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.

I adjust my leather helmet, goggles, and long white silk scarf. The wind is strong up here on the roof of The Folly. "Ladies and gentlemen," I say, "it's that night again. Is the Sang Sacre Air Squadrom ready for patrol?"

Stony creakys and gravelly chuckles answer. The gargoyles so enjoy getting out and about.

"Hey Phred?"

"Yeah,boss?"

"Why am I looking at an invoice for three cases of candied herring fillets?"

"The bird ordered them to hand out as Halloween treats. I thought you knew about it."

I bury my face in my hands. My house is *so* gonna be egged tonight. I get up and start heading for the door, in a surely vain attempt to head off having to power wash the house. I hesitate for a second, because I'll need some kind of replacement treat. "Phred, do we have any candy bars or something around that I can hand out?"

Phred searches below the bar. "Here ya go, boss. There's some packs of beer nuts and some Slim Jims."

"It'll have to do."

A well-preserved old white truck trundles down the darkened Sang street. The driver, a kindly-looking white-haired gentleman, has a list of addresses on the passenger seat. He pulls into a parking space in front of DX's bar. The streetlights illuminate the letters on the side of the vehicle:

SANG SACRE CANDY SUPPLY CO.
SERVING OLD-FASHIONED TREATS SINC--

The year is illegible. The old man gets out of the truck and wheels a dolly around to the back doors. He selects a few boxes (labeled "Stick Candy" "Lemon Drops" and other in old-fashioned lettering) and stacks them on the dolly. He knocks on DX's door.

"Candy delivery!"

"Uh... I didn't order any candy. It's not more herring, is it?"

"Course not! Just good ol' fashioned treats for the kiddies."

"...Thanks. I think."

DX signs for the boxes, and the old man heads back to his truck. He's got a few more delivieries to make before full dark.

Cool, I've got candy. That was a near thing. Another couple of seconds, and I would have been gone. I flag down a cab, and load the boxes of goodies in the back. I climb in, and we're off to Victoria.

I'm trying real hard not to think about how the old guy in the truck knew that I was in desperate need of candy.

One of the Tribe, a black Labrador, wanders by and idly sniffs at some white powder fallen from the back of the truck. He jumps back in surprise, then scratches furiously at his back.

A few seconds later the Labrador has a fine set of bat wings. He runs around in circles for a few moments, tries out some flaps, and flies off toward the gargoyles' nest. There are scores to settle.

...A flying dog. Neat costume.

I wander through the increasingly foggy streets, humming a horrible tune about the crunching of childrens' bones. I'm feeling quite happy.

Fleece-lined bomber jacket--check. Leather riding pants--check. Riding crop (just for looks, Bob would throw me off if I dared use it)--check.

Bob sticks out a leg and I climb up and settle between his wings. He's vibrating, he's so excited. All the gargoyles gather on the balustrade on the edge of the roof, wings spread. I wonder if anyone notices down on the street.

"Air Squadron--chocks away!"

I hold on tight as Bob drops from the roof, wings spread. Stone creatures need a lot of speed to get lift. If I die, my friend who visits in the middle of the night said he'd bring me back.

Twenty feet from the cobblestones, Bob hit lift, and we began to climb. God, I love to fly.

Who the hell has a flying dog?