nodding. “After the hunt, I am so getting one of those.”
“There should be plenty of apples,” Susan murmurs, eyeing the tables full of nothing but apples. There are stations to wash them, tables to cut them, mash them. There’s an apple press where apple cider is being made, and I let Maggie down so that she can help take a turn at turning the crank.
Apples are being made into sauce, butter, and pie.
There’s even apple cider getting added to root beer in a cauldron so big, Maggie could fit in it. It’s smoking spookily care of dry ice, and the children ringing around it are entranced as they wait for it to be ladled into mugs, their candy apples clutched in their hands.
“Want to get some apple-flavored Howl-a-ween root beer?” I ask.
Susan winces at the reminder of this event's name.
Maggie cries, “YES, please!” and rushes to join the line of kids.
“Is there some significance to apples and werewolves?” Charlotte asks carefully.
We hear Finn’s laugh in answer but don’t immediately see him. He sets down a series of baskets, stacked one atop another, that he'd been carrying. “Not really,” he says, answering her question. “This here is a tradition started because some of us got crazy for the Rave apples.”
“Rave apples?” Susan questions, eyeing her apple anew.
“The best flavored apple ever,” Finn declares.
“Better than the Honeycrisp?” Ginny says in disbelief.
“Even better,” Finn confirms. “It’s like a Honeycrisp and a Granny Smith sprouted a thousand delicious babies.”
“Screw waiting!” Ginny cries. “Guys, I’ll be back. I’m getting my own candy apple!”
“I’ll come with you,” Charlotte says, loyal as any packmate, and the two set out.
Finn waves to his tower of apple baskets and explains, “In order to secure enough Rave apples for everybody to have one, we had to outbid the local grocery store. Thus, we ended up with a whole donkey’s load of apples… enough for a grocery store,” he explains. He adds a deprecating shrug. “Or a whole pack of werewolves and their families.” He waves to the wide expanse of land around us, bordered on two sides by trees. “And should you bite into one that’s mealy or not as sweet and tart as they’re famous for, toss it out for the wood cows and grab another.”
“Wood cows?” Susan asks.
“Deer,” I translate.
She turns to me as if I’ve asked her a question. “Hmm?”
Finn goes still.
I’ve gone still too. My heart is thundering though. “Wood cows are deer.”
“Oh!” Susan’s cheeks go pink, and her eyes flash to mine. “I thought—I don’t know why I—” She laughs at herself. “We’ve been together so much I heard you call me ‘dear’ and didn’t even think anything of it.”
“I’m glad,” I utter with absolute sincerity. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to say; I don’t know what the proper response is, the string of words needed to take away Susan’s embarrassment. “You can call me a dear anytime, and I’ll answer,” I add, and then I swing my gaze to Finn, my lowered eyes seeing only his knees, but I’m hoping he’ll take my cue to jump in with an endearingly jackassed comment that makes Susan laugh before I scare her completely away.
“You can also call him a wood cow,” Finn tells her. “The dosser will answer to that too.”
“What’s a dosser?” Maggie asks.
Eyes at the level of his hand, I see him hook a thumb at me. “This lazy bampot.”
Ginny and Charlotte race up to us, breathless and holding sticky apples coated in various treats and toppings.
“Better choke that down fast,” Finn tells Ginny. “You don’t want to miss the mouse hunt.”
Susan, one arm crossed over herself and resting on her ‘purse,’ raises her other hand. “Um, why are you all hunting mice?”
Finn points to a man down at the end of the field. “That farmer mentioned to us one year that he was having a terrible problem with rodents. We offered to help him get control of the population—but he had to promise not to shoot us. Wolves weren’t out yet then,” Finn explains.
“It’s been tradition ever since,” I say.
“And every year gets a little more challenging,” Finn adds. “The game used to take place in his field but now we hunt in the barn. The shifter who catches—and kills—the most mice wins. Rats are bonus points.”
Susan, Charlotte, and Ginny look around us, at all the werewolves gathered. “How many wolves join in the hunt?” Susan asks.
“Oh, last count there was maybe a hundred,” Finn says. “The rest save up