Chapter 7

I WAKE UP EARLY, NOTING Ronan is gone, but he left a note on his pillow:

Candice,

Sorry. Caelan called. The weather has cleared enough that we can have the feast today. It obviously got cancelled last night. He needs new, dry wood for the wood-fired ovens, and you looked too peaceful to wake.

Ronan

I find my clothes from yesterday, neatly folded on his dryer, and dress as excitement builds for the upcoming Thanksgiving feast—and for seeing my lycan lover again.

The air crackles with anticipation while I make my way to the beautiful glen where the town has gathered. Autumn leaves dance on a gentle breeze, their vibrant hues a perfect backdrop for the festive decorations.

Pumpkins of every size and shape line the pathways, and some are carved with intricate designs that seem to shift when I’m not looking directly at them. Cornucopias overflow with an abundance of magical produce—shimmering apples, iridescent corn, and berries that sparkle like jewels.

I spot Grizelda near the center of the glen, her wild mane of silver-streaked purple hair moving as if it has a life of its own. She’s wearing flowing robes adorned with mysterious symbols that seem to glow faintly. As I approach, I notice her hand resting on her slightly rounded belly.

“Grizelda.” I say, waving. “Everything looks amazing.”

She turns, her vibrant purple eyes lighting up. “Candice, darling. So glad you could make it. Are you ready for a truly magical Thanksgiving?”

I laugh, still not entirely used to how casually everyone here uses the word ‘magical.’ “As ready as I’ll ever be. Is there anything with which I can help?”

She shakes her head, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Oh, no, dear. I’m feeling much better today and have something special planned. Just you wait and see.” She raises her arms, preparing to cast a spell, when suddenly, she turns pale. Her hands drop to her stomach and she sways slightly.

“Grizelda?” I ask, concerned. “Are you okay?”

She waves me off with one hand, the other still pressed to her belly. “I’m fine. Just a bit of morning sickness. Nothing to worry about. Now, where was I? Ah, yes, the enhancement spell for our feast.”

Before I can protest, she begins chanting in a language I don’t understand. The air around us shimmers and pulsates with energy, but something seems off. Her voice wavers, and the magical energy surrounding her flickers erratically.

Suddenly, chaos erupts.

A nearby apple pie levitates off its table, spinning like a frisbee before zooming away. I duck just in time to avoid being hit by it.

“Oh, my,” says Grizelda with surprise.

All around us, food comes to life. A giant bowl of mashed potatoes begins to bubble and expand, spilling over the edges of its container and oozing across the table like lava. Guests leap back, their shouts of surprise mingling with nervous laughter.

I watch in disbelief as a group of pumpkin pies rise into the air, hovering like a fleet of orange UFOs. They zip around, narrowly missing the heads of startled townsfolk.

“Grizelda,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm, “What’s happening?”

She looks both amused and embarrassed. “It seems my spell didn’t quite go as planned. Pregnancy does tend to affect a witch’s magic sometimes.” She lowers her voice, looking pained when she adds, “Especially at my age.”

A bread roll bounces past my feet, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs in its wake. I laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Should we try to catch the food?” I ask, eyeing a plate of green beans slithering across the grass like a snake.

She shakes her head, wearing a rueful grin. “That might make things worse. Let’s just enjoy the show, shall we? It’ll wear off...eventually.”

As if on cue, a turkey, still on its platter, stands up on its baked legs and begins to strut around, somewhat muffled-gobbling indignantly. Guests scramble out of its way, equal parts amused and alarmed.

I spot Ronan across the glen, trying to wrangle a group of escaping dinner rolls. Our gazes meet, and he grins, shrugging as if to say, “Just another day in Evershift Haven.”

A chorus of shrieks draws my attention. A massive gelatin mold has come to life, resembling a gelatinous blob monster from a B-movie. It oozes its way down the buffet table, absorbing smaller dishes in its path.

“Oh, dear,” murmurs Grizelda beside me. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

I turn to her, unable to keep the laughter from my voice. “What exactly was supposed to happen?”

She pats her belly absentmindedly. “I was trying to expand the portions. You know, a little magical boost to our Thanksgiving feast. I didn’t expect it to become quite so lively,” she says to Atlas, who puts a massive around her back, settling on the curve of her waist. “It’s mostly your fault, since you made me pregnant, and that messes with my magic.” Her eyes twinkle as she says that.

He laughs, and it sounds like two boulders rubbing together. “I’ll take the blame for that.”

A cranberry sauce rocket whizzes past, leaving a trail of red splatters in its wake. I duck, narrowly avoiding a facial. “I can see that,” I say, wiping a stray cranberry from my cheek. “How long until this wears off?”

She purses her lips, considering. “Oh, an hour or two. Maybe three. Possibly by dessert?”

