Page 21 of Howls & Harvest

She purses her lips, considering. “Oh, an hour or two. Maybe three. Possibly by dessert?”

I shake my head, amazed at how calmly she’s taking all this, but then again, in a town where magic is an everyday occurrence, maybe animated food isn’t that unusual.

“So,” I say, brushing off my clothes, “I guess we should try to make the best of it. Any ideas on how to have Thanksgiving dinner when the dinner is trying to escape?”

She grins. “Oh, I know just the thing. We’ll turn it into a game. Whoever catches the most food gets an extra slice of pumpkin pie...once we manage to ground those flying ones, of course.”

As if in response, a pumpkin pie swoops low, narrowly missing Grizelda’s head. She ducks, laughing. “See? They’re already playing along.”

I survey the chaotic scene unfolding before me, amusement and disbelief washing over me. The once-orderly Thanksgiving feast has transformed into a surreal battlefield of animated food.

Ronan catches my eye from across the glen with bewilderment and mirth. “Candice.” he calls out, dodging a flying dinner roll. “We need to contain this before it gets out of hand.”

I nod, agreeing despite Grizelda’s plan to let it run its course. I scan the area for anything that might help and see a stackof empty baskets near the edge of the clearing. “The baskets. Maybe we can use them to catch the smaller dishes?”

He gives me a thumbs up and starts making his way toward the baskets, weaving through the chaos like a dancer avoiding his partner’s toes. I follow suit, ducking under a low-flying pumpkin pie.

When we reach the baskets, a group of townspeople joins us, led by Throk. The orc’s green skin is splattered with various food stains, giving him a comical appearance.

“Good thinking,” he says, grabbing a basket. “Let’s round up these culinary troublemakers.”

We spread out, baskets in hand, and attempt to capture the runaway dishes. I’m chasing after a group of escaping dinner rolls, their little bread bodies bouncing along the grass. “Come here, you little carb monsters,” I mutter, lunging forward with my basket. I manage to scoop up three of them, but the fourth takes an unexpected turn, evading my grasp.

Nearby, Ronan is locked in an epic showdown with the runaway roasted turkey that should’ve been the star of the feast, if it hadn’t decided to go rogue. The bird, perfectly cooked to a golden brown and larger than a wheelbarrow, struts around with impressive indignation, managing a fierce sort of gobble despite its lack of a head. It weaves through tables, its gleaming skin catching the sunlight, looking very much like it knows it’s supposed to be eaten but has absolutely no intention of letting that happen.

Ronan holds a large basket in front of him like he’s taming a wild beast. “Easy there, big fella,” he says, inching closer with exaggerated care. “How about we call a truce? You stop charging, and I promise not to eat you.”

The turkey seems to consider this, tilting slightly as though it can still see him, even without eyes. Its wings twitch, dripping buttery goodness as it nearly bristles with outrage, and it puffsup, letting out a defiant, garbled “Gobble.”—an impressive feat for a bird with no head. Then, in a display of pure Thanksgiving spirit, it charges at him with all the ferocity of a small, flightless bull.

Ronan’s pupils dilate as he dives to the side, narrowly missing a collision with the bird’s impressive bulk. He lands face-first in a massive pile of mashed potatoes, disappearing momentarily in a cloud of buttery fluff before emerging with a startled, disgruntled expression. The lycan pulls himself up, dripping in creamy potatoes, with stray parsley flakes sticking to his fur.

The sight sends me into a fit of laughter I can’t quite suppress. “Ronan,” I say between giggles, “I think he might have won that round.”

With a slow, defeated grin spreading across his face, he shakes some mashed potatoes off his hand. “Think this is funny, do you?” he asks, scooping up a handful of mashed potatoes.

I back away, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “Let’s not do anything rash—”

But it’s too late. The glob of mashed potatoes flies through the air, hitting me square in the chest. I gasp, looking down at the mess on my shirt, then back up at his mischievous grin.

“Oh, it’s on,” I declare, reaching for the nearest food item—a bowl of cranberry sauce and chucking it toward him. Most of it flies out, but a gob lands on his muzzle, and he licks it off.

Grizelda stands in the middle of it all, her wild hair now adorned with bits of stuffing and gravy. She throws back her head, laughing uproariously. “This isn’t quite what I had in mind, but it certainly is festive.”

I duck behind a table, using it as cover as I prepare my next attack. Ronan appears beside me, his fur now a rainbow of food stains.

“Having fun yet?” he asks with amusement.

I grin, wiping a smear of gravy from my cheek. “You know what? I actually am. This is the craziest Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.”

“Well, then,” he says, scooping up a handful of stuffing, “Let’s make it even crazier.” He pops up from behind the table, lobbing the stuffing at Throk. The orc turns just in time to get a faceful of herbed bread cubes. He sputters, wiping his eyes, then grins menacingly.

“You’ll pay for that, pup.” Throk snatches a whole pumpkin pie from midair.

I peek over the edge of the table as Throk winds up for his throw. “Ronan, incoming.”

He ducks, and the pie sails over his head—right into the face of a startled elf, who had just rounded the corner of a nearby booth. The elf stands there for a moment, pie tin sliding down his face to reveal eyes blinking in shock through a mask of pumpkin filling.

For a moment, everything goes quiet. Then the elf’s face splits into a wide grin, and he grabs a bowl of green bean casserole. “Food fight,” he yells, flinging the casserole into the crowd.

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