Saturday’s edition of The Giles Hollow Mosquito featured a large front-page photograph of the collapsed pumpkin display above the headline, Costumed College Kids Create Catastrophe.  Within its pages, there were no less than three separate stories dedicated to the riots that had occurred the night before.  In short, the mayhem was being blamed on a group of disorderly students and a mix of what authorities were calling “various outside agitators.”

  According to the reporting, the police had sealed off Main Street and spent the rest of the evening carting van loads of people to the local precinct.  The published mugshots of several of the offenders did little to convey the intended gravity of the situation, however.  While they certainly seemed appropriately somber, the putrid green of their zombie makeup made them look like the captured henchmen of an incompetent comic book villain. 

  The dean of the college publicly condemned those responsible, insisting that these were not the values they tried to teach their students.  She went on at length about the need for the school’s community to do a great deal of soul searching as to how they could regain the town’s trust.

  The Elmwood City Board of Selectmen had called an emergency meeting, and there was already talk of canceling next year’s celebration.

  It was, by far, the most exciting thing to happen in the area for years.  The reality that the vast majority of people attending the festival had left by the time the trouble started, meaning almost no one had actually been in any real danger, did little to slow what was sure to be a lucrative news day.

  Though he’d been caught in the middle of what was now being dubbed The Pumpkin Riots, a completely different set of concerns occupied Lester’s thoughts as he tossed copies of the double-thick edition into the quiet of the early morning.  His head swam with questions.  Not the least of which was why his father and Mr. Poole had been chasing the boy from the accident?

  When Ben had dropped him at home, Lester’s mother had been waiting up.  She’d somehow heard about all the commotion and was concerned when he came limping in on his sore ankle.  Deciding it would be best to keep his story simple, Lester had explained how he’d twisted it in one of the bounce houses.  This seemed to satisfy her, and she’d helped him up the stairs to bed.  As she’d tucked him in, she’d told him that his father wouldn’t be home until much later due to an emergency at work.  Lester felt fairly confident he knew what that emergency was.  When he’d left for his paper route the following morning, his father’s car still wasn’t in the garage.  Did that mean Truck Boy had escaped?  

  The Ditch’s paper landed perfectly in the middle of his walkway with a satisfying thwack, and Lester coasted his bike into an arc that sent him back up the other side of the road. 

  Passing the dark forest, he didn’t have to peer searchingly through the shadows of evergreens to try and spot Amanda’s estranged aunt hiding behind a tree.  This time she stood out in the open, the rising sun glinting off her white-blonde hair like a beacon.

  Lester thought about continuing by without stopping, but he had no real reason to be rude.  What did he care if the Poole siblings didn’t get along?

  “Good morning, youngest North,” Jennie Poole said in her velvety voice, watching Lester coast to a stop several feet in front of her.  “You can come closer.  Don’t worry.  I don’t bite — much.”

  She looked exactly as she had the other two times Lester had seen her.  Her silky hair spilled down onto the shoulders of her long dark coat, which draped over her body like a cloak.  Lester wondered if she owned any other clothes.

  “Good morning, Ms. Poole,” he said, rolling his bike a few tentative steps forward.

  “So, you’ve discovered who I am.  I knew a smart boy like you would be able to work it out.”

  “You’re Amanda’s Aunt, Jennie.  Mr. Poole’s sister.”

  At the mention of her brother, her eyes narrowed.  “Daniel and I ceased being siblings in anything but name long ago.”

  “Is that because he married a Gray?” asked Lester, taking a chance.  To his surprise, she smiled.

  “Do you think me a simpleton?  Someone so small and petty they must resort to ignorance and prejudice?  No.  Our argument was not about my brother’s engagement.  But rather, his decision to turn his back on hope.”

  Her gaze became unfocused as though she were looking beyond Lester into an unpleasant memory.  Then, with a shake of her head, her tight-lipped smile returned.

  “Forgive me,” Jennie Poole said.  “The past grows heavier with time.  But none of it has anything to do with you, youngest North.  Or does it?”

