Page 4 of Jacked-up Mate
Chapter Three
Jack
Festival was the best day, an opinion shared by everyone in Whisper Grove, a town filled with paranormals seeking solace and a place to belong, a found family for most, including me. In this town, I’d found a place where even if I did pumpkin out right in the middle of Autumn Square, the central gathering area for the town, no one would blink. Maybe a human would blink or stare a bit, but if I saw someone whose head phased to pumpkin as the sun set, I might gawk a bit. A natural reaction for anyone.
Everything for this year’s festival was perfect. Tonight was the harvest moon and my wish swirled in my head.
A wish for my omega to find me. Especially find me before my thirtieth birthday. Not having a jack-o’-lantern head for the rest of my life would be ideal.
If I found that mage, I would give him a piece of my mind. Or not. He might curse me a second time and worse than the first.
“Witch’s brew, Jack! You’ve got ink everywhere.” The town widower, Leif, handed me a garland of artificial leaves. We tried the real kind in years past, but before the festival began, they had been kidnapped by the wind or taken for whimsy by the sticky fingers of children who had eaten caramel apples or kettle corn freshly made in the square.
I chuckled. Leif mentioned my tattoos every chance he got. He and I played this game. He pretended to be shocked. I pretended I didn’t know how those darned things got on my skin. “I used to be a different man, Leif. Before…”
“He will show up, Jack. I’m sure of it. My omega arrived one night in the middle of a winter storm. We were snowed in and the rest, well, the rest is history.”
“You have your ofrenda set up already?”
Leif’s late mate, Ozzy was from Mexico. Whisper Grove had festivities centered around Samhain and Halloween since its founding, but Ozzy added Dia de Los Muertos to extend the holiday. He prepared the most beautiful ofrenda every year. Marigolds. Pictures of his ancestors. Food made by his own hands. Our town candlemaker created special designs to match the theme. By popular demand, he eventually brought his altar to display for the first week of November in the town hall mini museum.
“I do. It’s never as good as the ones he set up, but I try.”
“That’s the point, right? Remember him.”
He nodded. “My favorite part is where I get drunk by his grave that night and end up accidentally eating the food I’ve prepared for him.” The old man shook his head as he chuckled. Leif’s body was failing him on some levels, but his spirit never lost its shimmer.
I got down from the stool I used to hang the garland and chuckled. “Such a shame to waste pan de muerto, don’t you think? Eating it is the better idea.”
“Absolutely.” He turned around. “What else do we need to do, Gretchen?” Leif yelled while gripping his cane tighter.
“You can set up the kissing booth. I haven’t convinced anyone to man it yet, but I’m determined.” Gretchen held a clipboard and before we agreed on setting up the booth, she checked it off her list. At least our reputation preceded us in getting things done.
A kissing booth. Last minute. What a story that would make. I didn’t want to volunteer to be the person giving out kisses, but maybe that would appease the mage. If only it were that easy.
Perhaps my omega would show up and give me the kiss of a lifetime. Change my entire path all for the price of a ticket Gretchen bought in a wholesale roll.
Life was strange sometimes.
“Didn’t you build the kissing booth last year?” Leif asked, following me. His limp had worsened as the day waned, but it was good for him to be involved, to stay active. He told me so every year.
He missed Ozzy, though. His eyes had once danced with glee. Every Friday afternoon, he picked up an arrangement for his omega. The only thing more consistent was the rising and setting of the sun.
“I did. I numbered the pieces and made a manual in case I wasn’t around to rebuild it. Should only take us a few minutes to put it back together.”
“In case you weren’t around?” he asked as we approached the shed where 90 percent of the town’s festival goods were kept, at least, those that weren’t perishable. What would an autumn festival be without fresh pumpkins, hay bales, bobbing for apples, and sheaves of dried corn? “You’re starting to sound like an old man, Jack.”
I chuckled but my affliction wore on me almost four years to the day since I’d been cursed. I’d assumed that my nightly pumpkin head would become more normal to me eventually, but no. Probably more of the curse in action. It never hurt, but having my head encased in a globe of fruit and slimy seed felt brand new every time.
Leif read the instructions out, per my request, while I built the booth, and I set it in place on the square Gretchen had marked with chalk. She was very good at her job and even better at organizing these events. They brought in tourists, and that meant business for our townspeople.
“Did you find someone to man it?” I asked the mayor in question.
“No. How about you, Leif?” She clasped her hands together in a begging motion.
“Nope. These lips belonged to one and never another. Besides, it’s almost sundown.”
I gasped. Sure, I could stay here and pretend that my head was just another costume to make others gasp and little ones run to hug their parents’ shins, but tonight, I wanted to be alone with my thoughts and the moon.
