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?

I take a sip of my red wine and watch the Gargoyle squadron fly off the roof of the Folly from my vantage of my office window. Emmett's at home with his Mom, and I've got the evening off. Hmmm, maybe I'll check and see if Jesse wants to go to the movies. They're playing Bride of Frankenstein and Young Frankenstein as a double feature, then all of Val Lewton's RKO horror movies: Cat People, I Walked With A Zombie et al.

Hmmm. Flying dog.

The Shadows are quiet tonight. Like every year, slowing down towards midnight ... the chaos/order balance is held like a deep breath while all sides look elsewhere.

The wolf won't come by, nor any of her litter. The silence always makes me restive, but the empty Shadow is no place for that. Let it have its peace.

I step out onto a rooftop, looking down for the parade I know must be winding its way through the streets below.

I have enough time to duck.

Flying dogs are not quiet.

Got home just in time. I managed to intercept the first batch of trick-or-treaters just as they were ringing the bell. Sent them off with nummy treats instead of herring, and nobody's throwing stuff at my house.

Of course the bird is miffed by this. He's currently sulking underneath the sink with his candied herring. I tried to explain about little kids and herring, but he's being stubborn.

Meanwhile, I keep handing out treats. Man there are a lot of kids out tonight.

Huh, flying dog. "Hey! Get away from that forsythia bush. Skat!"