  For a brief moment, her cool facade slipped, replaced by a look that almost seemed motherly.  Then just as quickly, it was gone, leaving Lester to wonder if he’d imagined it.

  “That reminds me,” she said, reaching into her coat.  “I’ve got something for you.” 

  “Oh, thank you,” Lester said nervously.  “But really, it’s not necessary.”

  “Now, don’t tell me the last thing I gave you hasn’t come in handy.  Especially in light of all the recent excitement.”

  “Were you at the festival?” Lester asked.  He found it hard to imagine Jennie Poole anywhere other than her cottage or these woods.  But then again, there was obviously more to this mysterious woman than it might first appear.

  Ignoring his question, she pulled something from her coat.  “I made it myself,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice.

   Reluctantly, Lester held out his hand, and she gently placed a small wood carving onto his palm.  It was a raven, perched on top of a stone.  The detail was incredible.  Every feather had been intricately sculpted to the point that it seemed the bird might take flight at any moment.

  “You made this?” asked Lester.

  “Read it,” said Ms. Poole, inclining her head towards the carving.

  There were words etched around the bottom of the stone, and Lester rotated his hand as he read aloud.  “Love can do much, but duty more.  What does it mean?”

  “It means that soon you’ll have to make a choice.  You’ve reached the fork in the path that winds through the wood.  It’s too far to turn back now.  So do you continue on the road laid out for you, or do you take the untrodden way?  Even though it’s too dark to tell where it ends?  Remember, youngest North; the safe road does not always remain safe.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Lester.

  Jennie Poole leaned in close.  Her voice was low even though there was no one else around.

  “Do you know what hunts them, boy?”

  “You mean, The Light?” said Lester.

  “Bah!” she scoffed.  “All light does is cast shadow.  The brighter it gets, the more unseen things become.  In the end, there will be a price, and do you think those fools care who pays?”

  “Then what are you talking about?” asked Lester.  “If you’re not going to make sense, take your bird back.”  He held out his hand, but she was already moving away.

  “It’s a gift,” she said, stepping into the woods.

  “Well, I don’t want it,” said Lester.

  “Oh, you will.  When the time comes, you will,” said Jennie Poole, ducking under some branches and disappearing into the dark.  “Take care, youngest North,” she called from somewhere beyond the trees.  “Often the road less traveled — is less traveled for a reason.”

  Lester knew Amanda’s aunt’s cryptically dire predictions should worry him, but he found himself more angry than frightened.  The last thing he needed was yet another adult in his life that answered all questions with riddles.  Everyone wanted to tell him what to do, but none of them seemed to think he should have a say in it.

  “I don’t care!” he shouted into the forest.  “Do you hear me?  I don’t care!”

Dropping the last newspaper in his bag at Thomas’s house, Lester noticed there were no cars in the driveway or lights on inside.  He wondered what kind of work Thomas’s parents did that had them up and out so early. 

  His deliveries done, Lester took his time heading home, admiring the Halloween decorations on display throughout the village.  Plastic ghouls, ghosts, and mummies peaked out from bushes and lurked on lawns.  Front walks and doorways were festooned with pumpkins, dried corn stalks, and the occasional skeleton.

  The life-size witch attached to the top of the fire department’s garage, making her look as though she were riding her broom off into the sky, made Lester think of Salem and Mathis.  Maybe his brother had been right to leave this all behind.  But even with The Council, the secret war between The Light and The Dark, and whatever role his family was playing in it, Lester couldn’t deny the warm feelings.  He liked his hometown.  Halloween was the perfect example of why.  For one night, the residents of Giles Hollow would suspend reality for a few hours.  Working together, they’d create a world with a bit of magic, delighting children innocent enough to still believe.

  Tomorrow, the decorations would be gone.  The first of November always seemed to come too soon and with it a strong sense of foreboding.  There would be a mad rush to get the rest of the firewood stacked, retrieve dusty snow shovels from basements, and a general hunkering-down for the long winter ahead.

