A steady stream of people moved in and out of the tavern. He could see people milling around in elaborate costumes: aliens, monsters, fairies and witches and wizards thronged the streets. Young girls in fishnet stockings and too much dark makeup slathered across their faces slouched against the wall; a group of Japanese men in business suits were busy clicking cameras; and heavyset tourists wearing "I Heart Salem" t-shirts, with the heart symbol replaced by a pointed witches' hat, ate candied apples and pointed at the unusual things they saw.
Now that he was really looking, Sam could pick out the monsters scattered among the humans. He saw several ghouls grouped near the door, a vampire standing on the sidewalk talking to an attractive young woman wearing a "My other ride is a broomstick" t-shirt, a few werewolves smoking and drinking beer in a loud group, and a host of other monsters he could only guess at.
As Sam headed toward the tavern door, Pete was solid presence behind him while Trevor skipped along at his side. Sam wove his way between the masses of people. Pete wasn't kidding when he said this was a popular spot on All Hallows. Sam was certain that if he hadn't been traveling with a very tall and very determined-looking ghoul, he would have had a much harder time reaching the door.
Inside the tavern, the ambiance was just the right balance between spooky and inviting. He had to squint a little as his eyes adjusted to the smoky interior-he noted the fog machines, all the same model he had at home, puffing away at every corner of the room-and made his way toward the bar. If he wanted to find his mother, that's where she'd be.
A green-skinned man slid into Sam's path. He had curling ram horns protruding from his forehead, a wicked grin twisting his lips, and a speculative gleam in his slitted yellow eyes that made Sam very nervous.
Pete pressed himself closer to Sam's side in the crush of people. "Maybe you should stay near me," he said as he tightened his grip on Sam's arm and shot the green man a dark look. The other monster quickly backed away, grinning and holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
"There's Miss Hain!" Trevor said excitedly, pointing toward the cash register at the bar.
Sure enough, Sam saw his mom laughing as she handed change to a werewolf couple. She was dressed like the Wicked Witch of the West, right down to the green skin, although her costume's bodice was considerably lower cut. Sam rolled his eyes. His mother had never been known for her subtlety.
Her hair was still black as a crow's wing. Her dark curls shone under the light as she turned her head and said something to the tall, blond man dressed as Cupid at her side; he had to lean down to hear her, and Sam realized with a start that it was his brother Rip, his sculpted chest and flashing eyes going a long way to making him look like the Greek god he thought he was. Rip was such a dick.
Rip suddenly stiffened and looked up as though he'd heard Sam's thought.
Their eyes locked and Rip scowled. It was pretty easy to lip-read the single-syllable word he uttered.
Samantha turned quickly, alerted by Rip's expression, and caught sight of them. Sam watched her eyes narrow and her lips press into a thin, worried line.
"This is going to be really fun," Sam said. "I can tell."
"Don't worry," Pete replied. "You've got me and Trevor for backup."
Sam glanced back. "Oh yeah? Tell that to Trevor."
Trevor had clearly lost interest in Sam's mission for the moment. He was busy feeding quarters into an old pinball machine in the corner, chatting animatedly with another small boy dressed like a ninja.
Pete sighed, his mouth quirking. "Fickle, thy name is nine-year-old. Okay. You've still got me."
As he stared up into Pete's handsome face and his serious yellow-grey eyes, Sam felt more buoyed by that simple statement than he would have expected.
"Thanks," Sam replied. "Just so you know, if my brother starts acting like an asshole, you totally have my permission to eat him."
"Duly noted," Pete laughed, pressing a hand lightly to the small of Sam's back to guide him forward. Sam moved reluctantly. His feet felt heavy and clumsy as he approached the bar and he had a terrible vision of tripping and falling flat on his face. He could see his brother's hands gripping the polished, wood countertop tightly, knuckles strained and white and expression tight. Sam's mom was wringing her hands; she looked anxious and pissed off and a little guilty all at once.
"Hi, baby," she said when they got close enough. "What a surprise! How's mom's darling boy?"
"Mom," Sam said warningly.
Rip snorted and leaned across the counter. He should have looked ridiculous, bare-chested and wearing half a toga with a quiver of arrows and two small, white wings strapped across his back. Instead, he looked like a real Greek god, ready to smite and intimidating as hell. Sometimes Sam hated his brother. "What are you doing here?" Rip asked.
"I was hoping Mom could tell me that," Sam said, ignoring his brother's glower. "I've been having some rather supernatural problems today."
All eyes turned to Samantha.
"Batshit," Samantha said. "I really hoped it wasn't you, Sam."
Rip went still so fast Sam saw his body jerk in a single violent motion. "Mom? You don't mean-"
"Congratulations, hun, you're officially my youngest son," Samantha said, reaching across the counter to touch Sam's arm.
Sam blinked, glancing back and forth between his brother, whose face looked frozen with rage and shock, and his mother, who smiled weakly through a guilty squint.
"What?" he asked. "Mom, that doesn't make any sense, stop acting crazy. I mean, stop acting so crazy. I know you can't really help yourself, but we both know Rip is the baby. That's why you spoiled him when we were kids, and, y'know, let him do whatever he wanted."
Samantha frowned. "Oh, sweetie, don't act like I loved him more."
"Even though she did," Rip added helpfully, his expression now carefully blank.
"Shut up," Sam snapped at him. "Mom, what the hell are you talking about?"
Samantha sighed and propped her hip against the counter. Even at nearly sixty, she was still an attractive woman. She hardly looked a day over forty and oozed wicked sensuality, one of the perks of being a powerful witch. The plump curve of her hip drew hungry looks from several men seated along the bar, and Sam knew his mom noticed their attention because she deliberately moistened her lips and fluffed her curls. He loved his mother, God help him, but she was a complete hussy. It was the reason he had so many brothers.
"You know how the delivery went, sweetie," his mother said. "I was right in the middle of that demon-summoning ritual when my water broke, and things were so crazy that, well, we were never sure which one of you was born first. You were both tiny and sticky and I was trying to banish a demon while the doctors cleaned you up. Nobody really paid attention."
"What?" Rip said. His voice sounded hoarse.
Samantha patted him on the arm. "I'd hoped it was you, Rip. After all, Sam never showed any interest in the Craft."
Sam pressed his knuckles hard into his temples, attempting to stave off the headache he felt forming. "Can you please talk sense? What does this have to do with anything?"
"Samantha," Pete's voice rang out from behind Sam, his tone corpse-cold. Sam jumped; he'd almost forgotten Pete's presence.
"Samantha," Pete repeated, and it was clear he was trying to control himself. "How many sons do you have?"
His mom pretended to be offended, even going so far as a maidenly blush. "Really, Pete, I don't ask you how many corpses you've eaten. I was an amorous young girl, and I don't think I should be judged for that. It isn't any of your business."
"Samantha Hain," Pete said. His eyes turned a deep, eerie yellow and the orange veins threaded through his irises glowed in a pulsing rhythm. "As Spook deputy director, I am ordering you to tell me how many goddamned children you have."
"Fine. I have Ichabod, Alastair, Edgar, Henry, Jack, Ripley, and Sam."
Sam watched Pete's face darken with every name. "I know math was never my strong suit, Samantha, but that sounds like you have seven kids."
His mom winced. "When you say it like that, it does sound like a lot."
"Seven boys! Dammit, Samantha! You know you're supposed to register seventh sons! It's the law!"
Sam's mom flicked her hands dismissively at Pete. "Sometimes these things slip my mind. It's hardly a felony."
"It is a felony!" Pete bellowed, his nostrils flaring. "I should haul you down to headquarters. Do you realize how much trouble Sam is in? He hasn't got any protection!"
Samantha glared. She was a world-class glarer. Sam remembered trembling beneath that very glare when he was eight years old after accidentally set his mother's familiar-a fat, grey-striped tabby named Mr. Pickle (short for Pickled-Bat-Wings)-on fire. She'd found Sam chasing the cat, trying to beat out the flames with a very expensive spellbook.
He'd given up on magic soon after that, and the cat had hated him until it died. Its fur never quite grew back.
"Don't you think I know that?" Samantha said. Glasses rattled on shelves behind her. "I must have called him fifty times today! But you didn't answer your phone!" she finished, rounding on Sam.
"Don't make this about me!" Sam said, then realized how stupid that sounded when everyone stopped and stared at him.
"You know what I meant," he said grumpily. "I don't get why this is such a big deal, anyway. So I'm the seventh son instead of Rip, so what?
