Sebastian stepped reluctantly down the dark street, hearing the sounds of happy children shrieking yards away as they rang doorbells and demanded candy. He would have driven to the store, but the roads were black and reflective from the cold rain that had been misting that evening and with all the kids milling around for Halloween, he was certain he’d end up running one of the idiots over. Totally by accident, no matter how annoying they were with their costumes and laughing and damn near happy ass lives.

He might be depressed. Not that he didn’t have good reason—He wasn’t one of those emo types that just hated life. Much.

Scowling, Sebastian kicked a wet maple leaf off of his sneaker, feeling the trickle of water get in through the hole in the sole. Perfect. Really perfect. His parents had sent him out to get more candy for the trick-or-treaters, but at this point, he was pretty sure they just wanted to get him out of the house so they wouldn’t have to watch him mope.

Gay. Claire Stevenson thought he was gay.

She hadn’t even been mean about it. She wasn’t the first person to call him gay but most people had done it while making fun of his sappy heart when it came to animals or the fact that he was short and thin and apparently that automatically made him girly. Whatever. He probably could have dismissed it if she had been bitchy and trying to make him feel like shit about himself. Not that the end result was much different. Because the girl he’d been dating for the last three months had just dumped him because she thought he was gay.

God, he hated his life.

You’re just, well, not that into me, Sebastian. It’s like you’re a best friend, not a boyfriend. I can’t make you want me the way I want you, and that’s really, well, terrible feeling to be with someone that doesn’t want me back.

No, she hadn’t been mean at all, but Claire had still managed to destroy him with one damn conversation. He had liked Claire forever. Sebastian couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t had a crush on her. Sure, he wasn’t the most romantic of guys—He’d never say he got butterflies or anything, but that didn’t mean he was gay. Sebastian was just really low key. Boring, if he was feeling down about it. Yeah, he was kind of boring—But not gay. He just didn’t get overly excited about stuff even if he had been crushing on Claire for ages now.

When I kiss you, it’s like, I dunno, wow for me. Really crazy and intense feeling. But you… I don’t think you feel much of anything at all.

God damn it, how could you even measure something like that? How could she just know she felt more than he did? It wasn’t like he was trying to compare or reach some goal of epic makeout sessions. He’d been dreaming about Claire forever, and the moment he finally had a shot at her, he had wanted to take things slow. You know, build a foundation between them. Prove that they could be a long term thing. All of his previous girlfriends had been more like a week to week trial with a whole lot of empty space in between, but with Claire, Sebastian had wanted things to be different.

Well, in a way, they had been, hadn’t they? Instead of being dumped for being too weird or distant, Claire had decided he really just wanted dick. Right after they had been kissing, at that.

He didn’t think he was a bad kisser. He got self-conscious a lot, especially if anyone could be around and see him, but when he did kiss, he thought he was kissing with all his heart. How could she think he didn’t feel just as much for her as she did him? Who even got to say how much you were supposed to feel for someone for it to be officially enough? Hadn’t he like, talked to her every day on the phone and tried to see her every moment he could? Hadn’t he gone out of his way to keep his schedule open around his job and college and her classes to take her out whenever she wanted? How could he do so much and have her think he didn’t feel anything for her? What the fuck else was he supposed to feel?

Fuck, was he supposed to feel something else?

Sebastian growled, his left foot landing hard in an unseen puddle and sloshing up his jean leg, the material immediately soaked. “Fucker.” He hopped, but the damage had been done, his sneaker now squishing with every new step he took, the wet shoe slipping on soggy leaves and concrete alike.

It was an extremely irritating internal monolog, one that didn’t seem to have any answers forthcoming. Sebastian didn’t know if he was feeling enough—He didn’t even know what the fuck he was supposed to feel. He had trusted his feelings this far. Finally, with a girl Sebastian had thought to one day want to marry, she had told him he wasn’t feeling anything at all. And the truth of it was, Sebastian wasn’t fully confident he was feeling everything he was supposed to.

Movies would have him believe he needed to make grand romantic gestures and last-second dashes to airports to show how much he cared. Real life wasn’t like that. At least, his real life wasn’t like that. He wasn’t the type to go rent out an ice skating rink for a romantic date or send twelve dozen roses for the week of Valentine’s Day. He didn’t feel the need to write a book of poetry for how Claire looked in the morning light. He wasn’t the type to want to slice his wrists just because the girl he’d been crushing on had dumped him. For real, who the fuck did that? That wasn’t love; that was just a total chemical imbalance of insanity…

Right?

