There's a noise. My alarm clock seems to be going off.

That's weird. I don't have an alarm clock.

I grope for the chain on the bedside lamp. It does nothing.

I grope for the noise. I grab on to a lumpy cold thing. It's vibrating and making a Godawful racket. It feels like -- no, it can't be -- an old-fashioned windup alarm clock. I run my fingers over the case. ACME ALARM CLOCKS. Dear God, has the mad scientist set off the Merrie Melodizer again? Taking no chances, I stumble out of bed, step on the cat, who screams and runs away, and throw the damned clock out the window.

There is a faint "Meep meep!" below, followed by a sound that I immediately identify as that of a coyote being hit on the head by an alarm clock.

I crawl back to bed, pull up the comforter, and drag three pillows over my head. Morning cannot come fast enough.

I don't think I see a grue. But if I could see, which I can't, because it's dark, I think I would be seeing a dancing stand-up bass. And also a singing banjo. But it's dark, so probably, I'm just seeing the blood vessels in my closed eyelids. I hope.

Sang Sacre Zoo 2:00am Last Night

The supervisor arrives on the scene where a couple of workers are already running the beams of their flashlights over the remains of a mangled heavy duty metal holding cage.

"What happened here?"

One of the workers swings his flashlight around to illuminate the supervisor. "It's the Grue we had for the special exhibit. When the power went out, the electrified cage lost power too and..."

"What happened to the back up generator, why did the cage lose power?"

"Someone forget to prime the fuel lines."

The supervisor takes in the news, trys to think clearly in the face of this disaster. "We have to get it back before anyone finds out about this. Does anyone even know what this Grue looks like?"

The worker shakes his head. "We had to keep it in the dark and the Infrared equipment for the display hasn't come in...."

"Great. Just frelling great! Well, we have to do something. You there," The supervisor points at the other worker who is busy gaping at the twisted metal of the cage. "Yeah you in the red shirt. Go to the back room and get the tranquilizer guns."

The supervisor looks back at the cage and mutter under her breath, "God help us all."

I arrive at the bar without incident. It was actually a very pleasant walk. Phred's got candles lit on all of the tables, and a couple of lanterns on the bar. The candles actually make the place look more romantic than seedy for a change.

We're actually doing a pretty good dinner business tonight, what with folks not being able to cook on their electric ranges, so the penguin is scurrying back and forth between the grill and the tables, serving the customers. Phred is manning (er, trolling?) the grill, and Phrancis is behind the bar. I step behind the bar, and start drawing a Yeungling.

"Hey, boss, I got a question," Phrancis says, sotto voce. "How come the beer is still cold with the power out?"

"What, Phred never told you? C'mon, follow me. I'll show you our back up system." We step into the back and head downstairs to the basement and over to the keg cooler. The cooler is just an insulated room, with a small opening at one end. Standing on the sill of the opening is a bright red, 3" tall figure, dressed in white shirt, shorts, and sneakers, holding a tiny tennis racket. Tiny horns stick out from underneath his headband. He waves at me, then swats at some invisible object with the racket.

"Hi, boss. When is the power supposed to come back on?"

"I don't know, Avi. Soon, I hope. I want you to meet Phrancis. Phrancis, this is Avogadro. He's a Maxwell's demon. He and his brothers work for me, too. Mostly they take care of the air conditioning in the summer, but they're on-call for emergencies like this."

"Hi, Phrancis. Pleased to meet ya." Avogadro continues to swat at invisible things with his racket, first a forehand shot, then a vicious two-handed backhand.

"What's a Maxwell's demon?"

"They're temperature controllers. They can see the gas molecules in a space, and they have great hand-eye coordination. The hotter a molecule is, the faster it moves, so they use their rackets to swat the fast movers out of the cooler. Works great!"

Another demon appears in the opening, and Avogadro hands him the racket, then leans on the side of the opening, sucking on a teensy bottle of Gatorade, and kibitzing his comrade's form.

"Hey, Dalton, is that all you got? My Aunt Tilly hits harder than you..."

"C'mon, Phrancis, we've got customers upstairs..."

this is Avogadro.

BWAH!!!!

Below me, in the street, I hear somebody falling into a pit. With a faint cry of "XYZZY!". I curse, grab my little axe, and head for the door. I step on the cat again, and realize the tiny flaw in this plan.

Where did I leave my battery-powered lantern?