Now everyone stared at Sam like he'd grown three extra heads and all of them were mentally retarded.
"Didn't you read any of those grimoires I sent you after you left?" his mother asked, sounding wounded.
"No," Sam said. They were sitting in a dusty box in the back of his hall closet. "I hated your stupid magic stuff, remember? It never worked for me."
"I know, honey. You were always exploding things or accidentally turning our neighbors into animals. I remember when you accidentally sent Mr. Hodgins to the Bermuda Triangle as a cat. He was very angry when he got back."
And very wet, Sam remembered. But Mr. Hodgins had been a mean, cantankerous old warlock. He'd been much more hilarious as a cat.
"That's why I thought for sure Rip was the seventh son," his mom continued. "It comes so easily to him."
Rip's chest puffed out; it showed off, in Sam's opinion, disturbingly pert nipples. "Thanks, Mom," Rip preened.
"Oh yeah," Sam said. "Heaven forbid something doesn't come easy to Rip."
"Shut up, I work hard at my magic," Rip said, clenching his hands into fists. "Don't blame me because you're a screw up. You swanned off and left us all behind because that way was easier for you."
"Spare me your abandonment issues," Sam said. "You're close to overloading my bullshit-meter."
"Boys!" Samantha said sharply. "Rip, be nice to your brother. He's going through a difficult time. His body is changing and it's confusing for him."
Sam's face went red. "This isn't puberty, Mom."
"Actually, that's not a bad analogy," Pete said. He still sounded angry, but also like he was trying not to laugh at the same time. "Seventh sons possess extremely strong magical abilities. That's why monsters come after them, for their powers. They come into their powers when they reach their thirtieth birthday. It's said to be a painful process, especially if they haven't been trained in magic."
"Great," Sam said. "Magical puberty is going to suck. Awesome. For the record, I have not felt particularly powerful today. I've felt terrified and hunted and overwhelmed and crazy. Not powerful."
Samantha cleared her throat. "You won't come into your power until your precise birthday, sweetie. Meaning, the actual time you were born."
Pete raised an eyebrow. "When is that?"
"Midnight," Sam said, closing his eyes. "We've got a couple of hours."
"Midnight?" Pete exploded. "An unregistered seventh son born at midnight on All Hallows? Oh, Samantha, I am throwing the book at you when this is over."
"Try it," Rip said, rolling his shoulders combatively and angling his body so his shoulder partially shielded Samantha.
Pete flashed a wide, pointed grin. A dangerous grin split his face, and he flexed his clawed fingertips. "Please. Just give me a reason."
"Um, Uncle Pete?" interrupted a small, nervous voice.
They swung around to find Trevor shifting nervously from foot to foot, his expression troubled. "Are you guys fighting?"
"No, Trevor," Pete said, after a moment, squatting so he they were at eye level. "We're all very excited, so we're talking loud. Okay?"
Trevor looked dubious. "You know what mom said about losing your temper, Uncle Pete. She'll wanna talk."
Pete gritted his teeth and stood up. "Don't worry, Trev. I'm not gonna lose my temper." His eyes, when they slid to Samantha and Rip, silently added: Yet.
"That's good," Trevor said, his thin shoulders sagging in relief. "'Cause lots of monsters are already staring at you."
Sam was suddenly aware that the tavern had gone very quiet. A wide variety of monsters had ringed their little group, jostling each other to create a loose half-circle around the bar. The monsters did not look friendly. In fact, they looked sort of hungry. It did not ease Sam's nerves to find they were all looking at him. The green-skinned monster with the ram's horns from earlier caught his eye and winked. Then he licked his lips and grinned, showing a mouthful of needlelike teeth.
"Shit," Rip said eloquently. "You walked into a fucking bar full of monsters, you idiot."
"Thanks, Rip," Sam snapped back. "It's not like I knew what I was doing."
"Story of your life," Rip muttered.
"Boys!" Samantha said again.
"This is definitely not good," Pete said. "We've gotta get out of here to somewhere safe." Now that they'd been noticed, the monsters began moving closer. Fangs and claws and horns and wings shone in the dim, smoky light.
"Everyone, grab hands," Samantha commanded. "Now."
Sam didn't even hesitate. He hadn't seen his mother in thirteen years, and he still recognized the tone that said: "If you don't clean your room right now, I will turn you into a hamster and stick you in a cage because that will be easier to clean."
He grabbed for Pete and Trevor and felt Rip reach across the bar and grab one shoulder while his mother grabbed the other.
"Rip, lend me some power for this translocation spell," his mother said.
Rip nodded, leaning forward and grunting as the magic left him. "God, you are such a pain in the ass," he hissed at Sam, keeping his voice low. He dug his fingers painfully hard into Sam's shoulder and pinched the muscle. "Translocation spells always give me a massive fucking headache."
"Boo hoo," Sam said, elbowing Rip in the stomach. "Take an aspirin. I'd really like to not be eaten by monsters today."
"Boys!" Samantha chastised as the spell took effect. Sam felt a tug at his navel, ringing in his ears, and then a pop as they disappeared into thin air, just as the monsters closed in.
----
When they reappeared, Sam's feet hit the ground hard. It sent a shocking jolt up his legs, and he stumbled out of Rip's grasp.
It took him a second to get his bearings. Dimly, he heard Pete make a startled noise and say, "How did we get…? Nevermind. Samantha, we are going to have a very long talk when this is all over."
He couldn't spare much time to process Pete's words because he immediately braced his hands on his knees and bent over, trying to resist the pressing urge to blow chunks: if the Chinese food and candy came up, he didn't think it would make a pretty of a pattern on the linoleum.
"Next time," Sam said, his hands shaking as he took a deep breath, tasting bile in the back of his throat, "First class only. I'm never flying coach again."
His mother and brother both shot him a glare, probably for criticizing their bumpy landing. His mother's pointed hat seemed to have gotten lost in translocation, and her hair was mussed and wind-whipped. Rip's face was pale, but he looked steady. He grimaced when he caught Sam's eye, miming a dainty faint like Sam was a wuss.
Sam gave him the finger.
"Sam," his mother said, smoothing a wrinkle from her skirt and brushing her hair back. "Stop antagonizing your brother. Can't you be serious?"
"Oh, I'm serious," Sam said, straightening. He coughed. "Serious as a frigging heart attack. In fact, I think I might be having a heart attack, Jesus, that's how serious I am."
Pete stepped close and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, we'll figure this out. I'm pretty sure."
"Way to reassure him, Mr. Deputy Director," Rip said, rolling his eyes.
"Where are we?" Sam asked, ignoring his brother and blinking as he finally looked around. They were standing at the end of a long, beige corridor in front of a large desk. The hallway was dark except for the eerie wash of emergency lights and the soft blue glow from the computer screen at the desk.
"Welcome to Spook Headquarters," Pete said, giving Samantha a sour look. "It's supposed to be inaccessible by spell."
"Whoops," Samantha said.
Rip raised an eyebrow and glanced around. "Mom and I don't have the power to do that." He didn't appear happy to admit this.
All eyes swung to Sam.
"Don't look at me," Sam said, holding up his hands. "I'm mojo-less until midnight, right?" At his mother's considering stare, he began to grow nervous. "Right?" he repeated.
His mother looked thoughtful and, Sam noticed as he narrowed his eyes, a little shady. "Oh, I don't know. Your father was… well, I wouldn't be surprised if you could do things a little early."
Pete narrowed his eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"What do you mean I can do things early?" Sam said. "I told you, I didn't do anything!"
"You probably messed the spell up at the last second," Rip said, sounding disgusted. "Mom and I were aiming for her workshop, not this dump."
"But I didn't!" Sam insisted. "I was only thinking of getting somewhere safe."
"Yeah!" Trevor said, stepping up next to Sam's side. His sharp chin jutted out determinedly. "Mr. Sam couldn'ta thought of a safer place than this. Uncle Pete said he'll protect Mr. Sam no matter what, till death do 'em part and everything."
Pete cleared his throat. It looked like he was blushing. "That's. Uh, Trevor, that's not quite… yeah," he said helplessly.
Samantha looked between Sam and Pete, a little frown between her eyebrows. Then her expression smoothed and a gleaming, calculating look entered her eyes. "I'm sure we're all going to do our best to protect Sam," she said, smiling in a way that made Sam nervous. His mother usually smiled that way when she was planning something. Granted, from what he remembered, that was usually all the damn time, but seeing it again after thirteen years was enough to make his stomach twist apprehensively.
