Page 9 of Fixing the Grumpy Pumpkin King
Oh good. Specificity. That helps.
Lord Mabon began untying the clasps of his robe.
Locke’s brain short-circuited. “Whoa! Hey! What are you doing?”
Mabon paused, genuinely confused by the panic in the warlock’s voice.
What was wrong? This was appropriate. Expected.
“I don’t know what happened earlier and I don’t care. You summoned me. This is how the celebrations begin. We can include the others later.”
He looked around the room again, taking in the layers of magic saturating every surface. Protective wards woven into the quilt stitches. Blessing sigils carved into the window frame. Decades of intentional work, done by someone who knew exactly what they were doing.
The song of this room was beautiful. Complex. A master’s work.
And this warlock was attractive. Lean build, warm eyes, that spattering of freckles across his nose. Young and confused but undeniably appealing. Centuries of solitude, of touching nothing but fading walls and empty halls, of slowly becoming translucent around the edges, having someone solid and warm and present in front of him felt like waking from a long sleep.
This was how it was done. Sacred space, willing summoner, the beginning of proper celebrations. He would let this warlock taste his body. The rest of the town would follow once they remembered. Once he reminded them. But first, this. The joining of deity and summoner, the start of harvest festivals that would carry through the season.
He didn’t always fuck his summoner but he didn’t always have such a pretty one sitting in front of him.
Why was the warlock looking at him like that?
“NOPE.” Locke held up his hands, pressing back against the headboard. “No no no. All the nope. We are NOT doing that. Stop! Why would you think…I don’t even know you!”
Mabon lowered his hands, studying the young man with new interest. The fear was genuine. So was the confusion.
“You summoned me. I am offering you an honor mortals used to pray for.”
Centuries ago, summoners would have been overjoyed. Honored. It was a gift, to be chosen by a deity for the opening rites. A blessing that would carry through the harvest season.
Why was he refusing?
Unless…
“You truly don’t know what you’ve done.”
“I read some lines from…”
Locke stopped. Something shifted in his expression. His eyes flicked to the nightstand, to the book sitting there, and he went still.
Like a memory was surfacing, unwelcome and undeniable.
The book. Grandma’s book. The one she’d told him never to read from out loud. The one she’d said contained “real workings” in a tone that Locke had dismissed as superstitious nonsense because magic wasn’t REAL, couldn’t be real, and Grandma was just eccentric and into weird spiritual stuff.
The book he’d used to grab the incantation from that would summon the harvest god when Jimmy had a hard time coming up with an the right words for the scene.
Oh no.
Oh no oh no oh no.
“Those words were a summoning,” Mabon said, stepping closer. “Real magic. And you carry magic in your blood. Untapped, untrained, but powerful, you smell divine.”
Locke backed up until he couldn’t back up anymore, pressed against the headboard. “Okay, the smelling thing is creepy….”
Was it? Mabon didn’t remember that being a problem before. Then again, that was centuries ago. Perhaps mortal customs had changed. He’d have to adapt. Learn what was acceptable now.
He gestured around the room, trying to explain. “This room is saturated with magic. Old magic. Protective wards, blessing sigils. Someone powerful created this space.”