It's dark. Well, as dark as Sang Sacre gets. The populace of this town seem to have a wonderful affection for candles and lanterns and whatnot. The street I'm on, in fact, is lit almost as well as normal by a co-operative gathering of candles, Chinese lanterns, tiki torches. It's really quite pretty.

I've been patrolling the back alleys, using the light from my staff to see when necessary. So far I've taken care of three muggings (two turned into newts, one into a rat), four vampire attacks (two by fire, one by beheading and the fourth by the sharpened end of my staff), two demonic incursions (a couple of handy banishing spells) and no less than three dozen trysts (none of which got turned into anything...at least not by me.)

Now I hear a growling, schlupping noise from a nearby alley. It could be anything from an overgrown alley cat eating a stray dog to a bogey-creature mating to...

"GGGggrrrrrRRAAAAARRGGGHHHLLLE..."

...a Grue?

What is a Grue doing here? What maniac...?

Oh. Right.

I mutter in an ancient Dwarvish dialect, a combination "see in the dark" spell and curse against mad scientists and their mothers and their mothers' mothers going back seventeen generations. I stalk into the alley, my blade drawn.

The Grue is a fearsome creature, more frightening to behold than even Hector at his fullest. It snarls at me, black ichor and foam dripping from its jaws.

Then the alley is flooded with light. "What's going on in there?"

Cursing, I whirl. The Grue has vanished. A very lonely and scared looking police officer stands at the mouth of the alley, his hand on his gun and holding a large Mag light.

"Nothing. Now. Damn it." I stalk past him into the street.

The Folly is actually brighter than it usually is, what with all the lanterns and candles and willow-the-wisp spells floating about. Achmed the Clever has all the lamps lit in my apartment. He almost breaks training enough to hug me, but stops himself before he can show untoward emotion. "Did you beat it, sitt?"

"I didn't have to. When the power died, it disappeared. I think it was some sort of holographic projection. So I think everything's OK. I think I need a shower and an early night."

"Your ... um ... friend appeared at the window just as the power went out. He's, um, waiting for you."

He's actually blushing, and my, ahem, friend has appeared at the window so often that I've had to put a lock on it to keep him from sneaking in when the place is empty and rummaging through my manuscripts. He can just wait for the final version like everyone else--except when I'm using him as plot inspiration. "Achmed, you're a such a nice boy. Don't let your cousin Selim corrupt you, please. Go home, if you like. Don't let yourself get eaten by a grue."

"Are my wings on straight?"

Pete sighs, makes a minute adjustment. "Now they are."

I twirl around, narrowly missing his nose with an edge of a bat wing. "So?"

"You're very pretty. And very sparkly."

"It's Halloween. I'm allowed to be extra-sparkly."

I'm wearing a hoop-skirt enhanced black glitter velvet skirt, an overdress made from silver sparkly spiderweb fabric, a black velvet witch's hat with silver bats on the front, and black glitter bat wings. I pick up my silver wand with the filligree and crystal star on the top, and then look around Goblin Market.

"Where's Clovis?"

"trick or treat trick or treat trick or treat gimme CANDY!" chants Clovis, bouncing along the counter.

I pick him up and adjust his black velvet cape, then sit him in a antique Jack o' lantern bucket decorated with black ribbons on the handle.

"So you and Clovis are going trick-or-treating", Pete says.

"Yep. We should be home by nine ..."

"... and then we celebrate our wedding anniversary."

"You could go trick-or-treating with us, if you want ..."

"No, no. You and the Devilbunny have fun. Just don't get into any trouble."

"never do!" indignantly exclaims Clovis.

"No, of course not. You and Jilli are models of restraint and decorum and what, exactly, are you dressed up as?" Pete asks, distracted by what looks like a Devilbunny-sized wig between Clovis' ears.

I re-adjust the black fur "widow's peak". "Bunnicula, of course."

"Of course. Silly of me to ask."

Pete kisses me on the nose, and walks us to the door of the shop. With a quiet chant of "candy candy candy!", Clovis and I head out into the pumpkin-lit night.

Ghosts wander the street, chatting, laughing, or, as the case may be, moaning, cursing and screaming. I sigh and relax a bit. This is just the way it should be.

A costume, though...a costume, a disguise...I need something...

Murmurring in an arcane languge, my features shift and flow. Horns sprout from my forehead, my jaw elongates, my complexion darkens and changes to purple...

Much better.