"Hold on," Pete said. "You still haven't answered me. What does their dad have to do with anything? What is he? An unregistered warlock?"
"No," Samantha said, hedging. "But it's going to make Sam's powers a lot more complicated."
"I hate complicated," Sam said.
"I know you do, hon," his mother said, patting his hand. "Mommy promises she'll uncomplicate it, okay?"
"Mom," Sam said. "I'm not five. In fact, the whole problem is that I am no longer five."
"You still act like you're five," Rip said.
"I do not," Sam said.
"Do to," Rip said.
Sam stuck his tongue out.
"Boys," Samantha warned.
"Um, Uncle Pete," Trevor said, tugging on Pete's shirt. "Who're those guys with the guns?"
They all went quiet, staring at Trevor. Sam became aware of a prickly sense of We are not alone hanging heavy in the hall, a sort of soundless noise, the kind of not-noise that bypassed your ears entirely because they were too much work; instead, it went straight to the sleepy lizard part of your brain and woke it up by tapping its shoulder with feeling.
Pete took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and opened them as he slowly turned around.
"Sir," said the leader of the heavily armed security team standing at the other end of the hall. He appeared to be part snake and had a strangely flattened nose and two long fangs overlapping his bottom lip. Green scales trailed from his cheekbones and down his neck, disappearing under his black turtleneck and bulletproof vest. "This is an unauthorized visit."
Great, Sam thought. I forgot we accidentally broke into Spook Headquarters. Like their night couldn't get any worse, now they had trained armed men pointing guns at them.
"Yes," Pete said, recovering smoothly. "Yes, it is. Glad to see you boys are staying on your toes. This will all be in my report on Monday. Full marks."
"Sir?" the team leader said, looking confused. He lowered his weapon slightly.
"I'm impressed," Pete continued. "I almost didn't hear your approach. You guys must be getting good training down in Kowalski's stealth class."
"He's… hard but fair, sir," said the team leader, slowly lowering his weapon the rest of the way.
"All right, then," Pete said. "We're going to, uh, go now. Good work, men. Excellent response time." He edged toward Sam.
"Thank you, sir," the leader said, still sounding unsure. He observed their ragtag group with a skeptical expression.
Pete cleared his throat and gestured behind him. "New field agents," he said. "This is, uh, the first batch. I'm showing them the ropes. Figured they could get acclimated to Headquarters while it was quiet."
"Right, sir," the team leader said, staring pointedly at Trevor.
Trevor waved.
"Can't be too careful," Pete said quickly. "We need agents in the school system these days."
"Of course, sir," the leader said. "We'll leave you to it." The men turned and began walking away.
"Phew," Sam said under his breath. It was a good thing Pete was an impressive liar and the bar for Spook agents was set too low to limbo under. "That was close."
One by one, the agents stopped. Their bodies tensed. The back of the leader's head tilted sideways, like he was scenting prey, and then he swung around, his eyes locking on Sam. He licked his lips. And he growled.
"Shit," Pete said fervently. "Samantha, get us out of here, now!"
"Grab hands, everyone!" Samantha exclaimed as the agents charged down the hall with thundering footsteps and eyes shining bright with hunger. "Rip, now!"
Pete pulled Sam toward him with one arm and Trevor with the other. Sam was pressed close against Pete's chest, his pulse pounding erratically, Pete's arm wrapped around his waist.
He felt his brother's hand land heavily on his arm as his mom and Rip closed their eyes. In unison, they muttered a short phrase and energy crackled to life around them, lightning-flickers of magic dancing over their skin and giving them electrified brilliance.
"Go!" Pete yelled
The snake-agent's clawed hand closed on empty air.
----
"Seriously," Sam said after they reappeared in his mother's living room. His stomach roiled in protest. The thick smoke wafting from the incense in the braziers did nothing to help. "I never. Want. To do that. Again. I didn't even get my in-flight peanuts."
"Hopefully this is the last time we'll have to jump ship tonight," Samantha said. "The house is well-warded. We should be fine here while we figure out what to do."
"That was so cool," Trevor said. "We almost got eaten!"
Pete rubbed his temple. "Trev, don't ever tell your mother that."
"Oh yeah?" Trevor asked slyly. He'd somehow managed to hang onto his satchel of candy, and he slipped it from his shoulder. "Think I could eat some candy now, Uncle Pete?"
"Not until your mother's looked through it," Pete said, distractedly. "All right, now that we're here, what can we do about Sam's problem? There's got to be some sort of ritual we can use."
"Aw, Uncle Pete," Trevor interrupted, looking up with wide eyes. "Are you sure? 'Cause mom's gonna ask me how trick-or-treating went. When she looks through my candy."
"Trevor, not now," Pete said. "The grownups are talking."
"Uncle Pete," Trevor pressed. "If I eat my candy now, mom won't have to go through it. And I won't have to talk to her." He paused, a shy, sweet little smile on his face. "And I won't have to tell her about tonight."
Pete blinked and looked at Trevor. "You've been talking to your Uncle Greg again, haven't you?"
"Uncle Greg's pretty smart," Trevor said noncommittally.
"Uncle Greg's pretty devious," Pete corrected. "I see we're going to have to limit the amount of time you spend volunteering at the orphanage."
Trevor grinned. "Can I eat some candy now?"
Pete sighed. "Knock yourself out. Spit out any razorblades."
"I'll add 'em to my collection," Trevor promised.
"I officially love that kid," Rip said, watching in amusement as Trevor plopped to the ground and tore into his candy. Sam silently agreed, fighting back a smile at the annoyed look on Pete's face.
"Okay, so what's the plan?" Sam said. "Do we just wait around until midnight? Am I gonna get hit with magical puberty all at once?"
"I don't know," his mother said, frowning. "But we will need to cast some spells on you in preparation-a shielding spell for sure. I had everything all set up for Rip. I was so certain it was him. You were always terrible at magic. I thought about sending you to a special school."
"Nice," Sam said. "You wanted to put me on the magical shortbus. I'm happy you had so much faith in me. Really, you're the best, mom."
"Don't you take that tone with me Samuel Hain. I brought you into this world, and I can take you out-or maybe turn you into a toad who can't sass his mother."
Sam snapped his mouth shut and crossed his arms, turning his head away while his brother laughed.
"And you, Ripley," his mother said, fixing an unimpressed gaze on his brother. "Stop making this difficult for Sam. I know you're jealous-"
"What!" Rip sputtered. "I'm not, I'm just-"
"Can it," his mother said. "We've got work to do. I'm going to have to re-key all the sigils to your brother's aura, which means I'm going to need all new ingredients, and we don't have a lot of time. I'll need everyone's help."
Trevor raised his hand from the floor. His mouth was smeared with chocolate. "Do you need my help, Miss Samantha? I can help!"
"No, sweetie," Samantha said gently. "You just eat your candy and leave the boring work to us. You can be my supervisor."
"Neat!" Trevor said happily. "Wow, this is the awesomest Halloween ever, Uncle Pete! First I got candy, and then we fought vampires, and climbed walls, and ran from that werewolf, and escaped monsters twice-yeah!"
Pete stared. "I am a terrible, awful Uncle," he said, putting his head in his hands.
"Don't beat yourself up," Samantha said, patting him on the back. "Putting kids in mortal danger builds their character. It's how I raised mine."
"Oh God," Pete said. "I'm the worst Uncle ever."
"Cheer up," Rip said. "He'll have great stories to tell his therapist."
"Okay, enough. If we want this to turn out all right, we're going to have to work fast," Samantha said, straightening her shoulders like a general preparing to lead an army to war. "I don't want to hear any complaining from anyone."
"Samantha," Pete began.
"Especially you," his mom said. "Happy as I am that you brought my son to me, you're not much help now." She pointed to a large oak chest under the window. "Go unpack that and bring me the red velvet bags inside."
Pete opened his mouth.
Samantha fixed him with a squinty glare, combining flinty-eyed witch with pissed-off mom.
Pete very carefully closed his mouth and headed for the chest.
Samantha blew out a breath as she listed ingredients off on her fingers. "Okay, I need three spoonfuls of wormwood extract, two mummified rat paws, fresh lizard guts, a black rose shorn of its petals, eighteen de-legged spider husks, and a cup of coffee."
"What's the coffee for?" Pete asked over his shoulder.
"Me," Samantha said, rubbing her eyes. "I'll need all the caffeine I can get."