Running a hand through his damp, black bangs, Sebastian sighed weakly as the line of convenience stores came into view. The small strip mall was lit up in neon oranges, purples, and reds for the holiday, calling customers in from the clammy, wet night with the promise of shelter and heat. He quickened his pace, ignoring the slosh of his sneaker with each frozen step.

God, was he like an unfeeling, dead-hearted idiot and just didn’t know it? Should he be, like, thinking about jumping off a bridge or something because Claire was never going to be with him? Hadn’t he been planning a life with this girl? She was funny, smart, cute, and just all around perfect. Sebastian had friends that acted like if they were dumped, their life was ending. Was he seriously wondering if he was supposed to feel love an entirely different way?

And just who the fuck decided what you were supposed to feel anyways!

He really didn’t know, and the lack of answers was beyond frustrating. Because if he didn’t know, how the hell could he change it? Did he want to change it? Did he need to conform to some level of ‘feeling’ or be forced to accept that he was doomed to be alone for the rest of his life?

Would being alone be better when he wouldn’t be judging himself on how much he was failing to feel for someone he supposedly loved or damn near loved?

Being dumped by Claire didn’t have Sebastian wanting to kill himself, but trying to figure this particular problem out was definitely getting him thinking about a sturdy plastic bag with no air holes.

Jesus, fucking girls. Dictating how he was supposed to feel while in the same breath telling him he wasn’t doing it right. He had felt just as much for Claire as he was meant to feel, or was at least capable of feeling. It might not have been enough for her, but it had been to the best of his damn ability at the time. He sure as fuck hadn’t felt that much for a guy before. Just because he hadn’t lost it over Claire didn’t mean he was gay.

***

He left the warm lights of the convenience store behind him with two bags of candy and an impulsive—but decidedly needed—six-pack in hand. Sebastian’s mood only grew worse when he found the mist that had surrounded him on the walk to the store had turned into a light drizzle that was quickly threatening to grow into a miserable downpour. He hunched forward in his hoodie, the sweatshirt material doing little to protect him from the freezing water and chill wind of approaching winter.

He was full of dread at the idea of going home and having to face his parents’ well-meaning yet completely unhelpful comments as to why things hadn’t worked out with Claire. They kept pushing for him—none too subtly, at that—to move into a dorm or apartment with a group of students his own age. So he could be more sociable. As loathe as he was to have to surround himself with a bunch of loud peers while at the same time losing any ability to fill his savings account, he was starting to consider it if only to avoid the ever increasingly awkward conversations of why he was still single and just couldn’t find the right girl.

As he slipped on slick leaves in the dark, leaning sideways against the wind while standing on the sidewalk, Sebastion began to contemplate his parents’ parting words before he had left the house half an hour ago. Maybe they had been suggesting something else when saying he hadn’t met the ‘right girl’ yet. Maybe they were saying he shouldn’t be expecting to fall for a girl at all…

Did everyone think he was gay just because he’d been unlucky in love?

The sound of crunching tires hitting leaves behind him caught his attention. Sebastian immediately stepped as far from the street as the sidewalk would allow, his expression growing stormy when he heard a puddle splash and felt a fresh spray of water as the vehicle roared past.

“Asshole!” He growled, raising his hand holding the bag full of candy while ineffectively wiping the side of his face that had gotten caught in the deluge of dirty water. He glared after the fading red taillights, glad that the rain had at least driven most of the trick-or-treaters inside so they wouldn’t have to deal with the same fate. Shaking himself off, he forced his frozen feet forward, quietly contemplating just who had insisted on Halloween being so late in the season when the weather was always so cold.

He was going to go home, lock himself in his bedroom, and drink himself to sleep. Not because he was depressed over Claire—no, apparently he still couldn’t work up enough emotion for that—but because he was so fucking annoyed by being told he didn’t know how to feel. He knew how to feel. He did it every fucking day. And if that wasn’t good enough, well, too fucking bad for Claire.

Somehow feeling more empowered in his anger even though he was still absolutely lost on what the fuck Claire had been trying to tell him, Sebastian splashed through puddles and piles of colorful, rain-drenched leaves until he reached the familiar streets of his neighborhood. The rain had only increased and his steps sped up in response, his sweatshirt soaked through and bangs now dripping into his green eyes, obscuring his vision. Which was why, when headlights suddenly flashed and Sebastian caught sight of a small, hunched body in the middle of the road, without thinking he immediately dashed forward.

