"Happy All Saints' Day?" Well, that's a new one on me, but I don't mind. The landlady seems the type to mind her own business, and the room is very nice for what I'm paying. What am I paying, anyway? The figure seems to have slipped my mind.

The room is a little short on closet space, but the tables are large and solid. They'll do. The fireplace is a nice bonus, and the windows seems well insulated. Maybe when the fog clears I'll have a view. Time will tell.

I toss my battered suitcase onto the sturdiest table and flip back the latches. A bottle of red wine, a single crystal goblet the collected works of Poe and a few changes of underwear. I had a good reason for this. What was it?

...the children flap their leathery wings on the way home from school.

I watch them from my tiny balcony. They swoop and holler and squeal with joy. Beneath them, a school bus lumbers slowly, empty and purposeless, the driver craning his head to watch his erstwhile charges gallivant in the afternoon sun.

"I suppose I could do something," I mutter, puffing my pipe.

"Yeah," Hector acknowledges from inside. His voice carries his uninterested shrug.

"It's probably Gudanov's fault."

"Probably."

I sigh and let my eyes wander to the dark forest, the lone castle on the horizon.

"What's on FX?" I ask.

The fireplace looks really empty, but I can fix that. There's a pile of old branches below the oak tree in the back yard. Don't think I'll bother with the elevator, though. It looks a bit creaky.

The air is chill but dry and refreshing. I toss the branches into a basket lent by kindly Mrs. Thorne. Above the oak, a huge bird circles. A cormorant? How far are we from water?

"Hi, new lady!" it shouts, before wheeling away. I pull my glasses out of my coat pocket to take a look. Hmmm. A flying child. Not knowing what else to to, I wave, and turn to walk back to the house.

I'm staring at myself in the mirror, stunned. Good lord. I look completely different. That Magda, she works wonders.

I turn back to Hec, giving him a knowing grin. "Now it's your turn," I say before heading back into the warehouse storage area.

I rifle through a number of costumes -- the pirates of Penzance (heh. spelled that wrong.), that guy from Adia, Simba from the Lion King -- before finally pulling out a gorgeous costume circa the 18th century.

"You know this is just an elaborate excuse to get you into tights, right?" I say to him as I hand over the costume.

After a brief dog fight with those nasty concrete replica gargoyles from the castle on the hill, the Squadron and I head for the Cathedral. It's an odd sort of cathedral, open to any and all services that don't leave permanent stains on the floor or use anything but willing sacrifices. I don't know who did the verification spells, but I remember the hoo-rah when that one visiting druid just contemplated a particularly realistic solstice ritual. Just as well. It's much more fun to be able to party with the guest stars of the sacrifices after hte fact than find enough boxes to put them in.

The Cathedral gargoyles are throwing a party, and while I'm invited, the buffet doesn't have anything that appeals to an organic creature. Bob drops me off on the bell tower, and I confirm I'm meeting him just before dawn to go home. I briefly wish he'd dropped me off a little further down, that's a lot of stairs down to the ground floor, and the Samhain ritual should be about to start.

"Okay with the tights, but I'm not putting on a peruke. Nice coat though."

Mrs. Thorne was kind enough to give me a copy of the local paper. This is the first place I've been where announcements for masked balls outweigh church events. Cool.

Surely, if I work on The Project for a few hours this morning, I can justify a treat tonight? I wonder if this place has a clothing store open on Sunday.

I pour a glass of wine to help me think. The fog has cleared, and I can see more strange birds in the distance. Memo to self: buy opera glasses or telescope. Also, more notepaper.

Don't go out for formal rituals much, but that was nice. Lots of incense, laughing, dancing, and for a change they kept the shagging off the high altar. It's appropriate for our sort, but it does tend to freak out the High Church Anglicans just a tad to find condoms draped over the reliquaries. Mutual respect, that's the key.

So I make my way up to the roof to catch my ride home. And, of course, Bob and the Squadron are doing competitive aerobatics against the Angel Flight from the Cathedral. I may be waiting here for a while.

And who the heck is that humming "Ride of the Valkyries" as they fly overhead? I didn't know gargoyles could hum.

Hmmm. That was an interesting walk. I went out about, what? five hours ago to enjoy the autumn air, and ended up dancing with a bunch of people I'd never met before. I use the term "people" in the broadest sense, because I'm sure that humans comprised a minority.

Still, very gracious folk. No one seemed to mind that I was wearing jeans and a sweater, and while the food was a little off-putting, the music was great. Wonderful "people" watching, of course.

It is odd, however, that I didn't hear the music from the house. In fact, I was right outside the church in the town square and didn't hear a thing. I happened to be passing as a couple rather giddily lurched out from between the massive oak doors. She was wearing what looked like a patent leather catsuit, and he had on a cavalier outfit, and, I swear, bat ears. They noticed me (staring, probably, I regret to say) and beckoned me in.

Work on the project continues apace. Tomorrow I will go into town and look for an art supply store. I must also get something more suitable for dancing.

A lone figure sits in the kitchen window of his wedge-shaped house. Outside, a flying dog sprays the neighbour's hedge before flying off with its tongue lolling. High above the cathedral in the distance, a group of gargoyles perform like gothic Blue Angels. A sigh emerges from the figure as he lovingly strokes his crossbow.

The smell of burning cranberry scones fills the air, eliciting a yelp that breaks the silence of the house. Rushing to the large brick and cast-iron oven, he pulls open the door. The handle burns, the iron being impossibly hot. A knit potholder is grabbed up and used to open the overheated oven. Inside is a maelstrom of heat and fire. Cranberry scones sprout flames like Dresden after the bombings. Deeper in the furnace-like oven, beyond the ceramic baking plate, is a presence…a bright malevolence…a baker's nightmare...an Oven Afrit!