----
"I still don't get it," Sam said. "Why are these monsters after me? What's the big deal about my powers?"
"They can sense it, honey," his mother explained as she lopped paws off mummified rat corpses. "Monsters are going to go a little crazy when they hear you or smell you. You're like… well, remember when Mr. Pickle got into my herbs? And we had to get him down from the ceiling fan? It's like that, sweetie."
"So I'm catnip," Sam said. "I'm catnip for monsters."
"More like batnip," Rip said from where he was chalking new lines on the wood floor. "If you wanna get technical. Or werenip. Or zombienip. Or ghostnip. Or-"
"Yeah, thanks, Rip," Sam said. "You can shut up any time you fucking want."
"Samuel!" Samantha said. "Watch your damn language!"
Sam scowled and ripped the leg off a dried spider with a particularly vicious tug.
"I'm just saying," Rip said, shrugging negligently. "You're basically every monster's wet dream. Right, Pete?"
Pete made an annoyed, choked off noise, and kept his head down as he finished repacking the trunk. "Let's just finish this spell," he said.
"Hey," Rip said thoughtfully. "How come Pete and Trevor aren't affected?"
"Trevor's too young," Samantha said. "And Pete's affected. His reaction is just different."
"What?" Pete said, looking up.
"Nothing," Samantha said. "Hand me that pestle, would you?"
----
"You know," Sam said later, peeling petals from a black rose and dropping them into a bowl of lizard guts, "A few hours ago my biggest concern was getting a stomachache from eating too much candy. Now I have to worry about monsters getting a stomachache if they eat me."
"If they eat you," Rip said, "They'll get food poisoning. Bet you taste nasty."
"I taste great!" Sam said indignantly.
"Do not," Rip replied, tipping wormwood extract into the mixture. "Like old feet. And earwax."
"Guys," Pete said tiredly. "We need to hurry and finish this spell prep. It's getting close to midnight."
"Hey, they'd be lucky to eat me!" Sam said, glaring at his brother. "They'd line up for blocks to get a nibble of me!"
"Whatever, they'd have to drink like twenty glasses of water to wash your gross flavor away."
"Guys, seriously," Pete said again, sounding frustrated. "We need to finish-"
"They would not! Bite me, Rip!" Sam snapped.
"No way," Rip jeered. "I don't wanna get food poisoning either!"
Sam ground his teeth together. "I taste delicious," he said. "I taste like monster ambrosia. I taste-"
"For the love of God," Pete said as he grabbed Sam's hand and brought it to his mouth. He licked a stripe up Sam's palm, from the bottom all the way to the top of his index finger.
"You taste like heaven," Pete said. "Now can we get back to preparing the spell? Jesus, you're both two-year-olds."
Sam stood still with shock, staring at the glistening trail on his hand. Then he turned to his brother. "Told you," he said smugly.
"His taste buds are probably dead," Rip muttered.
----
Sam sat in a rickety, rune-inscribed wooden chair. The chair's tall back was decorated with howling gargoyles. His hands clenched on armrests that had been carved into suspiciously red-stained claws. He took a deep breath.
Samantha finished the words of the spell and opened her eyes, taking a step back. "Uh oh," she said.
Sam looked down. All his visible skin had turned brilliantly lavender.
"How do you feel, sweetie?" His mom asked anxiously.
"I feel purple," Sam said.
"It's an… unusual side effect," his mother agreed. "And not one I was expecting. It should wear off in a few minutes. But really, how do you feel?"
"Violent."
"Don't you mean, er, violet, sweetie?"
"No," Sam said grimly.
His mother sighed. "No magical tingles?
"Uh, no," Sam said. "If I was purple and tingling, mother, we would be having words."
Samantha rolled her eyes. "You're such a difficult child, Samuel. All right. Obviously the shielding spell didn't work."
"No kidding," Pete said. He was doing a poor job containing his amusement.
Sam glared at him in annoyance.
"Sorry, you look grape," Pete said sincerely. "I mean-great." And then he lost it, doubled over in laughter.
"I hate everything," Sam said, staring up at the ceiling. "Even puppies."
"Well, batshit," his mom sighed, biting her lower lip. "I was afraid of this. The regular spells for seventh sons aren't going to work. It looks like there's nothing for it. I'd better call your dad, he's the only one who can stop this." She heaved another sigh and massaged the back of her neck, wincing.
Sam's mouth dropped open. Across the room, Rip made a noise like a wounded animal; his shocked expression mirrored Sam's.
"Our dad?" Rip asked, his shoulders hunching. He'd taken off the wings and the quiver, but he was still bare-chested. He folded his arms over his chest, looking younger and more vulnerable than Sam could ever remember seeing him. "You never talk about dad. You said you didn't know where he was."
"I don't," Samantha said. "Specifically, that is. But, well, generally, yes. I know where he is generally."
"Where?" Rip demanded.
Samantha sighed and pointed down.
"Oh," Sam said, feeling his stomach plummet. "He's dead. Okay, fine, sure, we'll call him. We can raise him from the grave, no problem. After all, what's a little necrophilia between family?"
"Incestuous necrophilia," Rip grumbled.
"No," Samantha said impatiently. She jabbed her finger toward the floor again. "He's down there."
"He's in your basement?" Pete asked, blinking.
Samantha threw her hands in the air. "He's the Devil!"
No one spoke for several long minutes.
"Cool," Trevor breathed with wide eyes, breaking the silence.
"When you say the Devil," Sam said shakily, "you mean he's kind of a bastard, right?
"Er, no," his mother said apologetically. "Listen, sweetie, it was the late 70s and things were a little crazy. Every female witch worth her salt was trying to summon Beelzebub. Me and a couple of girlfriends got together one weekend, had a few wine spritzers, and-"
"Oh God," Sam moaned. "Please let this story end with 'and then we braided each other's hair and ate chocolate chip cookies.'"
"We did that, too," his mom said. "Before we summoned the Devil for an orgy."
Sam pressed the heel of his palm against his eye. Hard. "At least tell me you were the only one naked."
"Well, that wouldn't have been fair to the other girls, would it?" his mother asked. "They wanted a go, too."
Sam closed his eyes. "Do I have any more half brothers or sisters I should know about?" he asked wearily.
"No, no!" Samantha hurried to reassure him. "Halfway through the ritual the other two girls realized they were lesbians. All that dancing naked in the moonlight does make a girl curious, I'll admit. I was the only one who got lucky that night. Mm, yes, it worked out pretty well for me," she finished dreamily. "Your father sure was a hunk. He could do this thing with his pitchfork-"
"Gngh!" Sam and Rip both protested at once.
"I can't believe I raised such prudes," Samantha said, frowning as she put her hands on her hips. "I suppose you're going to tell me you refuse to get naked for the summoning spell, hm?"
"I refuse," Sam said. "Oh, how I refuse. I am not meeting my dad for the first time-my dad who is apparently the Devil-naked, I don't care what you say."
"I'd be okay with doing it naked," Rip said evenly, clearly pretending to be unruffled because he always had to show Sam up. "But I don't want anyone to objectify me like that."
Abruptly, Sam started laughing, and everyone looked at him like he'd gone crazy. Maybe he had; it sure felt like it. He calmed himself after a few minutes, wiping away tears from his eyes.
"Sam?" his mother asked hesitantly, as though afraid any sudden movement or loud noise might set him off again. "What is it?"
"Nothing, it's-nothing," Sam said, and heard himself giggling again. "It's just-when we were kids. You called us little devils. Like. That's. That's really fucking appropriate, isn't it?"
Rip snorted, his lips twitching. "God, you're an idiot."
His mother didn't look like she knew how to react. "Right, well. Let me just get my black grimoire and my jar of virgin blood and we can get started with the ritual."
"Other kid's moms bake cookies or take them to the park," Sam said. "Our mom keeps jars of virgin blood and has sex with the Devil."
"Rock 'n Roll," Rip said.
----
Part Three
The taxi bumped along the cobbled street and rolled to a stop in front of the tavern. Sam stared out the window. His breath fogged the glass, blurring the images of the people and the buildings. No turning back now, he thought as he opened the cab door and stepped out.
After Pete woke Trevor up and helped him out of the cab, the three of them stood huddled together on the street; Trevor rubbed his eyes and yawned hugely, stumbling a little so that Pete had to put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
Sam gulped. The nervousness he'd been trying to ignore hit him full force like a punch to the stomach: a gut churning, oh-God-why kind of nervousness that made him break out into a cold sweat. Thirteen years was a long time to run away from home.
