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Chapter 14

I’d heard of small-town festivals before, but Cedar Grove’s Harvest Festival was like someone had taken a quaint country fair, injected it with steroids, rolled it in gold leaf, and then invited half the state to attend.

“This is ridiculous,” Luke muttered beside me, snapping another photo of a pumpkin. “Who puts actual gold flakes on a pumpkin?”

“Welcome to Cedar Grove, where even the squirrels have trust funds,” I replied, dodging a group of tourists armed with shopping bags from the artisanal cheese tent.

The entire town had transformed overnight into a chaotic explosion of festivities. Main Street was unrecognizable beneath strings of fairy lights, artfully arranged hay bales, and enough autumn foliage to make a forest jealous. Cars were parked for miles, and the town square heaved with bodies so densely packed you could barely move without bumping into someone clutching artisanal cider or designer pumpkins—some human, some… definitely not.

That was new.

Since my wolf side had started waking up, it was like someone had installed supernatural night vision goggles in my brain. The crowd around us was a bizarre mix of normal humans and… others. The difference wasn’t obvious—no one had fangs on display or was howling at the nonexistent moon—but I could sense it. A group of Chinese tourists chatting in Mandarin by the pumpkin display. A family debating churro flavors. Some college students crowded around the artisanal coffee stand.

The honey vendor’s eyes flashed gold when she laughed. The balloon artist’s movements were too fluid, too graceful for a regular human. The elderly couple sharing a caramel apple had matching silver rings that seemed to pulse with energy.

“You okay?” Luke asked, nudging me. “You’re doing that weird staring thing again.”

“Just taking in the sights,” I said, trying not to fixate on the group of college-aged guys whose scents screamed ‘wolf pack’ even through the carnival food smells.

Caleb stayed close behind us, one hand casually resting on Scout’s harness. To anyone else, he looked like a guy enjoying the festival with his dog. To my increasingly sensitive nose, he smelled like protective alpha on high alert. Shadow and Storm flanked us on either side, their bodies creating a furry perimeter that somehow never got in anyone’s way.

“Jorge’s churro stand has a line halfway down the block,” I noted, spotting Maria efficiently managing the crowd while Jorge performed what could only be described as churro artistry. Anna darted between customers with trays of samples, while Miguel handled the register with the intensity of a bomb technician.

“Should we rescue them?” Luke asked.

“From making more money in one day than most food trucks see in a month? I think they’re good.”

We pushed through the crowd, my senses overwhelmed with new information. The man selling artisanal coffee? Human. The womanwith the flower crown arranging crystals? Definitely not. The entire book club gathered around the fortune teller’s booth? A mix of both, though I couldn’t tell exactly what the nonhumans were.

“You’re doing it again,” Luke said, waving his hand in front of my face. “Earth to Kai.”

“Sorry.” I blinked. “It’s just… weird. Like suddenly seeing in a new color.”

Caleb’s hand settled protectively on my shoulder. “Your senses are adapting. Try not to focus too hard on any one thing.”

We spent the next few hours exploring the festival, watching Jorge and Maria’s churro empire expand. Johnson’s security team had taken over their stand while the culinary duo prepared for the cooking competition. I’m pretty sure I saw one of Derek’s burliest guards wearing a Kiss the Cook apron without a trace of irony.

“Time to head to the competition,” Caleb said, checking his phone. “Unless you want to watch Johnson teach tactical churro distribution to his team.”

“As entertaining as that sounds…” Luke grinned. “I need to see what chaos Eomma creates in an actual kitchen.”

We made our way to the center of the festival where a tent had been erected for the cooking competition. Inside, portable cooking stations were arranged in a semicircle, each with gleaming equipment that would make a professional chef weep with joy.

“There’s Eomma.” Luke pointed to where Imo was unpacking what looked like an entire Korean grocery store onto her station. She wore a traditional hanbok, the elegant silk garment somehow staying pristine despite the chaos around her. “Oh God, she brought her special mortar and pestle. Someone’s getting spiritually cleansed through their stomach today.”

“Please tell me she’s not actually planning to summon anything,” I whispered, watching Imo arrange mysterious herbs with terrifying efficiency.

“Knowing Eomma? It’s fifty-fifty between winning first place and accidentally opening a portal to the spirit realm.”

Across the tent, Jorge and Maria were engaged in what appeared to be a silent but intense argument about ingredient placement. Jorge’s hands flew in passionate Spanish gestures while Maria rearranged his mise en place with maternal determination.

The tent filled quickly with spectators, and we found seats near the front. The dogs settled at our feet with suspicious efficiency, forming a furry barrier between us and the rest of the crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” a portly man with an impressive mustache announced, “welcome to the Cedar Grove Harvest Festival Cooking Competition!”

The crowd erupted in applause. The judges were being introduced—members of what the announcer called the “town council,” though they carried themselves with an authority that seemed deeper than small-town politics. A woman named Elizabeth Grey sat in the center, her silver hair arranged in a perfect updo that probably violated several laws of physics. Beside her sat a man named Martin Rivers, wearing a diplomatic smile that could charm diamonds from rocks, and Thomas Redwood, whose dark eyes caught mine for a moment before moving on.

“Is it just me,” Luke whispered, “or do those judges look like they’re casting forAmerica’s Next Top Secret Society?”