A horn blared startling loud, the tires to Mr. Walden’s sedan shrieking on the wet pavement when the man slammed on his brakes to avoid Sebastian’s poorly lit form. He barely noticed, his gaze fixed on the middle of the road where a child’s plastic pumpkin treat holder was tipped upside down, candy scattered on the ground all around it. But where he had thought he had seen the body of a person, a drenched, wide-eyed black cat looked up at him, it’s fur matted to its trembling body.

“Sebastian! Are you out of your damn mind, boy? You could have been killed!” Rolling his window down roughly, the older man squinted into the rain, trying to see past Sebastian’s knees illuminated by his headlights. “Oh, hell, don’t tell me that’s a…”

“It’s a cat,” Sebastian said, wonder and warmth filling his voice in equal proportions as he bent down and offered the back of his hand to the small creature’s delicate nose. “I think he was eating the candy.” He had never known a cat to eat candy, but with the torn wrappers under the cat’s paw, he was pretty sure that was what it was doing.

Scowling with a mix of annoyance and relief to find that there was no child crumpled under the wheels of his car, Mr. Walden revved his engine impatiently. “Come on, get out of the street. Whatever it’s doing, the road is no place for it or you. Especially in this rain.”

Eyes of impossible periwinkle depths stared up into his. Crouching down, Sebastian held his hands out, the frail looking cat following the movement with its head warily. “You cold, little guy?” Sebastian crooned, carefully scratching behind a bedraggled ear. When no bite or hiss came, he edged closer, cautiously wrapping his arms around the cat’s body but not lifting just yet. “I’m going to get you out of this rain, okay? My home is nice and warm and you won’t have to worry about being run over.”

Taking the silence and trembling of the small form as permission, Sebastian carefully tightened his arms until the black cat was in his embrace. He stood slowly, hooking the plastic handle of the pumpkin with him so no kid would wander into the road to try and rescue it as well. He ignored Mr. Walden’s eyeroll—the man was clearly not as impressed by a pathetic, shivering, soaking wet cat as he was—and slowly walked his new friend to the sidewalk where they could both be safe.

“Do you have a collar, pretty?” He asked softly, gently scratching beneath the cat’s chin until it tilted its face up to reveal that it was indeed collarless. But even though the cat was bedraggled and scavenging for food, Sebastian was certain it belonged to someone or had only just recently lost its owner. It was far from feral, curled up in his arms and purring as it tried to heat itself against the rain and cold. It hadn’t tried to claw him or anything even though the poor thing had nearly been run over and had to be terrified.

Water dripped down onto Sebastian’s nose from the brim of his sweatshirt hood, startling him momentarily and reminding him that even though his new friend was safe from cars, it was still out in the miserable weather that could be just as dangerous for a domestic animal. Decided, he turned towards his house, speaking soothingly as he held the cat close against his chest between the damp layers of his shirt, offering it as much protection as he could from the elements while he took him home.

The night was alive with great power. The sky was full of the chill energy of the late season, when fires lit the sky and burned the leaves crisp and brown. It was the flash of life, snuffed out and crackling raw as winter came close to claim it silent. Eaves was familiar with this feeling, the tightness in his chest, the prickling of his senses, the racing of his blood as night sang through him.

He had watched young and old alike come alive, flush rushing across their skin to glow warm, eyes alight and reflecting the mad ache of things that could only be felt and never fully understood. They were compelled, dancing in this power, kneeling in the dirt. Some were driven to the brink of madness, and some lifted further still by Siren’s call moaning through the restless wind. Not all humans were struck, but the ones with remnants of the old blood were destined to answer the call tonight.

As for the beings brimming with the same blood, ancient as the night and the moon that ruled it, they joined their voices in wild chorus to fill the wind with the madness that only All Hollows Eve could bring.

Wild. Raw. Insane. Each chill breath stung Eaves’ lungs and set him free. Each long stride brought him deeper into the dark forest and away from the structure and bars that only humans could create. Each movement undid him. His humanity unwound from him like a cloak, stripped him of his order beneath his well controlled glamours. He’d known this feeling many times in the safety of his studio with a brush in hand and a large assortments of colors laid out before him, but never within the forest. He had never been so brash to travel here when the Ancients were calling. Tricksters, thieves, death dealers; this was their hour. Among them, Eaves feared it would be his as well.