"Ready?" Pete asked, laying a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder.
Sam stared up at the carved wooden sign swinging over the entrance where intricate letters in old-fashioned script proclaimed "The Witching Hour." The words curled around an image of a witch dressed in a ragged cloak flying on a broomstick over a full moon. He remembered when one of his mom's boyfriends had carved it; he'd let Sam etch the straw on the end of the witch's broomstick.
"Ready as I'll ever be," Sam said, taking a deep breath and straightening his shoulders.
A steady stream of people moved in and out of the tavern. He could see people milling around in elaborate costumes: aliens, monsters, fairies and witches and wizards thronged the streets. Young girls in fishnet stockings and too much dark makeup slathered across their faces slouched against the wall; a group of Japanese men in business suits were busy clicking cameras; and heavyset tourists wearing "I Heart Salem" t-shirts, with the heart symbol replaced by a pointed witches' hat, ate candied apples and pointed at the unusual things they saw.
Now that he was really looking, Sam could pick out the monsters scattered among the humans. He saw several ghouls grouped near the door, a vampire standing on the sidewalk talking to an attractive young woman wearing a "My other ride is a broomstick" t-shirt, a few werewolves smoking and drinking beer in a loud group, and a host of other monsters he could only guess at.
As Sam headed toward the tavern door, Pete was solid presence behind him while Trevor skipped along at his side. Sam wove his way between the masses of people. Pete wasn't kidding when he said this was a popular spot on All Hallows. Sam was certain that if he hadn't been traveling with a very tall and very determined-looking ghoul, he would have had a much harder time reaching the door.
Inside the tavern, the ambiance was just the right balance between spooky and inviting. He had to squint a little as his eyes adjusted to the smoky interior-he noted the fog machines, all the same model he had at home, puffing away at every corner of the room-and made his way toward the bar. If he wanted to find his mother, that's where she'd be.
A green-skinned man slid into Sam's path. He had curling ram horns protruding from his forehead, a wicked grin twisting his lips, and a speculative gleam in his slitted yellow eyes that made Sam very nervous.
Pete pressed himself closer to Sam's side in the crush of people. "Maybe you should stay near me," he said as he tightened his grip on Sam's arm and shot the green man a dark look. The other monster quickly backed away, grinning and holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
"There's Miss Hain!" Trevor said excitedly, pointing toward the cash register at the bar.
Sure enough, Sam saw his mom laughing as she handed change to a werewolf couple. She was dressed like the Wicked Witch of the West, right down to the green skin, although her costume's bodice was considerably lower cut. Sam rolled his eyes. His mother had never been known for her subtlety.
Her hair was still black as a crow's wing. Her dark curls shone under the light as she turned her head and said something to the tall, blond man dressed as Cupid at her side; he had to lean down to hear her, and Sam realized with a start that it was his brother Rip, his sculpted chest and flashing eyes going a long way to making him look like the Greek god he thought he was. Rip was such a dick.
Rip suddenly stiffened and looked up as though he'd heard Sam's thought.
Their eyes locked and Rip scowled. It was pretty easy to lip-read the single-syllable word he uttered.
Samantha turned quickly, alerted by Rip's expression, and caught sight of them. Sam watched her eyes narrow and her lips press into a thin, worried line.
"This is going to be really fun," Sam said. "I can tell."
"Don't worry," Pete replied. "You've got me and Trevor for backup."
Sam glanced back. "Oh yeah? Tell that to Trevor."
Trevor had clearly lost interest in Sam's mission for the moment. He was busy feeding quarters into an old pinball machine in the corner, chatting animatedly with another small boy dressed like a ninja.
Pete sighed, his mouth quirking. "Fickle, thy name is nine-year-old. Okay. You've still got me."
As he stared up into Pete's handsome face and his serious yellow-grey eyes, Sam felt more buoyed by that simple statement than he would have expected.
"Thanks," Sam replied. "Just so you know, if my brother starts acting like an asshole, you totally have my permission to eat him."
"Duly noted," Pete laughed, pressing a hand lightly to the small of Sam's back to guide him forward. Sam moved reluctantly. His feet felt heavy and clumsy as he approached the bar and he had a terrible vision of tripping and falling flat on his face. He could see his brother's hands gripping the polished, wood countertop tightly, knuckles strained and white and expression tight. Sam's mom was wringing her hands; she looked anxious and pissed off and a little guilty all at once.
"Hi, baby," she said when they got close enough. "What a surprise! How's mom's darling boy?"
"Mom," Sam said warningly.
Rip snorted and leaned across the counter. He should have looked ridiculous, bare-chested and wearing half a toga with a quiver of arrows and two small, white wings strapped across his back. Instead, he looked like a real Greek god, ready to smite and intimidating as hell. Sometimes Sam hated his brother. "What are you doing here?" Rip asked.
"I was hoping Mom could tell me that," Sam said, ignoring his brother's glower. "I've been having some rather supernatural problems today."
All eyes turned to Samantha.
"Batshit," Samantha said. "I really hoped it wasn't you, Sam."
Rip went still so fast Sam saw his body jerk in a single violent motion. "Mom? You don't mean-"
"Congratulations, hun, you're officially my youngest son," Samantha said, reaching across the counter to touch Sam's arm.
Sam blinked, glancing back and forth between his brother, whose face looked frozen with rage and shock, and his mother, who smiled weakly through a guilty squint.
"What?" he asked. "Mom, that doesn't make any sense, stop acting crazy. I mean, stop acting so crazy. I know you can't really help yourself, but we both know Rip is the baby. That's why you spoiled him when we were kids, and, y'know, let him do whatever he wanted."
Samantha frowned. "Oh, sweetie, don't act like I loved him more."
"Even though she did," Rip added helpfully, his expression now carefully blank.
"Shut up," Sam snapped at him. "Mom, what the hell are you talking about?"
Samantha sighed and propped her hip against the counter. Even at nearly sixty, she was still an attractive woman. She hardly looked a day over forty and oozed wicked sensuality, one of the perks of being a powerful witch. The plump curve of her hip drew hungry looks from several men seated along the bar, and Sam knew his mom noticed their attention because she deliberately moistened her lips and fluffed her curls. He loved his mother, God help him, but she was a complete hussy. It was the reason he had so many brothers.
"You know how the delivery went, sweetie," his mother said. "I was right in the middle of that demon-summoning ritual when my water broke, and things were so crazy that, well, we were never sure which one of you was born first. You were both tiny and sticky and I was trying to banish a demon while the doctors cleaned you up. Nobody really paid attention."
"What?" Rip said. His voice sounded hoarse.
Samantha patted him on the arm. "I'd hoped it was you, Rip. After all, Sam never showed any interest in the Craft."
Sam pressed his knuckles hard into his temples, attempting to stave off the headache he felt forming. "Can you please talk sense? What does this have to do with anything?"
"Samantha," Pete's voice rang out from behind Sam, his tone corpse-cold. Sam jumped; he'd almost forgotten Pete's presence.
"Samantha," Pete repeated, and it was clear he was trying to control himself. "How many sons do you have?"
His mom pretended to be offended, even going so far as a maidenly blush. "Really, Pete, I don't ask you how many corpses you've eaten. I was an amorous young girl, and I don't think I should be judged for that. It isn't any of your business."
"Samantha Hain," Pete said. His eyes turned a deep, eerie yellow and the orange veins threaded through his irises glowed in a pulsing rhythm. "As Spook deputy director, I am ordering you to tell me how many goddamned children you have."
"Fine. I have Ichabod, Alastair, Edgar, Henry, Jack, Ripley, and Sam."
Sam watched Pete's face darken with every name. "I know math was never my strong suit, Samantha, but that sounds like you have seven kids."
His mom winced. "When you say it like that, it does sound like a lot."
"Seven boys! Dammit, Samantha! You know you're supposed to register seventh sons! It's the law!"
Sam's mom flicked her hands dismissively at Pete. "Sometimes these things slip my mind. It's hardly a felony."
"It is a felony!" Pete bellowed, his nostrils flaring. "I should haul you down to headquarters. Do you realize how much trouble Sam is in? He hasn't got any protection!"
Samantha glared. She was a world-class glarer. Sam remembered trembling beneath that very glare when he was eight years old after accidentally set his mother's familiar-a fat, grey-striped tabby named Mr. Pickle (short for Pickled-Bat-Wings)-on fire. She'd found Sam chasing the cat, trying to beat out the flames with a very expensive spellbook.
