Page 8 of Fixing the Grumpy Pumpkin King
Pumpkin the cat, sprawled on the couch in a shaft of fading sunlight, looked up. Blinked once. Went back to sleep with zero fucks given.
“Traitor!” Locke called to the cat, his voice pitching higher. “No more extra treats for you!”
Up the stairs. The familiar creak of the third step from the top floor where the bedrooms were. The apartment smelled like Grandma’s incense and the lavender sachets she put in every drawer. The man moved with purpose, like he knew exactly where he was going.
Which was impossible unless he’d been here before.
But Locke had been back for three weeks. He would have remembered someone this tall and dramatic living in this town.
The man pushed open the door to his grandma’s bedroom.
The room practically hummed. That’s the only word for it. Hummed. Something alive and breathing beneath the floorboards and in the walls. Locke had felt it before, had always felt it when he visited as a kid, but he’d dismissed it as a wild imagination. Old house creaks and have drafts. Not to mention his grandmother was a damn good storyteller.
Now, in the fading evening light, the room looked different.
Crystals lined the windowsill, catching the last of the sunset and throwing rainbow fractals across the walls. Herbs hung drying from nails, their shadows long and strange. The patchwork quilt on the bed seemed to shimmer, every stitch containing some intention or another that Grandma had tried to explain but Locke had never quite understood.
Had never WANTED to understand, if he was honest. Because understanding would mean accepting, and accepting would mean his entire worldview would have to shift. And he wasn’t ready for that, at least not when all he wanted to do was run away from his stupid cheating ex and cry into his pillow at night and stuff his face with ice cream.
The man finally set him down on the bed.
Locke scrambled to his ass immediately, backing up until he hit the headboard. His hands pressed against the wood. “This is going too far!”
His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. Rowan wasn’t here. This wasn’t a prank. This was a stranger in his house, in his grandmother’s bedroom!
The man stood there, taking in the room. His carved pumpkin face…how did the expressions change? How was that possible?
The face was unreadable but somehow conveyed interest. Appreciation, even. Like he was seeing something Locke couldn’t.
Locke forced his voice steady, channeling every ounce of fake confidence he could muster. “Rowan isn’t here is he? Who are you? Like, actually?”
The man turned to face him fully. Even with the pumpkin head, he was imposing. Six-five at least, broad-shouldered, and something about his posture screamed authority. Royalty, almost. Like he expected to be obeyed.
“I am Lord Mabon,” he said, his voice resonant and formal. “King of the Equinox, Guardian of the Harvest, Master of Autumn.”
Locke blinked. That almost sounded like it came from the script but it sounded like someone stating facts.
“That’s… a lot of titles.”
“They are earned.”
Of course they are. Of course.
“Okay, Lord Mabon, King of…all that stuff. I’m Locke. Just Locke. One name. Very simple.” He managed a slight smile despite his confusion, despite his racing heart, despite the fact that he was pretty sure he was having a breakdown. “Now that we’ve been introduced, maybe you can explain what’s happening? Because I’m still pretty sure this is Rowan messing with me, but not even he would let it go this far.”
Lord Mabon. What kind of name was that? Who was this guy?
The man studied him with that unreadable carved face. “You summoned me.”
“I was reading lines from a script. For a play. A fake play.”
“The words were real. Your magic called to me across the veil.”
There it was. Magic. He kept saying magic like it was real, like it was just a fact of the world.
Locke laughed, but it came out nervous and too high. “My magic. Right. Because I’m secretly a wizard.”
“Warlock.”