I shake my head, amazed at how calmly she’s taking all this, but then again, in a town where magic is an everyday occurrence, maybe animated food isn’t that unusual.

“So,” I say, brushing off my clothes, “I guess we should try to make the best of it. Any ideas on how to have Thanksgiving dinner when the dinner is trying to escape?”

She grins. “Oh, I know just the thing. We’ll turn it into a game. Whoever catches the most food gets an extra slice of pumpkin pie...once we manage to ground those flying ones, of course.”

As if in response, a pumpkin pie swoops low, narrowly missing Grizelda’s head. She ducks, laughing. “See? They’re already playing along.”

I survey the chaotic scene unfolding before me, amusement and disbelief washing over me. The once-orderly Thanksgiving feast has transformed into a surreal battlefield of animated food.

Ronan catches my eye from across the glen with bewilderment and mirth. “Candice.” he calls out, dodging a flying dinner roll. “We need to contain this before it gets out of hand.”

I nod, agreeing despite Grizelda’s plan to let it run its course. I scan the area for anything that might help and see a stack of empty baskets near the edge of the clearing. “The baskets. Maybe we can use them to catch the smaller dishes?”

He gives me a thumbs up and starts making his way toward the baskets, weaving through the chaos like a dancer avoiding his partner’s toes. I follow suit, ducking under a low-flying pumpkin pie.

When we reach the baskets, a group of townspeople joins us, led by Throk. The orc’s green skin is splattered with various food stains, giving him a comical appearance.

“Good thinking,” he says, grabbing a basket. “Let’s round up these culinary troublemakers.”

We spread out, baskets in hand, and attempt to capture the runaway dishes. I’m chasing after a group of escaping dinner rolls, their little bread bodies bouncing along the grass. “Come here, you little carb monsters,” I mutter, lunging forward with my basket. I manage to scoop up three of them, but the fourth takes an unexpected turn, evading my grasp.

Nearby, Ronan is locked in an epic showdown with the runaway roasted turkey that should’ve been the star of the feast, if it hadn’t decided to go rogue. The bird, perfectly cooked to a golden brown and larger than a wheelbarrow, struts around with impressive indignation, managing a fierce sort of gobble despite its lack of a head. It weaves through tables, its gleaming skin catching the sunlight, looking very much like it knows it’s supposed to be eaten but has absolutely no intention of letting that happen.

Ronan holds a large basket in front of him like he’s taming a wild beast. “Easy there, big fella,” he says, inching closer with exaggerated care. “How about we call a truce? You stop charging, and I promise not to eat you.”

The turkey seems to consider this, tilting slightly as though it can still see him, even without eyes. Its wings twitch, dripping buttery goodness as it nearly bristles with outrage, and it puffs up, letting out a defiant, garbled “Gobble.”—an impressive feat for a bird with no head. Then, in a display of pure Thanksgiving spirit, it charges at him with all the ferocity of a small, flightless bull.

Ronan’s pupils dilate as he dives to the side, narrowly missing a collision with the bird’s impressive bulk. He lands face-first in a massive pile of mashed potatoes, disappearing momentarily in a cloud of buttery fluff before emerging with a startled, disgruntled expression. The lycan pulls himself up, dripping in creamy potatoes, with stray parsley flakes sticking to his fur.

The sight sends me into a fit of laughter I can’t quite suppress. “Ronan,” I say between giggles, “I think he might have won that round.”

With a slow, defeated grin spreading across his face, he shakes some mashed potatoes off his hand. “Think this is funny, do you?” he asks, scooping up a handful of mashed potatoes.

I back away, holding up my hands in mock surrender. “Let’s not do anything rash—”

But it’s too late. The glob of mashed potatoes flies through the air, hitting me square in the chest. I gasp, looking down at the mess on my shirt, then back up at his mischievous grin.

“Oh, it’s on,” I declare, reaching for the nearest food item—a bowl of cranberry sauce and chucking it toward him. Most of it flies out, but a gob lands on his muzzle, and he licks it off.

Grizelda stands in the middle of it all, her wild hair now adorned with bits of stuffing and gravy. She throws back her head, laughing uproariously. “This isn’t quite what I had in mind, but it certainly is festive.”

I duck behind a table, using it as cover as I prepare my next attack. Ronan appears beside me, his fur now a rainbow of food stains.

“Having fun yet?” he asks with amusement.

I grin, wiping a smear of gravy from my cheek. “You know what? I actually am. This is the craziest Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.”

“Well, then,” he says, scooping up a handful of stuffing, “Let’s make it even crazier.” He pops up from behind the table, lobbing the stuffing at Throk. The orc turns just in time to get a faceful of herbed bread cubes. He sputters, wiping his eyes, then grins menacingly.

“You’ll pay for that, pup.” Throk snatches a whole pumpkin pie from midair.