He'd given up on magic soon after that, and the cat had hated him until it died. Its fur never quite grew back.
"Don't you think I know that?" Samantha said. Glasses rattled on shelves behind her. "I must have called him fifty times today! But you didn't answer your phone!" she finished, rounding on Sam.
"Don't make this about me!" Sam said, then realized how stupid that sounded when everyone stopped and stared at him.
"You know what I meant," he said grumpily. "I don't get why this is such a big deal, anyway. So I'm the seventh son instead of Rip, so what?
Now everyone stared at Sam like he'd grown three extra heads and all of them were mentally retarded.
"Didn't you read any of those grimoires I sent you after you left?" his mother asked, sounding wounded.
"No," Sam said. They were sitting in a dusty box in the back of his hall closet. "I hated your stupid magic stuff, remember? It never worked for me."
"I know, honey. You were always exploding things or accidentally turning our neighbors into animals. I remember when you accidentally sent Mr. Hodgins to the Bermuda Triangle as a cat. He was very angry when he got back."
And very wet, Sam remembered. But Mr. Hodgins had been a mean, cantankerous old warlock. He'd been much more hilarious as a cat.
"That's why I thought for sure Rip was the seventh son," his mom continued. "It comes so easily to him."
Rip's chest puffed out; it showed off, in Sam's opinion, disturbingly pert nipples. "Thanks, Mom," Rip preened.
"Oh yeah," Sam said. "Heaven forbid something doesn't come easy to Rip."
"Shut up, I work hard at my magic," Rip said, clenching his hands into fists. "Don't blame me because you're a screw up. You swanned off and left us all behind because that way was easier for you."
"Spare me your abandonment issues," Sam said. "You're close to overloading my bullshit-meter."
"Boys!" Samantha said sharply. "Rip, be nice to your brother. He's going through a difficult time. His body is changing and it's confusing for him."
Sam's face went red. "This isn't puberty, Mom."
"Actually, that's not a bad analogy," Pete said. He still sounded angry, but also like he was trying not to laugh at the same time. "Seventh sons possess extremely strong magical abilities. That's why monsters come after them, for their powers. They come into their powers when they reach their thirtieth birthday. It's said to be a painful process, especially if they haven't been trained in magic."
"Great," Sam said. "Magical puberty is going to suck. Awesome. For the record, I have not felt particularly powerful today. I've felt terrified and hunted and overwhelmed and crazy. Not powerful."
Samantha cleared her throat. "You won't come into your power until your precise birthday, sweetie. Meaning, the actual time you were born."
Pete raised an eyebrow. "When is that?"
"Midnight," Sam said, closing his eyes. "We've got a couple of hours."
"Midnight?" Pete exploded. "An unregistered seventh son born at midnight on All Hallows? Oh, Samantha, I am throwing the book at you when this is over."
"Try it," Rip said, rolling his shoulders combatively and angling his body so his shoulder partially shielded Samantha.
Pete flashed a wide, pointed grin. A dangerous grin split his face, and he flexed his clawed fingertips. "Please. Just give me a reason."
"Um, Uncle Pete?" interrupted a small, nervous voice.
They swung around to find Trevor shifting nervously from foot to foot, his expression troubled. "Are you guys fighting?"
"No, Trevor," Pete said, after a moment, squatting so he they were at eye level. "We're all very excited, so we're talking loud. Okay?"
Trevor looked dubious. "You know what mom said about losing your temper, Uncle Pete. She'll wanna talk."
Pete gritted his teeth and stood up. "Don't worry, Trev. I'm not gonna lose my temper." His eyes, when they slid to Samantha and Rip, silently added: Yet.
"That's good," Trevor said, his thin shoulders sagging in relief. "'Cause lots of monsters are already staring at you."
Sam was suddenly aware that the tavern had gone very quiet. A wide variety of monsters had ringed their little group, jostling each other to create a loose half-circle around the bar. The monsters did not look friendly. In fact, they looked sort of hungry. It did not ease Sam's nerves to find they were all looking at him. The green-skinned monster with the ram's horns from earlier caught his eye and winked. Then he licked his lips and grinned, showing a mouthful of needlelike teeth.
"Shit," Rip said eloquently. "You walked into a fucking bar full of monsters, you idiot."
"Thanks, Rip," Sam snapped back. "It's not like I knew what I was doing."
"Story of your life," Rip muttered.
"Boys!" Samantha said again.
"This is definitely not good," Pete said. "We've gotta get out of here to somewhere safe." Now that they'd been noticed, the monsters began moving closer. Fangs and claws and horns and wings shone in the dim, smoky light.
"Everyone, grab hands," Samantha commanded. "Now."
Sam didn't even hesitate. He hadn't seen his mother in thirteen years, and he still recognized the tone that said: "If you don't clean your room right now, I will turn you into a hamster and stick you in a cage because that will be easier to clean."
He grabbed for Pete and Trevor and felt Rip reach across the bar and grab one shoulder while his mother grabbed the other.
"Rip, lend me some power for this translocation spell," his mother said.
Rip nodded, leaning forward and grunting as the magic left him. "God, you are such a pain in the ass," he hissed at Sam, keeping his voice low. He dug his fingers painfully hard into Sam's shoulder and pinched the muscle. "Translocation spells always give me a massive fucking headache."
"Boo hoo," Sam said, elbowing Rip in the stomach. "Take an aspirin. I'd really like to not be eaten by monsters today."
"Boys!" Samantha chastised as the spell took effect. Sam felt a tug at his navel, ringing in his ears, and then a pop as they disappeared into thin air, just as the monsters closed in.
----
When they reappeared, Sam's feet hit the ground hard. It sent a shocking jolt up his legs, and he stumbled out of Rip's grasp.
It took him a second to get his bearings. Dimly, he heard Pete make a startled noise and say, "How did we get…? Nevermind. Samantha, we are going to have a very long talk when this is all over."
He couldn't spare much time to process Pete's words because he immediately braced his hands on his knees and bent over, trying to resist the pressing urge to blow chunks: if the Chinese food and candy came up, he didn't think it would make a pretty of a pattern on the linoleum.
"Next time," Sam said, his hands shaking as he took a deep breath, tasting bile in the back of his throat, "First class only. I'm never flying coach again."
His mother and brother both shot him a glare, probably for criticizing their bumpy landing. His mother's pointed hat seemed to have gotten lost in translocation, and her hair was mussed and wind-whipped. Rip's face was pale, but he looked steady. He grimaced when he caught Sam's eye, miming a dainty faint like Sam was a wuss.
Sam gave him the finger.
"Sam," his mother said, smoothing a wrinkle from her skirt and brushing her hair back. "Stop antagonizing your brother. Can't you be serious?"
"Oh, I'm serious," Sam said, straightening. He coughed. "Serious as a frigging heart attack. In fact, I think I might be having a heart attack, Jesus, that's how serious I am."
Pete stepped close and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, we'll figure this out. I'm pretty sure."
"Way to reassure him, Mr. Deputy Director," Rip said, rolling his eyes.
"Where are we?" Sam asked, ignoring his brother and blinking as he finally looked around. They were standing at the end of a long, beige corridor in front of a large desk. The hallway was dark except for the eerie wash of emergency lights and the soft blue glow from the computer screen at the desk.
"Welcome to Spook Headquarters," Pete said, giving Samantha a sour look. "It's supposed to be inaccessible by spell."
"Whoops," Samantha said.
Rip raised an eyebrow and glanced around. "Mom and I don't have the power to do that." He didn't appear happy to admit this.
All eyes swung to Sam.
"Don't look at me," Sam said, holding up his hands. "I'm mojo-less until midnight, right?" At his mother's considering stare, he began to grow nervous. "Right?" he repeated.
His mother looked thoughtful and, Sam noticed as he narrowed his eyes, a little shady. "Oh, I don't know. Your father was… well, I wouldn't be surprised if you could do things a little early."
Pete narrowed his eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"What do you mean I can do things early?" Sam said. "I told you, I didn't do anything!"
"You probably messed the spell up at the last second," Rip said, sounding disgusted. "Mom and I were aiming for her workshop, not this dump."
"But I didn't!" Sam insisted. "I was only thinking of getting somewhere safe."
"Yeah!" Trevor said, stepping up next to Sam's side. His sharp chin jutted out determinedly. "Mr. Sam couldn'ta thought of a safer place than this. Uncle Pete said he'll protect Mr. Sam no matter what, till death do 'em part and everything."