  Lester breathed deep.  The smell of autumn was in the crisp air, an earthy, ripe fragrance that only appeared for a few weeks this time of year.  He steered his bike through a pile of red and orange leaves, scattering them upward into a colorful cloud that fell behind him.  Maybe he, too, could let this all go, but for days like today, that he wished would last forever.

  By the time he got home the only person left in the house was Bernard, who meandered into the kitchen as Lester settled at the table to eat.  His brother was dressed in what had become his uniform lately, gray pants and a collared shirt with a v-neck sweater, both black to match his mood.

  They hadn’t seen one another in several days, other than the occasional passing in the hallways at school, where Bernard did his best to pretend they weren’t related.

  “Morning,” Lester said while mixing a spoonful of salsa into his eggs.

  Bernard sat down, poured himself some cereal, and opened the newspaper.

  “Are you excited for Halloween?” asked Lester, refusing to be ignored.  “You could go as an undertaker this year.  You wouldn’t even have to change.”

  “Halloween’s for kids,” his brother said flatly.

  “Oh, my mistake,” said Lester.  “I should have realized you’d already decided to go as an insufferable bore.  One who thinks he’s an adult because he turned thirteen.”

  Bernard grunted, turned the page of his paper, and crunched on a mouthful of cereal.

  Giving up, Lester went back to eating his breakfast in silence.  While it was certainly easier to swallow eggs without an arm around his neck, this new version of Bernard unnerved him.  It wasn’t that Lester enjoyed his brother making his life miserable — he didn’t.  Still, it was better than the melancholy person sitting beside him, who seemed to have taken an abrupt sideways step out of childhood.

  In past years, Bernard and his friends began gathering eggs several weeks before Halloween, hiding them under an old tarp in the back of the North’s garden shed.  The morning after the holiday, dozens of buildings in town would be covered in stinking yellow goo, and the branches of any nearby trees liberally draped in toilet paper.  Certain teachers’ houses got hit particularly hard.  Lester had always known about his brother’s hiding place, but to avoid becoming a target himself, he had been careful never to mention it.  This year, the tarp in the shed had remained neatly folded on its shelf.

   “So, what are you doing for Halloween?” Lester asked, no longer feeling like needling his brother.

  “Will you shut up about tonight!” Bernard suddenly shouted.  He shot out of his chair and slammed his fist on the table, making the eggs on Lester’s plate jump.  “You think you’re so smart.  Why?  Because you’re better at school than me?  Enjoy being good at your precious tests, little brother.  Once it’s over, you’ll have to face the real world.  Then let’s see where your cleverness gets you.”  

  Lester watched in stunned silence as Bernard turned and stormed out of the kitchen.  A minute later, he heard the front door slam, and the house went quiet once more.

  As he washed their breakfast dishes, Lester felt bad about upsetting his brother.  He wondered if  part of him had meant to do it.  The two of them had never been as close as he and Mathis.  Still, underneath their antagonistic relationship, there was an odd comfort.  Lester could always count on Bernard’s torment as a consistent reminder that some things would never change no matter how unwieldy life might become.  Now that it was gone, he found he missed it more than he’d ever imagined he would.  Perhaps, he thought, that was part of what it meant to be brothers. 

  Lester spent the rest of the day locked in his room, putting the finishing touches on his costume.  He’d always been a strict traditionalist when it came to Halloween, opting for classics like vampires, scarecrows, and ghosts.  But this year, he, Amanda, and Mae had decided to dress together.  They were going as rock-paper-scissors, the classic kid’s game of hand signals used to solve all minor disagreements.  Lester was rock.  It wasn’t particularly scary, but he’d had enough frights recently.  A bit of humor seemed in order.

  Lester had found a pair of painter’s coveralls in the basement.  Using a hot glue gun, and about three dozen glue sticks he had painstakingly attached golfball-sized rocks to every inch of its surface.  It was so heavy that when he put it on, he had trouble reaching down for the candy bag he’d made to resemble a boulder, but it looked great.