Eaves did not fear the Ancients in the way the humans he lived among did. He had no false delusions of them either, like the whimsical daydreamers that would skirt the edge of the trees, looking for adventure with a stray nymph. Their dangers and their treasures were as clear to him as the stars in the cloudless sky. He had no fascination or prejudice for them. Of the supernatural beings that he had met, all had gleamed his indifference from his aura as simply as one smelling a scent and let him be. Tonight, he found, was not to be the same.

It was not a full shock, given the way his heart was aflame as dark settled around him. Eaves had never walked the woods when the madness had been so close, thrumming in his veins, pulsing in his throat as if its fiery burn had taken over what his heart once was. Perhaps it had. There were very few of what Eaves was, killed before a chance to grow to his twenty some years and impressive physical strength. He had no one to ask if the madness was to be expected as he walked the woods. The one before him might know, but to reveal what Eaves was would be to signal for an undesired death.

The elf stood tall and willowy even though the well fitted armor he wore was undoubtedly heavy. Eyes the crisp gray of a clouded morning, he had taken one shrewd look at Eaves from behind the torch he held in hand and had seen something no one else had noticed of the young man in his years of walking the Earth. With the intricate crest of the Autumn Guard flickering gold on his sword and chest plate, the sixth sense must have been trained in the elf the same way a child learns mathematics. Looking at Eaves, the elf could see numbers were not adding up.

“Your business,” the elf demanded with all the affluence of the high bloods speaking to dust that had ended up on their robes. The tone always made Eaves bristle, but tonight was not the time to indulge in mockery and most likely a scuffle with an empowered beanpole. Granted, Eaves was nearly the same impressive height but his time around the short humans had created a familiar vision of society he was hard pressed to replace with lanky, graceful snobs with familiar wildness in their eyes.

Honesty was Eaves’s nature, but annoyance and the sing of fire in his veins made him abrupt. “I have no business here. I am passing through.”

Cracking his long, dark braid forward, the elf glowered, piercing eyes accessing, judging. “None pass through Aurian, mortal. It is the forest’s choice whether to give you passage and tonight she is intent on celebration. You’ve chosen a poor time for travel. I suggest you return the way you came and wait it out like the rest of your kind.”

Eaves did not step back at the prodding of the elf, the tall creature’s mouth hardening at the realization that his intimidation had fallen short. The human traveler seemed more a wild jackal than a man, dressed in black with shoulder length dark curls unruly and windswept and a week’s worth of stubble rough on his jaw. He was built human, wide shoulders and thick thighs lacking the compact grace of the elves, even for such a tall stature, but there was something wrong about him. Something that made the elf consider the ease of which it would be to just slew the man before him now. The human’s eyes were light as sky, nearly winter’s color, and not belonging in any mortal’s face.

“Why have you come here tonight? Your dress is not worthy of our festival,” the elf said, taking in the mud stained traveling cloak, frayed boots, and unruly hair the man wore. “Or is it your intent to steal from the Autumn Prince when he will be preoccupied with merriment and ceremony? I am of his guard and will rightfully kill you now, if warranted.”

Eaves considered himself a cautious person, keeping his head down and mouth shut when needed. Elves were dangerous, and the one before him guarded a prince, making him deadly. Of course, the guard could have just run him through on principle alone, so in that regard, Eaves found him to be at the very least patient. Eaves would show similar restraint, even with the wind whirling his blood into a frenzy of wild energy.

Looking the guard in the eye, Eaves tried again. “I am passing through to Warden’s Path. Nothing more. I have no interest in your autumn festivals, only to be on my way. My sister has fallen ill and needs my assistance.”

Leaves rattled under the elf’s soft shoes, too slow to blow free from the swift predator. And predator he was for Eaves recognized his ilk deep within the gaze that was currently trying to deduce his motives. Elves were not all flowers and gentleness. The Autumn Guard especially were known for their wild ruthlessness, matched only by the frozen mercy of the Winter Blade. Eaves birth had fallen on the cusp of the two destructive seasons, autumn full of fire and passion, and winter an all encompassing eternity of cruelty. If Eaves had been of the elves, he would have been cast into the ether with the other wild entities that had no symbol to identify them, too raw for the complexities that life called for. Elves were not beings to be trifled with.

Eaves knew the elf noticed something in him but not what. Hopefully it would remain that way. He had never faced the Autumn Guard but he suspected that they would be the ones to kill him if he was recognized for what he truly was.

“You carry no medicine,” the elf finally pointed out, not exactly happy to allow the man passage. The festival always drew the worst of trouble as it was, and he did not like the idea of stray humans mucking up their elaborate ceremonies.