Pete cleared his throat. It looked like he was blushing. "That's. Uh, Trevor, that's not quite… yeah," he said helplessly.
Samantha looked between Sam and Pete, a little frown between her eyebrows. Then her expression smoothed and a gleaming, calculating look entered her eyes. "I'm sure we're all going to do our best to protect Sam," she said, smiling in a way that made Sam nervous. His mother usually smiled that way when she was planning something. Granted, from what he remembered, that was usually all the damn time, but seeing it again after thirteen years was enough to make his stomach twist apprehensively.
"Hold on," Pete said. "You still haven't answered me. What does their dad have to do with anything? What is he? An unregistered warlock?"
"No," Samantha said, hedging. "But it's going to make Sam's powers a lot more complicated."
"I hate complicated," Sam said.
"I know you do, hon," his mother said, patting his hand. "Mommy promises she'll uncomplicate it, okay?"
"Mom," Sam said. "I'm not five. In fact, the whole problem is that I am no longer five."
"You still act like you're five," Rip said.
"I do not," Sam said.
"Do to," Rip said.
Sam stuck his tongue out.
"Boys," Samantha warned.
"Um, Uncle Pete," Trevor said, tugging on Pete's shirt. "Who're those guys with the guns?"
They all went quiet, staring at Trevor. Sam became aware of a prickly sense of We are not alone hanging heavy in the hall, a sort of soundless noise, the kind of not-noise that bypassed your ears entirely because they were too much work; instead, it went straight to the sleepy lizard part of your brain and woke it up by tapping its shoulder with feeling.
Pete took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and opened them as he slowly turned around.
"Sir," said the leader of the heavily armed security team standing at the other end of the hall. He appeared to be part snake and had a strangely flattened nose and two long fangs overlapping his bottom lip. Green scales trailed from his cheekbones and down his neck, disappearing under his black turtleneck and bulletproof vest. "This is an unauthorized visit."
Great, Sam thought. I forgot we accidentally broke into Spook Headquarters. Like their night couldn't get any worse, now they had trained armed men pointing guns at them.
"Yes," Pete said, recovering smoothly. "Yes, it is. Glad to see you boys are staying on your toes. This will all be in my report on Monday. Full marks."
"Sir?" the team leader said, looking confused. He lowered his weapon slightly.
"I'm impressed," Pete continued. "I almost didn't hear your approach. You guys must be getting good training down in Kowalski's stealth class."
"He's… hard but fair, sir," said the team leader, slowly lowering his weapon the rest of the way.
"All right, then," Pete said. "We're going to, uh, go now. Good work, men. Excellent response time." He edged toward Sam.
"Thank you, sir," the leader said, still sounding unsure. He observed their ragtag group with a skeptical expression.
Pete cleared his throat and gestured behind him. "New field agents," he said. "This is, uh, the first batch. I'm showing them the ropes. Figured they could get acclimated to Headquarters while it was quiet."
"Right, sir," the team leader said, staring pointedly at Trevor.
Trevor waved.
"Can't be too careful," Pete said quickly. "We need agents in the school system these days."
"Of course, sir," the leader said. "We'll leave you to it." The men turned and began walking away.
"Phew," Sam said under his breath. It was a good thing Pete was an impressive liar and the bar for Spook agents was set too low to limbo under. "That was close."
One by one, the agents stopped. Their bodies tensed. The back of the leader's head tilted sideways, like he was scenting prey, and then he swung around, his eyes locking on Sam. He licked his lips. And he growled.
"Shit," Pete said fervently. "Samantha, get us out of here, now!"
"Grab hands, everyone!" Samantha exclaimed as the agents charged down the hall with thundering footsteps and eyes shining bright with hunger. "Rip, now!"
Pete pulled Sam toward him with one arm and Trevor with the other. Sam was pressed close against Pete's chest, his pulse pounding erratically, Pete's arm wrapped around his waist.
He felt his brother's hand land heavily on his arm as his mom and Rip closed their eyes. In unison, they muttered a short phrase and energy crackled to life around them, lightning-flickers of magic dancing over their skin and giving them electrified brilliance.
"Go!" Pete yelled
The snake-agent's clawed hand closed on empty air.
----
"Seriously," Sam said after they reappeared in his mother's living room. His stomach roiled in protest. The thick smoke wafting from the incense in the braziers did nothing to help. "I never. Want. To do that. Again. I didn't even get my in-flight peanuts."
"Hopefully this is the last time we'll have to jump ship tonight," Samantha said. "The house is well-warded. We should be fine here while we figure out what to do."
"That was so cool," Trevor said. "We almost got eaten!"
Pete rubbed his temple. "Trev, don't ever tell your mother that."
"Oh yeah?" Trevor asked slyly. He'd somehow managed to hang onto his satchel of candy, and he slipped it from his shoulder. "Think I could eat some candy now, Uncle Pete?"
"Not until your mother's looked through it," Pete said, distractedly. "All right, now that we're here, what can we do about Sam's problem? There's got to be some sort of ritual we can use."
"Aw, Uncle Pete," Trevor interrupted, looking up with wide eyes. "Are you sure? 'Cause mom's gonna ask me how trick-or-treating went. When she looks through my candy."
"Trevor, not now," Pete said. "The grownups are talking."
"Uncle Pete," Trevor pressed. "If I eat my candy now, mom won't have to go through it. And I won't have to talk to her." He paused, a shy, sweet little smile on his face. "And I won't have to tell her about tonight."
Pete blinked and looked at Trevor. "You've been talking to your Uncle Greg again, haven't you?"
"Uncle Greg's pretty smart," Trevor said noncommittally.
"Uncle Greg's pretty devious," Pete corrected. "I see we're going to have to limit the amount of time you spend volunteering at the orphanage."
Trevor grinned. "Can I eat some candy now?"
Pete sighed. "Knock yourself out. Spit out any razorblades."
"I'll add 'em to my collection," Trevor promised.
"I officially love that kid," Rip said, watching in amusement as Trevor plopped to the ground and tore into his candy. Sam silently agreed, fighting back a smile at the annoyed look on Pete's face.
"Okay, so what's the plan?" Sam said. "Do we just wait around until midnight? Am I gonna get hit with magical puberty all at once?"
"I don't know," his mother said, frowning. "But we will need to cast some spells on you in preparation-a shielding spell for sure. I had everything all set up for Rip. I was so certain it was him. You were always terrible at magic. I thought about sending you to a special school."
"Nice," Sam said. "You wanted to put me on the magical shortbus. I'm happy you had so much faith in me. Really, you're the best, mom."
"Don't you take that tone with me Samuel Hain. I brought you into this world, and I can take you out-or maybe turn you into a toad who can't sass his mother."
Sam snapped his mouth shut and crossed his arms, turning his head away while his brother laughed.
"And you, Ripley," his mother said, fixing an unimpressed gaze on his brother. "Stop making this difficult for Sam. I know you're jealous-"
"What!" Rip sputtered. "I'm not, I'm just-"
"Can it," his mother said. "We've got work to do. I'm going to have to re-key all the sigils to your brother's aura, which means I'm going to need all new ingredients, and we don't have a lot of time. I'll need everyone's help."
Trevor raised his hand from the floor. His mouth was smeared with chocolate. "Do you need my help, Miss Samantha? I can help!"
"No, sweetie," Samantha said gently. "You just eat your candy and leave the boring work to us. You can be my supervisor."
"Neat!" Trevor said happily. "Wow, this is the awesomest Halloween ever, Uncle Pete! First I got candy, and then we fought vampires, and climbed walls, and ran from that werewolf, and escaped monsters twice-yeah!"
Pete stared. "I am a terrible, awful Uncle," he said, putting his head in his hands.
"Don't beat yourself up," Samantha said, patting him on the back. "Putting kids in mortal danger builds their character. It's how I raised mine."
"Oh God," Pete said. "I'm the worst Uncle ever."
"Cheer up," Rip said. "He'll have great stories to tell his therapist."
"Okay, enough. If we want this to turn out all right, we're going to have to work fast," Samantha said, straightening her shoulders like a general preparing to lead an army to war. "I don't want to hear any complaining from anyone."
"Samantha," Pete began.
"Especially you," his mom said. "Happy as I am that you brought my son to me, you're not much help now." She pointed to a large oak chest under the window. "Go unpack that and bring me the red velvet bags inside."
Pete opened his mouth.