  The plan was to meet by the school at dusk.  Then, following a detailed route mapped out by Amanda, they would hit every house within a one-mile radius.  After that, they would sneak down to the library basement to trade and eat candy.  This last part had been Mae’s idea.  Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Chase did not do sugar.  Instead, they insisted that Mae leave all of her Halloween candy out for The Great Pumpkin.  In the morning, she would wake to find in its place some new books, a sweater, or something else equally inedible.  Like most well-meaning but misguided attempts by parents to alter the time-worn traditions of childhood, this had backfired miserably.  Mae simply ate most of her candy before going home to hand it over, consuming way more than she would normally have.

  The night was unusually balmy as Lester stomped out of his house, like some sort of rock creature, to make his way to the rendezvous point.  He was halfway across the soccer field, thinking how light and airy a white sheet with two eyeholes cut into it would be, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.  Lester’s spirits lifted as he spotted the unmistakable silhouette of Bernard hurrying towards the town hall.  Had his brother changed his mind about trick-or-treating?  He tried to run to catch up to him, but due to the weight of his costume, a fast walk was the best he could manage. 

  Bernard slipped around the corner of the old stone building, and Lester followed.  He was about to call out to him but stopped.  His brother was not alone.

  The neatly mowed lawn at the back of the Giles Hollow Town Hall gradually sloped down to a short stone wall, marking the edge of the village’s oldest cemetery.  The graves within were a sort of history of the town itself.  There were markers of the very first families to settle here, alongside the final resting place of soldiers who’d gone off to fight in every major war since.  The American Civil War alone was responsible for an entire corner, having nearly halved the town’s male population at the time.

  At the center of this hollowed ground was a large, coffin-shaped monument commemorating those who’d never returned from overseas after World War II.  And off to one side, dressed in their usual black suits, stood Mr. North and Mr. Poole.

  Lester watched his brother join them, Bernard’s own dark attire making him look like a miniature version of the two men.  Their father greeted him with a gentle hand on his shoulder.  Then, after a brief one-sided conversation in which Bernard didn’t speak but nodded repeatedly, Mr. North called into the cemetery.  Lester was too far away to hear what he said, but a moment later, a figure rose up from behind the monument.

  Truck Boy stood alone among the gravestones, looking disheveled and scared.

  Lester clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp.  Had Truck Boy been on the run since last night?  If so, how had he ended up here?  And why had he revealed himself at his father’s beckoning?  For that matter, how had his father and Mr. Poole known where to find him?

  Lester’s first thought was to make a silent retreat and run to fetch Amanda and Mae.  But what if they couldn’t make it back in time?  Even if they did, what then?  Deciding he was on his own, at least for now, Lester began inching slowly along the back of the town hall.  He had no clue what he could do alone but was hoping to get close enough to at least hear what they were saying.

  Mr. Poole raised his hands in a calming gesture as Bernard and their father stepped over the low stone wall and moved cautiously into the cemetery.  Approaching from either side, they closed in until the three of them formed a triangle around Truck Boy, who stood in the middle, looking confused and frightened.

  Hugging the old building, Lester slid his way forward.  Dusk had faded into night, and in the fullness of the dark, he failed to notice the metal electrical box bolted to the ground.  A loud clang rang out as he stumbled into it.

  Amanda’s father spun at the sound.  With hawk-like focus, Mr. Poole scanned the emptiness in search of the source of the noise, and Lester froze as his piercing blue eyes fell upon him.

  Lester opened his mouth to try and explain but stopped before any words came out.  What possible reason could he invent for being there?  What story could he tell to hide the fact that he’d been spying on them?  No.  It was no good.  He was caught.  No excuse was going to get him out of this one.

  Then an odd thing happened.  Inexplicably, without a word, Mr. Poole turned back around, his attention once more on the cemetery and Truck Boy.

  Baffled, Lester glanced down.  He let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding and gave a silent thanks to Mae Chase.  Assisted by the growing darkness, her costume idea had acted as the perfect camouflage, keeping him hidden against the building’s stone exterior.  Even better, it had allowed him to finally get close enough to hear.  

  “You don’t have to be afraid of the light,” Mr. Poole was saying.  “It’s alright.  You can trust us.”

