Page 14 of Real Fake Hauntings

“Why Halloween?” I wondered aloud. If their intent was something beyond a prank, why risk painting them during such a busy time? Why not wait a couple of weeks?

“Maybe it’s only a prank after all,” Key said.

But something about that didn’t sit right. “It feels like a warning more than a prank,” I said. “If it were a prank, wouldn’t they have left them on the front of the shops for a bigger impact?”

“Too scared of getting caught?”

“If they used a glamour potion, people wouldn’t have been able to recognize them. They could’ve painted it and run away.”

“Unless a paranormal saw them.”

Key had a point. Shifters had natural increased speed and agility, as did demons, and berserkers could put in a rush of physical power that’d overtake them both. Mages could use their elemental powers to stop or slow anyone.

The only ones who were screwed in a chase situation were witches, unless they’d taken the time to set wards ahead of time, which would attract more attention than painting a red pentagram on someone’s wall.

Even the more evil, delinquency-prone paranormals respected the need to stay secret from the human population. Which is why glamour potions were a permanent bestseller, the legal ones I sold and the highly volatile illegal ones Bagley had probably made a fortune on.

A small squeal nearby caught our attention. A little girl was pointing at us and tugging at a man’s hand.

“Dad, can we take a photo with them? Pleaaase?”

A young teen by his other side watched us with interest. “You guys actors or something?” Her gaze fell on the logo on my T-shirt, partially showing through my open jacket. “Is that the name of your theater?”

“It’s Garress the Hound,” the little girl whined. “And a witch.”

I smiled widely. “Happy to take photos.”

The man eyed Rufus wearily. “Is he dangerous?”

“Duh, Dad,” the little girl said. “It’s Garress the Hound!”

“Completely harmless,” I assured the dad. Looking down at Rufus, said, “Rufus—er, Garreth—sit.”

For once Rufus complied, his tongue lolling in a friendly gesture, and his huge tail wagging slowly.

“Daaad!”

“All right, all right. Fine.”

“Yay!”

The little girl rushed to us, as did the teen.

“Make sure the pentagram is visible,” she told her dad. She struck a pose, pointing at the pentagram with an expression of mock horror.

The little girl hugged Rufus’s neck and grinned. I hovered over them, doing my best scary witch impression, complete with clawed hands hovering over the little girl. Even Fluffy got in the action, settling by Rufus’s side and lolling her tongue, all happiness.

“Done,” the dad said after a few seconds. “Thank so you much.”

“No problem,” I told him. Under me, the little girl had discovered Fluffy and was showering her with pets.

“He’s so pretty,” she said in awed tones.

Fluffy lapped it all up and half of the girl’s face.

“Her name is Fluffy,” I said, my heart full of joy. Was there anything better than being identified as a witch, asked to be part of a family memory in front of an evil pentagram, and watching kids enjoy life?

I didn’t think so!

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