Page 57 of The Lone Wolf Café
It was delicious – a mixture of chicken, vegetables, and rice all coated in a sticky, savory sauce. It had a unique flavor I’d never experienced on Hollenboro, and once my plate was empty, I found myself wishing I had more food.
Damn werewolf appetite,I grumbled as I set my fork on my empty plate.
“Hey Nettie?”
I looked up. Willow was peering curiously at me, her fork still clenched in her left hand. I noticed both her and Juniper’s plates were empty.
“We were going to go pick out our pumpkins after this,” Willow continued. “Want to join us?”
My heart sank. On the surface, her request was sweet and friendly, but I was aware of the venomous undertone it held. Willow invited me to join them.Onlyme. There was no mentionof Rowena. No one acknowledged her, or even glanced in her direction.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to call them what we called unruly female werewolves who caused trouble back on Hollenboro, which conveniently rhymed with the wordwitch. But as my nostrils began to flare, I felt a slight squeeze on my knee. Even through the thick fabric of my dress, it made me flinch.
Then there was another squeeze. It was Rowena. Her touch was meant to calm me down. It was her subtle way of telling me it was okay. To go with them.
I flicked my eyes in her direction, careful not to turn my head. Rowena realized I was looking at her, and she gave the faintest hint of a nod.
“O-okay,” I replied, and Willow’s face lit up. “I’ll come with you.”
We gathered up our trash and tossed it in the large metal bin next to the food stall. I was several feet behind the other witches as we walked toward the pumpkin patch, and I craned my head over my shoulder to catch a few glimpses of Rowena. She was still sitting at the picnic table, alone in a sea of happy, chattering witches, inspecting the purple polish on her nails.
I knew what she was doing. She was pretending she didn’t care. That being snubbed and ignored by everyone else in town didn’t bother her.
I invited her to come with me to the festival, even though she didn’t want to.
And I’d just left her alone.
The pumpkin patch looked even more ethereal at night. There were mounted faerie fire lanterns across the entire field, glowing in festive shades of orange and green. A large ornamental display was stuffed with autumn leaves, stacked straw bales, anda very tall scarecrow dressed like a witch. A small tent near the edge of the field was selling warm apple cider.
It was beautiful. But as I took it all in, lagging behind while the three witches I hesitated to call friends happily jogged into the field, all I could feel was nausea.
Nausea and guilt. The stir-fry was suddenly heavy in my stomach as I wandered through the pumpkin patch. We had pumpkin carving events on Hollenboro, and every year I’d been thrilled to participate. I would be the first to scour the available pumpkins, carefully inspecting each one until I found one perfect for carving. Then my sisters and I would gather up all the flawed pumpkins to make into soup.
But here? I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I tried picking up a pumpkin near the straw bales, inspecting it in the light of the faerie fire lanterns. At first it looked decent, and I felt relief at the thought of being able to scurry away with my pumpkin already chosen. Then I turned it over, and realized it had a large, knobby wart on its side.
Goddammit.I gently put the pumpkin down, forcing myself to not kick it across the field in frustration.
I turned around so I was facing the apple cider tent. The other three witches were still in line, happily engaged in conversation while pointing at various spots in the pumpkin patch. They didn’t seem to notice – or care – that I wasn’t with them.
Screw it,I scowled, spinning on my boot heel and stomping back toward the town square. I was going to find Rowena. I’d invited her here, and I was going to keep her company.
Other witches be damned.
Thirty minutes later, I found Rowena.
By that time, most of the festival-goers were clustered around the picnic tables, with their chosen pumpkins and a set of carving knives in hand. It made it easier to search for Rowena, since the wandering crowd was starting to thin. I’d spent so much time shouldering my way past other witches and getting slapped with fluttering cloak fabric that I was twitchy and tense.
But with most of the crowd now seated, I came to a frustrating conclusion.
Rowena wasn’t here.
“Rowena?” I whisper-yelled as I wandered around the outskirts of town, peering around buildings and scouring the gardens behind the town hall. After a few minutes, I turned a corner and accidentally stumbled upon a witch couple sitting on a bench, both sitting in positions that indicated they didnotwant to be disturbed.
“Sorry,” I muttered, my face burning as I walked away. Mostly from embarrassment, but also because a deep, primitive part of me wanted to do the same with Rowena.
I continued strolling through town until I reached the end of the main stretch of buildings. All that was in front of me was the picked-over pumpkin patch, which was now eerily quiet and bare of people. A few shadow elemental bats fluttered in the orange light of the faerie fire lanterns, their inky forms leaving gaseous black trails in the air. In the distance, the dark, tangled abyss of the forest was both a shield and a warning. I knew that beyond the boundary of the wards, the local wolf pack was likely hunting at this time of night.
Then I saw her. At the back of the pumpkin patch, seated on one of the straw bales beneath the scarecrow, was a familiar black-cloaked figure wearing a pointed witch hat.