Eaves saw that he was winning and pushed his voice into something nearly warm. “I’m afraid I have little skill in healing. My brother-in-law has requested me because there is none other with the time to look after the children while he’s away gathering the last harvest. Time is essential, as I’m sure you understand. Winter is fast coming and the crops will be ruined if he cannot get to them.”

Somehow the circumstances only aroused more suspicion from the guard. “What sort of man are you, being called to care for children? Your wife should be at your side. Or are all your women prone to sickness? If that is the case, you should be with her, and not risking your life on such a night.”

“I am the sort of man that has no wife, nor wish for one,” Eaves snapped, raising his chin defiantly while internally cursing his temper. He was not himself tonight, tongue included. The elf met his glare, understanding flashing over his face before quickly disappearing within his emotionless expression. Eaves didn’t know, nor did he care to know, what elves thought of men laying with men. It was taboo enough among humans outside of his village, and he should have just kept his mouth shut.

“My sister is not prone to illness,” Eaves continued, hoping to change the subject to something less likely to get him slayed. “She is a hearty woman with a strong mind. Her family depends on her and I love her dearly. Nannying and weatherproofing their estate is hardly a lot to ask, even with the three days journey on foot. A journey I would like to continue,” he added tightly.

Eying him head to toe again, the elf responded, not in any way Eaves had expected. “I know a woman… a human. She is very delicate compared to my kind, and quick to dismiss my concerns.”

Realizing the elf was looking for some sort of assurance of his lady love, Eaves offered it reluctantly. He knew firsthand the tragedies that came from elves mating with humans, and had no interest in encouraging such a union. “We are a varied species. My sister looks nearly as fragile as a spring bloom, but she is still resilient and stubbornly willful.”

The bright moonlight revealed a softening of the elf’s features, although not completely lax. His guard was always up, which was why he was in the profession he was. “This is good. My love has been very quiet lately, the winter coming quickly. I fear her neighbors have been giving her grief for knowing me.”

Happy that the elf had finally lowered the hand that held his sword, Eaves was blunt. “I have heard of the results of such unions, usually with the woman cast out from her home and village, exiled out of fear and ignorance. Further East they will kill any woman known to have lain with an elf. Any resulting child does not last long.”

“Yes, I have heard of this too.” The elf worried his lip, his eyes darkening as shadows danced across his fierce features. “I want to ask her to join me and my people. She wishes for a child but my people frown on such an entity. I fear she will choose against it.”

Eaves almost asked if the elf would destroy any child he sired, human or not, but kept himself in check. “Get her a dog,” he said flatly, stepping smoothly around the tall intrusion. He had no head for conversation tonight, worry and the energy in the air making him want to move, and roar, and nothing more. The line of conversation was too personal and dangerous to indulge in anyways.

“A small beast to care for… That may work.” Eyes focusing, the guard found the man had gone. He whirled, a grimace on his face. “Hold! We have yet to decide the conditions of your travel.”

Sighing, Eaves paused and turned back. “What conditions would those be, good elf?” He asked with frustration clear in his voice.

“You are not to leave the main road or socialize with any of those attending the festivals, unless they have sought you out specifically.”

Eaves fought down a snort. As if he’d want to socialize with any of them! “Anything else?”

“Yes.” The elf’s eyes narrowed at the tone of disrespect. “I am called Gilroy. If you run across another of my crest, inform them that I have allowed you passage. If you run across any that are of a crest, but not of the Autumn Guard, I suggest you continue to run, for your life will certainly be forfeit.”

Taking a long assessing look at the brown haired, gray-eyed fae who looked to quietly manifest the madness singing in his own body, Eaves internally shivered at the implications. Elves battling for territory was not a place anyone wanted to be found in, especially when the battle would be with the oncoming Winter Blade. “I’ll keep that in mind. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He bowed briefly to the elf and turned on his heel, making his way down the path before another could try and stop him.

“Stay to the left fork, mortal,” the elf called as Eaves disappeared into the darkness.

Gilroy stared long into the dark, listening for sounds that did not come. The mortal was more a specter than a man, but he had not discerned any ill will. His instincts warned of the odd appearance of a human traveling alone on this of all nights with no weapon or power to protect him that could be seen. Only a fool would be so blithe, and the brief conversation had led Gilroy to believe the man was hardly dim witted. He hoped he would not find himself regretting his decision to let the stranger pass.