  Lester was confused.  Why were they talking to Truck Boy about The Light?  Was he one of them?  Were they trying to convince him they could protect him if he switched sides?  Was that why they’d been chasing him all this time?  If so, it didn’t appear to be working.

  Truck Boy began to pivot back and forth on the spot despite their reassurances.  Like a cornered rabbit, he eyed each of his potential captures, desperately seeking a means of escape.  

  Mr. Poole continued to explain that they meant him no harm until Mr. North signaled with an expression Lester knew all too well.  He’d seen it every time he’d tried to reason his way around one of the family rules.  His father had heard enough.  The negotiations were over.

  Mr. Poole stopped talking, and both men slowly walked forward.

  As the circle around him tightened, Truck Boy’s movements became more agitated.  He began swinging his arms and lunging as though preparing to strike should any of them get too close.

  Just as it seemed a clash was imminent, Bernard stepped forward, pulling something from his pocket as he went.  Moving like he was trying to coax a stray dog with a treat, Lester’s brother gripped a square piece of tea-stained paper.  When he’d drawn near enough, he held it at arm’s length.

  Truck Boy, puzzled, carefully reached out and took it.  Dark lines immediately began swirling in from every edge at his touch as though leaking into existence.  They crossed over and under each other, the ink pulsating across the paper.

  The pattern was hypnotic, and Lester found himself gazing as the lines came together to form the symbol from the mailbox.  Watching from his hiding place, he felt a calming warmth wash over him, and the weight of his troubled mind lifted.  The relief was so instantaneous that he had difficulty recalling exactly what it was he’d been worried about in the first place.  But what did that matter?  Surely it had been frivolous and silly to be so easily forgotten.

  The relaxing sensation continued to grow.  When Lester had first looked at the paper, it had been like stepping outside on a sunny summer day.  Lost in its bliss, he’d been vaguely aware as the temperature increased, akin to sliding into a nice warm bath.  Now, the image of a lobster sitting in a pot of boiling water flashed through his mind as some distant part of him registered an uncomfortable heat.

  Lester knew he should be concerned about how much his skin was beginning to sting, but he found it hard to muster up enough energy to care.  If Amanda were here, she’d make a game out of who could withstand it the longest, and like always, she would win.

  Where was Amanda?  Lester felt sure he was forgetting something important.  Was he supposed to be somewhere?  The clouds in his mind suddenly parted, and Lester forced himself to look away from the symbol on the paper.  Then a sickening feeling ran through him as reality snapped back into place.

  Flames were shooting from Mr. Poole’s hands, cascading left and right, creating a circle of fire as they joined with his father’s ungloved one.  Both men’s eyes glowed red, and a blazing tornado formed in the center of the cemetery.  It was the same as it had been in the alley behind The Mortician’s Eye, and trapped in the middle of it, stood Truck Boy.

  Lester struggled to get closer, but the heat and weight of his costume made it impossible to move.  He spotted his brother on the other side of the flames.  Instead of the fear Lester expected to see on Bernard’s face from witnessing such a fantastic terror, he appeared disinterested, almost bored.

  Before Lester could contemplate what this meant, the fire flared, and he was forced to close his eyes against the glare.  He could feel beads of sweat running down his face as the rocks on his costume absorbed the heat, and a wave of dizziness washed over him.  Lester wanted to cry out, to tell them to stop, but it was taking everything he had to remain upright.  Then, just as he was wondering how much more he could stand, it all went black.

  Slowly, spots dancing before his eyes, Lester stripped off his costume.  He was careful not to touch the still hot rocks as he let the coveralls fall to the ground.  Free from its weight, his body began to cool.  His legs wobbled, but he managed not to fall over.  He’d nearly lost consciousness.

  The fire had gone out as quickly as if someone had thrown a switch, and the roar of its wind had been replaced by a chorus of peeping frogs from the nearby pond.  Listening, Lester blinked into the darkness, sweeping a hand in front of him as he took tentative steps, waiting for his vision to return.

