Free Lord of the Wings by Donna Andrews

even more menacing monsters far outnumbered brides, nuns, pirates, furry animals, and characters from Star Wars or Star Trek .
    Luckily for Dr. Smoot’s peace of mind, the Haunted House was separated from the road by the eight-foot fence. Along the sides and the back of the yard the wrought iron was replaced by the same chain-link fence that surrounded the Fun Fair. Dr. Smoot had done his best to maintain the spooky atmosphere by painting the chain-link black and weaving black string through it in patterns that made it look as if a sinister creeping vine was gradually overtaking the fence. He’d hung flowers and fruit from the strings—also painted black, of course—to increase the illusion of a vine. All along the fence costumed tourists were peering through and taking selfies of themselves with the house in the background.
    Michael and I pushed our way through the crowds and let ourselves in the gate with the spare key that Dr. Smoot had given me when I’d taken over as head of the volunteer security force. The loiterers began inching closer.
    â€œStand back,” I snapped out. “Goblin Patrol!”
    I put my hand on my sword hilt, and Michael followed suit with his. They were only hilts, of course, since the festival rules discouraged wearing real weapons. But the tourists would have no way of knowing our weapons weren’t real.
    They made way, and we were able to shut the gate behind us without any trespassers sneaking in. Though I noted that neither the wrought iron nor the chain-link looked particularly difficult to climb. I’d have gone for the chain-link myself, because the wrought iron was topped with wicked six-inch spikes, but I suspected that, all things being equal, some of the costumed crew would have tackled the wrought iron section simply because they’d look more picturesque flinging themselves over it in their flowing capes.
    As we made our way up the front walk to the porch, I found myself wondering what Dr. Smoot’s family would think if they could see their family house now. But there were no other Smoots in town to protest—the aunt from whom Dr. Smoot had inherited the house a few years ago had been his last living relative.
    Looking up at the huge black-and-gray hulk looming above us, I suddenly realized what bothered me so much about it. It wasn’t just the fact that he had inherited a house very similar to ours, and then spent good money to make it look like an abandoned and haunted house. No, what bothered me was that I realized for the first time that his house wasn’t just similar to ours. They were almost identical—or had been before Dr. Smoot began his present quest. Watching him convert his family house into the Caerphilly Haunted House was like watching everything we’d done to our house unravel.
    And maybe I was also a little bothered by the fact that poor Smoot lived here alone. Our house was usually overflowing with various friends and family members who either lived with or were visiting us, and yet most of the time it didn’t feel crowded, and sometimes, when I was the only one home, I would find myself wishing, temporarily, for a smaller, snugger place. Dr. Smoot was always alone. Didn’t that get a little lonely? And possibly, given the house’s current condition, a little creepy?
    Of course, Dr. Smoot probably enjoyed the creepy part. Ah, well. To each his own.
    Though I suspected the late Miss Venicia Smoot would not have been nearly so philosophical if she saw what her nephew was up to. Perhaps I should ask the Reverend Robyn Smith, rector of Trinity Episcopal, if there had been any strange rumblings in the cemetery behind the church—rumblings that might be Miss Venicia spinning in her grave.
    The porch was empty except for a few jack-o’-lanterns. In fact, the last time I’d seen it, the whole house was pretty empty. Anyone else might have been dismayed to find he’d inherited a three-story