She grins. “Come on. Let’s win me something ridiculous.”
We start at the ring toss. A muscular man in a clown-painted hoodie guards the booth like a troll with a chip on his shoulder. Olivia hands him a ten and gets five rings.
I eye the plastic bottles. “These are not worthy foes.”
“They're plastic, Conan. You're notbeheadingthem.”
“Shame.”
I let her try first. She gets one ring around the edge of a bottle and squeals like she just won a war. The sound sends something sharp and warm through my chest.
She hands me a ring. “Let’s see if your battle reflexes work on stationary objects.”
I flick it.
Dead center.
The man grunts. “Winner.”
I choose the largest prize—a horrendous, soft, purple thing with googly eyes and horns.
She stares at it. “You… picked the kobold?”
“It has the eyes of our shaman Vurgor. I am compelled.”
She laughs until her eyes glisten. “You’re ridiculous.”
I lean close. “You like ridiculous.”
She doesn’t deny it.
We wander past the corn maze, the hayride queue, the cider stand. She buys two candied apples and hands me one. I bite into it. The caramel sticks to my teeth like glue and sugar and sin. I nearly choke.
Olivia tries not to laugh. “You good?”
“This fruit has been cursed,” I growl, trying to chew.
“It’s supposed to taste like that.”
“Why would you do this to an apple?”
“Because humans hate themselves a little, and this is how we cope.”
She licks her apple slowly, and I watch her tongue trail the red glaze, and it’s not the cursed sugar that makes my blood rise this time.
“I like it better plain,” I say.
She eyes me over the apple. “Noted.”
Eventually, we end up at the edge of the dance floor, where a live band is playing something twangy and rhythmic. People sway beneath the lanterns, spinning in pairs. Olivia fidgets, watching them.
“Do your people dance?”
“Not like this,” I say. “We have the Blood Thunder Ritual.”
“That sounds… wet.”
“It is.”