I peek over the edge of the table as Throk winds up for his throw. “Ronan, incoming.”

He ducks, and the pie sails over his head—right into the face of a startled elf, who had just rounded the corner of a nearby booth. The elf stands there for a moment, pie tin sliding down his face to reveal eyes blinking in shock through a mask of pumpkin filling.

For a moment, everything goes quiet. Then the elf’s face splits into a wide grin, and he grabs a bowl of green bean casserole. “Food fight,” he yells, flinging the casserole into the crowd.

Before I know it, the containment effort has devolved into a full-blown food fight. Townspeople are lobbing yams at each other, dodging airborne pies, and using serving trays as shields against the onslaught of flying food. I grab a ladle of gravy, flinging it in a wide arc. It splatters across several people, including a fairy whose wings are now coated in the savory sauce.

“Sorry,” I call out, but the fairy just laughs, shaking her wings and sending droplets of gravy flying everywhere.

Ronan grabs my hand, pulling me out from behind the table. “Let’s get to higher ground.”

We make our way to a small hill overlooking the glen, dodging flying food as we go. From our vantage point, we can see the full extent of the chaos below. The once-pristine clearing is now a patchwork of food splatters, with people running, laughing, and flinging edible projectiles in every direction as the animated food still tries to slink off.

I lean against Ronan while we catch our breath. “When I imagined my first Thanksgiving in Evershift Haven, this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

He chuckles while wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Welcome to Evershift Haven, where even our holidays are magical—and sometimes a little messy.”

Watching the food fight continue below, I’m filled with warmth that has nothing to do with the exertion of the battle. This quirky, magical town and its inhabitants have welcomed me with open arms—and apparently, open plates.

A glob of mashed sweet potatoes sails past us, missing us by inches. Ronan and I exchange a look, then grab handfuls of the orange mush.

“Ready for round two?” he asks, a playful glint in his eye.

I nod, grinning from ear to ear. “Absolutely. Let’s show them how it’s done.”

Hand in hand, we charge back down the hill, armed with our sweet potato ammunition, ready to rejoin the fray. As I fling my handful of mash at an unsuspecting dryad, I realize this might just be the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.

The food fight rages on. A squadron of dinner rolls zooms overhead like tiny, doughy fighter jets, dropping payload of butter pats on unsuspecting revelers below. The giant gelatin mold blob monster oozes its way through the crowd, absorbing smaller food items and growing larger by the minute.

“Watch out for the Jell-O Beast,” yells someone, and people scatter as it approaches, leaving trails of sticky residue in its wake.

I grab Ronan’s arm, pointing at the wobbling monstrosity. “We need to stop that thing before it consumes the whole feast.”

“I’ve got an idea. Follow me.”

He leads me to a table laden with pies—the few that haven’t yet taken flight. “We’ll build a pie barricade,” he says, grabbing an armful of the desserts. “The Jell-O Beast won’t be able to absorb these as easily.”

I catch on quickly, gathering my own stack of pies. We work together, creating a circular wall of pies around the approaching jello monster. As it reaches our dessert fortification, it pauses, quivering, as if confused.

“It’s working.” I say, watching as the Jello Beast tries to absorb a cherry pie, only to find its gelatinous body repelled by the flaky crust.

Our success is short-lived, however, as the turkey—still very much alive and now sporting a gravy-slicked coat—charges through our pie barricade, scattering desserts everywhere. The Jell-O Beast seizes the opportunity, oozing through the gap and continuing its relentless advance.

“That didn’t go as intended,” he says, wiping cherry filling from his fur.

I laugh at the absurdity of it all. “I guess we’ll have to think of something else. Any other bright ideas?”

Before Ronan can respond, Grizelda’s voice booms across the glen, magically amplified to be heard over the chaos. “Attention, everyone. I think I’ve figured out how to end this little...mishap.”

All gazes turn to the town witch, who stands atop a table, her hair now resembling a bird’s nest filled with various food items. She raises her arms, fingers sparkling with magical energy.

“On the count of three,” she calls out, “Everyone grab the nearest enchanted food item so we can share the magic of the town. Ready? One... two... three.”

As she brings her arms down in a sweeping motion, I lunge for a levitating bowl of cranberry sauce. All around me, people are grappling with animated dishes, pies, and various other foodstuffs. The air fills with a tingling energy, and for a moment, everything seems to freeze. Ronan manages to grab the turkey.

Then, as suddenly as it began, the chaos subsides. The bowl of cranberry sauce in my hands stops trying to escape, settling into a normal, inanimate state. All around the glen, people are holding now-ordinary dishes of food, looking both relieved and slightly disappointed that the excitement is over. Ronan is holding the huge turkey, still enlarged but now inanimate, and lets out an “oomph,” as he staggers under the sudden dead weight.