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There was even an order of warlocks here once which means that there isn’t a coven now, though I’ve caught a witch or two watching me from the corner of their eye as if they can sense that one of their sister witches cursed me long ago.

I’m pretty sure I’m the only warlock in Shadowvale these days. The order that once ruled the town vanished a couple hundred years ago, after something happened to the warlock who led them. He disappeared first, then the order scattered. Still, whatever happened, the roots of their magic remain.

And though I doubt I’ll find my mate any time soon, so do I.

I like to think I’m the mayor of Shadowvale. I don’t count the human who has the same title. He’s useless, and everyone in town knows the big fluffy black cat that’s roamed the back alleys and begged at back doors for a quarter of a century, even if the humans—thanks to a touch of my magic—are convinced I’m a new cat in town every few years. As a notable stray, I belong to no one, which means everyone thinks I belong to them (unless I pick a companion for a while before ‘dying’ and moving on). That works for me for now. These days, I get fed at the butcher shop on Tuesdays. There’s an old woman on Sycamore who leaves tuna on her porch every morning; I’m pretty sure she knows I’m the same cat, but for twenty years, I’ve been given tuna and if she didn’t always a two or three cats of her own, I would’ve stayed there long ago. Even the staff at the Shadowvale Diner gives me bacon when the waitresses think the owner/cook isn’t looking.

It’s not a bad life. It just isn’t the one I thought I would have when I was a determined warlock in my early thirties, hoping to find my forever mate.

The worst part is that, almost forty years since I’ve been cursed, I’m still struggling with the worst part of it: the patience. I’m still waiting for my one true mate—and then, six weeks before Halloween, it happens.

I smell her.

A cat’s sense of smell is more than ten times stronger than a human’s. I’ve grown to rely on my nose, but when I’m walking casually behind a row of shops a street over from Main Street, I get a hint of a whiff of a beautifully magical scent that has me stopping dead in my tracks.

There’s pumpkin. Cinnamon. Sugar. Something spicy and something sweet, and altogether something that is mine.

It’s her. I know it is.

My head lifts and my whiskers twitch as I breathe it in again. The scent is even more potent this time, and every instinct I possess—warlock, man, cat—goes eerily still.

Halloween, I think. Whoever that is, she smells like Halloween.

So I follow it. I’m not sure if it’s the scent I’m chasing or the whisper-thin tug that’s luring me in one particular direction. It doesn’t matter. I pad along on my paws, tail lashing behind me as I search for the source of that delicious aroma.

Cats don’t laugh, but if they could, I would definitely chuckle a little to find that my nose has led me right to a little pie shop.

I know where I am—and why I haven’t stumbled upon this scent before. Two doors down, there’s a curio shop that caters to tourists. Though Shadowvale doesn’t have a supernatural reputation, the humans in town have an affinity with Halloween. There’s an annual festival that lasts the entire week before it, with parades and contests and countless visitors who come to celebrate the holiday.

The shop sells Shadowvale T-shirts and witch hats and stuffed black cats that I find offensive. It’s also run by a witch named Bonnie who chases me off with a broom every time I slink down this street. With the entire town willing to take care of Shadowvale’s stray, I’ve long avoided this part of town since I consider it her territory… until now.

Over the back door, there’s a white sign with black print on it that says: THE PIE CHART. I’ve never heard of it, but that’s not so unusual. Most of the shops along this row never make it more than a few seasons, except for Bonnie who—surprise—has magic on her side.

I’m nudging the closed back door with a paw, eager to get inside when, suddenly, it opens and I jump backward, scurrying inside of another doorway so I can watch what happens next.

The woman who steps through the back door is carrying a garbage bag with her. She’s very pretty. She has shiny brown hair, soft curves, and a slightly distracted expression. There’s a smear of flour along one side of her shirt, and she mutters something under her breath when the lid on the dumpster refuses to cooperate.

And that’s when the late summer wind shifts and, over the stink of hot garbage, her scent surrounds me. Not a hint of it like before, but a full blast, and I know.

I know.

Thirty-nine years of waiting, and it’s undeniable.

My mate. I’m looking at my mate who is muttering another curse under her breath because she dropped something else into the dumpster when she tossed the bag of trash in. Now she’s half in, half out, and I can’t help but zero in on her backside as she kicks her sneakers, squealing as she reaches for whatever she dropped.

A moment later, she’s shoving herself out again, landing with an ooph and an impish grin that turns ‘very pretty’ into ‘breathtaking’ as she holds her rectangle-shaped device up in the air triumphantly.

Ah. I know what that is. It’s her handheld telephone. I remember when portable phones were first invented and they were five sizes bigger than her rectangle, then how people wore little boxes that beeped before most of them started carrying the cell phones around. These days, it seems as though every human has their nose in one of those things, and I’m glad she retrieved hers from the dumpster since it made her smile like that.

She’s gorgeous, my mate. She’s also—from the way she’s instantly bewitched me—undeniably a witch. Her magic is muted, true, and all I smell is Halloween, but the curse is clear. My one true mate’s magic will lead to breaking the curse, and if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that this woman is my mate.

She’s also about to head back inside of the shop.

I dart in front of her.

Sorry, but I’ve waited thirty-nine years. I’m not letting her get away from me just because I’m currently four-legged and furry.

I make sure she sees me, and the moment I have her attention, I limp. Then, just in case, I let out a pathetic moan, a soft cry that echoes over to her.