  Bit by bit, the shapes grew more distinct, once again revealing his father, Bernard, and Mr. Poole.  They stood among the gravestones, under the full moon’s silver light shining through the dry autumn air, still arrayed in a triangle.  On the ground between them was a small pile of ash.

  “NO!” Lester shouted.

  At the sound of his son’s voice, Mr. North swung around.  “Lester?  Is that you?”

  “What have you done?” Lester asked, his body beginning to shake.

  “Son,” Mr. North said.  He took a step forward but stopped when Lester matched it with a step back.  “Let me explain.  This is not what it seems.”

  “Well, that’s good,” said Lester, looking at the ash.  “Because it seems like you just murdered a defenseless young man.”

  “That’s why I need you to calm down and listen to me,” said Mr. North.  

  “Why?” asked Lester.  So you can tell me how you’ve been chasing this poor guy around for days on some sick errand for The Council?  How you caused the riot at The Pumpkin Festival trying to catch him?”

  A look of surprise crossed Mr. North’s face.  “Have you been following me?”

  “Following you?  I don’t need to follow you,” Lester said, his voice growing louder.  “We know all about who and what you are.”

  “Wait,” interjected Amanda’s father.  “Who’s we?” 

  Lester ignored him and continued.  “We know about The Dark and The Light and your stupid war.  I won’t let you turn Giles Hollow into a battleground like they did in Salem.”

  “Mathis,” Mr. North hissed through clenched teeth.

  “That’s right,” said Lester.  “He told me everything.”

  “Your brother doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” said Mr. North.  “He might think he has all the facts, but he doesn’t.”

  His father’s denials would have been more convincing had he been better able to hide the irritation in his voice.  The fact that his cool exterior had slipped, even for a moment, told Lester he was on the right track.

  “Mathis knew enough to get away from you!” Lester shouted, letting all the confusion, fear, and anger he’d been bottling up explode out of him.  “He knew that The Council — the precious family business — was all a lie!  Mathis refused to be a part of your little cult and got out before you could force him into your twisted ritual.”

  At this, Bernard stepped forward and stood by his father’s side.  “Dad’s right,” he said, glowering at Lester.  “You’re just a kid.  You don’t know.”

  “And you do?  I saw your Drawing-In, Bernard,” Lester said, relishing the look of shock on his brother’s face.  “That’s right.  I saw you tremble as you walked up to Noxumbra.  You looked terrified, like a lamb being led to slaughter.  A little lost lamb among wolves.  Too dumb to know any better.”

  As the words left Lester’s mouth, he knew he should take them back, but he was angry.  His father was a liar, and if Bernard couldn’t see that, then maybe he was just as bad.   

  “I’ll show you who’s afraid!” Bernard roared and lunged forward.

  As his brother’s meaty fist hurtled towards his face, Lester threw up his hands.  He knew it was a feeble gesture and flinched as he braced himself for the blow, but it never came.  Opening his eyes, Lester saw that his father had caught Bernard just in time and, with a strong arm around his waist, was dragging him backward.

  “Let me go!” his brother screamed, swinging wildly, his face twisted with rage.  “It’s not fair!  Let me go!”

  But Mr. North wasn’t listening.  He was too busy staring in alarm at the watermelon-sized ball of water spinning rapidly between his youngest son’s outstretched hands.

  Lester hadn’t meant to do it.  He wasn’t even aware he could.  It had been a reflex.  And now, watching the liquid swirl and undulate as it sent ripples up his arms, he had no idea what to do next.  

  “Son,” Mr. North said slowly.  “Look at me.”  His tone was calm and measured but failed to mask the growing panic beneath the words completely.  “It’s going to be okay.”

  “Actually,” Lester said, his teeth chattering from the vibrations, “I don’t think it is.”

  Lester’s whole body was shuddering, and he could feel the spinning water yearning to be released.  Crackling blue sparks were snapping at the orb’s center as if it had been filled with an angry purpose.  Instinctively, he knew there was no turning it off.  It had to go somewhere — and soon.

  “Try to breathe,” his father instructed, motioning for Mr. Poole to take Bernard.  “Feel the air moving in and out.  Focus on it.”