Samantha fixed him with a squinty glare, combining flinty-eyed witch with pissed-off mom.
Pete very carefully closed his mouth and headed for the chest.
Samantha blew out a breath as she listed ingredients off on her fingers. "Okay, I need three spoonfuls of wormwood extract, two mummified rat paws, fresh lizard guts, a black rose shorn of its petals, eighteen de-legged spider husks, and a cup of coffee."
"What's the coffee for?" Pete asked over his shoulder.
"Me," Samantha said, rubbing her eyes. "I'll need all the caffeine I can get."
----
"I still don't get it," Sam said. "Why are these monsters after me? What's the big deal about my powers?"
"They can sense it, honey," his mother explained as she lopped paws off mummified rat corpses. "Monsters are going to go a little crazy when they hear you or smell you. You're like… well, remember when Mr. Pickle got into my herbs? And we had to get him down from the ceiling fan? It's like that, sweetie."
"So I'm catnip," Sam said. "I'm catnip for monsters."
"More like batnip," Rip said from where he was chalking new lines on the wood floor. "If you wanna get technical. Or werenip. Or zombienip. Or ghostnip. Or-"
"Yeah, thanks, Rip," Sam said. "You can shut up any time you fucking want."
"Samuel!" Samantha said. "Watch your damn language!"
Sam scowled and ripped the leg off a dried spider with a particularly vicious tug.
"I'm just saying," Rip said, shrugging negligently. "You're basically every monster's wet dream. Right, Pete?"
Pete made an annoyed, choked off noise, and kept his head down as he finished repacking the trunk. "Let's just finish this spell," he said.
"Hey," Rip said thoughtfully. "How come Pete and Trevor aren't affected?"
"Trevor's too young," Samantha said. "And Pete's affected. His reaction is just different."
"What?" Pete said, looking up.
"Nothing," Samantha said. "Hand me that pestle, would you?"
----
"You know," Sam said later, peeling petals from a black rose and dropping them into a bowl of lizard guts, "A few hours ago my biggest concern was getting a stomachache from eating too much candy. Now I have to worry about monsters getting a stomachache if they eat me."
"If they eat you," Rip said, "They'll get food poisoning. Bet you taste nasty."
"I taste great!" Sam said indignantly.
"Do not," Rip replied, tipping wormwood extract into the mixture. "Like old feet. And earwax."
"Guys," Pete said tiredly. "We need to hurry and finish this spell prep. It's getting close to midnight."
"Hey, they'd be lucky to eat me!" Sam said, glaring at his brother. "They'd line up for blocks to get a nibble of me!"
"Whatever, they'd have to drink like twenty glasses of water to wash your gross flavor away."
"Guys, seriously," Pete said again, sounding frustrated. "We need to finish-"
"They would not! Bite me, Rip!" Sam snapped.
"No way," Rip jeered. "I don't wanna get food poisoning either!"
Sam ground his teeth together. "I taste delicious," he said. "I taste like monster ambrosia. I taste-"
"For the love of God," Pete said as he grabbed Sam's hand and brought it to his mouth. He licked a stripe up Sam's palm, from the bottom all the way to the top of his index finger.
"You taste like heaven," Pete said. "Now can we get back to preparing the spell? Jesus, you're both two-year-olds."
Sam stood still with shock, staring at the glistening trail on his hand. Then he turned to his brother. "Told you," he said smugly.
"His taste buds are probably dead," Rip muttered.
----
Sam sat in a rickety, rune-inscribed wooden chair. The chair's tall back was decorated with howling gargoyles. His hands clenched on armrests that had been carved into suspiciously red-stained claws. He took a deep breath.
Samantha finished the words of the spell and opened her eyes, taking a step back. "Uh oh," she said.
Sam looked down. All his visible skin had turned brilliantly lavender.
"How do you feel, sweetie?" His mom asked anxiously.
"I feel purple," Sam said.
"It's an… unusual side effect," his mother agreed. "And not one I was expecting. It should wear off in a few minutes. But really, how do you feel?"
"Violent."
"Don't you mean, er, violet, sweetie?"
"No," Sam said grimly.
His mother sighed. "No magical tingles?
"Uh, no," Sam said. "If I was purple and tingling, mother, we would be having words."
Samantha rolled her eyes. "You're such a difficult child, Samuel. All right. Obviously the shielding spell didn't work."
"No kidding," Pete said. He was doing a poor job containing his amusement.
Sam glared at him in annoyance.
"Sorry, you look grape," Pete said sincerely. "I mean-great." And then he lost it, doubled over in laughter.
"I hate everything," Sam said, staring up at the ceiling. "Even puppies."
"Well, batshit," his mom sighed, biting her lower lip. "I was afraid of this. The regular spells for seventh sons aren't going to work. It looks like there's nothing for it. I'd better call your dad, he's the only one who can stop this." She heaved another sigh and massaged the back of her neck, wincing.
Sam's mouth dropped open. Across the room, Rip made a noise like a wounded animal; his shocked expression mirrored Sam's.
"Our dad?" Rip asked, his shoulders hunching. He'd taken off the wings and the quiver, but he was still bare-chested. He folded his arms over his chest, looking younger and more vulnerable than Sam could ever remember seeing him. "You never talk about dad. You said you didn't know where he was."
"I don't," Samantha said. "Specifically, that is. But, well, generally, yes. I know where he is generally."
"Where?" Rip demanded.
Samantha sighed and pointed down.
"Oh," Sam said, feeling his stomach plummet. "He's dead. Okay, fine, sure, we'll call him. We can raise him from the grave, no problem. After all, what's a little necrophilia between family?"
"Incestuous necrophilia," Rip grumbled.
"No," Samantha said impatiently. She jabbed her finger toward the floor again. "He's down there."
"He's in your basement?" Pete asked, blinking.
Samantha threw her hands in the air. "He's the Devil!"
No one spoke for several long minutes.
"Cool," Trevor breathed with wide eyes, breaking the silence.
"When you say the Devil," Sam said shakily, "you mean he's kind of a bastard, right?
"Er, no," his mother said apologetically. "Listen, sweetie, it was the late 70s and things were a little crazy. Every female witch worth her salt was trying to summon Beelzebub. Me and a couple of girlfriends got together one weekend, had a few wine spritzers, and-"
"Oh God," Sam moaned. "Please let this story end with 'and then we braided each other's hair and ate chocolate chip cookies.'"
"We did that, too," his mom said. "Before we summoned the Devil for an orgy."
Sam pressed the heel of his palm against his eye. Hard. "At least tell me you were the only one naked."
"Well, that wouldn't have been fair to the other girls, would it?" his mother asked. "They wanted a go, too."
Sam closed his eyes. "Do I have any more half brothers or sisters I should know about?" he asked wearily.
"No, no!" Samantha hurried to reassure him. "Halfway through the ritual the other two girls realized they were lesbians. All that dancing naked in the moonlight does make a girl curious, I'll admit. I was the only one who got lucky that night. Mm, yes, it worked out pretty well for me," she finished dreamily. "Your father sure was a hunk. He could do this thing with his pitchfork-"
"Gngh!" Sam and Rip both protested at once.
"I can't believe I raised such prudes," Samantha said, frowning as she put her hands on her hips. "I suppose you're going to tell me you refuse to get naked for the summoning spell, hm?"
"I refuse," Sam said. "Oh, how I refuse. I am not meeting my dad for the first time-my dad who is apparently the Devil-naked, I don't care what you say."
"I'd be okay with doing it naked," Rip said evenly, clearly pretending to be unruffled because he always had to show Sam up. "But I don't want anyone to objectify me like that."
Abruptly, Sam started laughing, and everyone looked at him like he'd gone crazy. Maybe he had; it sure felt like it. He calmed himself after a few minutes, wiping away tears from his eyes.
"Sam?" his mother asked hesitantly, as though afraid any sudden movement or loud noise might set him off again. "What is it?"
"Nothing, it's-nothing," Sam said, and heard himself giggling again. "It's just-when we were kids. You called us little devils. Like. That's. That's really fucking appropriate, isn't it?"
Rip snorted, his lips twitching. "God, you're an idiot."
His mother didn't look like she knew how to react. "Right, well. Let me just get my black grimoire and my jar of virgin blood and we can get started with the ritual."
"Other kid's moms bake cookies or take them to the park," Sam said. "Our mom keeps jars of virgin blood and has sex with the Devil."
"Rock 'n Roll," Rip said.
----
Part Three