  The ball inched forward, and Lester dug his fingertips into its surface, determined to hold on. 

 “Dad!” Bernard yelled as Amanda’s father dragged him aside.  “What’s happening?  How can he be doing this?”

  “Not now, Bernard,” said Mr. North, careful not to break eye contact with Lester. 

  “But you said powers took time.  That mine would emerge as I got older.  That’s why we’re drawn in at thirteen.  He’s not even twelve!”

  “Bernard!” Mr. North snapped.  Then, regaining his composure, he returned his attention to Lester.  “Now, do exactly what I tell you,” he said.  “Don’t look down.  Just concentrate on your breath.  That’s good.  Slowly fill your lungs.”

  Lester tried.  He unclenched his jaw and opened his mouth, but his chest felt heavy when he inhaled.  It was the same feeling he got after a long swim in the lake.  As though the weight of all that water still clung to him.

  “I-I c-c-can’t!” he cried.  

 The undulating ball slid forward again, and Lester’s arms burned.  He was struggling to hang on, but it was like trying to grasp a wet fish that had been electrified.  Feeling as though his fingernails were being torn out one by one as it went, he howled in pain.  It was no use.  He had to let go. 

  “Get down!” Mr. North yelled and flung himself on top of Bernard and Mr. Poole, knocking them both to the ground.

  The watery cannonball shot out over them and into the cemetery.  With blistering speed, it tore between the rows of old headstones, carving a muddy brown trench in the grass as it went.  When it reached the far tree line, there was a bright flash and a loud explosion.  After, a shower of blue sparks snapped and hissed like fireworks as they floated down through the night air.

  Lester fought the familiar wave of sickness rising through him and blinked drops of sweat from his eyes.  Holding up his trembling hands, he expected to see torn or burned skin, but other than the silver ring on his finger, they were the same as always.

  The stonewall surrounding the cemetery had not fared quite as well.  Piles of shattered rocks littered the ground, around a car-sized hole blown in its side. 

  “Lester,” choked Mr. North, getting to his feet.  “Are you alright?”

  Lester raised his head, and the familiar face of his father came into focus.  “I’m okay,” he said, as much to himself as in answer to the question.

  “Good,” Mr. North said.  “Then I think it’s long past time you came with me.”

  His father held out his hand, and Lester found himself reaching for it.  He was tired — tired of hiding and of being afraid.  He wanted things to go back to the way they were, back to his life before he knew anything about demons, powers, and secret wars.  He wanted his parents just to be his parents again and to fight about stupid things with his brother.  

  “You’re almost there, son,” Mr. North said.  “Take my hand, and let’s go home.”

  Lester took a step toward his father, but as he did, a cloud of dust rose from the ground.  Looking down, he saw the pile of ash, all that remained of Truck Boy.  Under Lester’s sneaker, a square piece of paper fluttered in the light breeze.

  “No,” Lester said, and let his outstretched arm fall back by his side.

  His father’s face hardened.  “This isn’t a game, Lester.  You don’t understand what’s at stake.  It’s not safe.”

  “Not safe?” asked Lester.  “Not safe for who?  For the people you hunt — or the ones hunting you?”  The sick feeling was gone, and Lester suddenly felt more awake than he had in days. 

  “You think you can just turn your back on your family?” his father snapped.  “Everything your mother and I have done, we have done for you.  I’m sure Mathis had a lot to say but did your brother tell you that when they do come, they won’t distinguish between us?  Your choices won’t matter to them.”

  “That may be true,” said Lester.  “But at least they’ll be mine.”

  Lester looked at his brother, and for a moment, he thought he might leave with him, but Bernard’s gaze dropped to his feet, and he slowly shook his head.

  As Lester walked away, he kept expecting hands to grab him from behind, but none came.  Finally, reaching the front of the town hall, he risked a quick look over his shoulder.  The cemetery was empty.

  Ahead, he could see the lampposts along Main Street and groups of kids hurrying with their candy bags.  Free from the weight of his costume, Lester dusted himself off and moved towards the light.