The air was still blissfully warm in October in Santa Cruz, California. There was no need for woollen jackets and high boots. No need for plaid scarves or knitted mittens, not on the West Coast. While the temperature hadn't dropped by much and the leaves hadn't changed colour and fall in a delicate, decaying dance, the ambience of Halloween had still been summoned. Especially, in the Victorian-styled beach house that housed a coven of four.

Mina had enchanted the spiders to spin fantastic webs in every corner of the house, silken patterns that caught the sunlight and the moonlight. Tobias had hauled pumpkin after pumpkin home from the supermarket that he worked at, spending most of his October nights carving them with sure fingers, creating elaborate designs to delight and terrify. Antonia's hair was pumpkin-orange, and she sang Sarah Sanderson's song constantly. Come little children, I'll take thee away, into a land of enchantment. Come little children, the time's come to play, here in my garden of magic. Children hadn't flocked to the door—too many ears stuffed with headphones—but cats lingered at every threshold of the house, lounging on windowsills and sprawling out on the front steps.

Carrietta Tabitha Moore paused on the house's front steps on her way out, hand-feeding an inky cat diced meat. She'd taken to feeding the little felines that gathered at the house all in preparation of Halloween. She'd never celebrated Halloween before, not properly at least, and tonight she was embracing the hallowed night completely. The cat purred sweetly as it nipped at the last piece of meat sleek with blood.

"You like blood too, huh?" Tabby murmured, licking her palm clean, the taste of blood lingering on her tongue. The kids at Westfield High had labelled her a freak with a blood kink—Crazy Carrie with a thing for blood—and that was another thing that she'd embraced completely. Licking the blood from butchered meat, pricking her thumbs with a knife to lap at the crimson rubies that swelled up, and biting her own lips till they bled as she thought of Michael Langdon late at night.

She hadn't seen Michael in quite some time, and she tried not to worry. He hadn't visited her dreams in months. Tabby constantly reminded herself that Michael was the most extraordinary person she knew and that he had the Devil behind him, and Ms Mead. Surely, if he were in trouble or despair, he'd come to her—Tabby was wrong in that regard. In the last few months, Michael had been through a terrible heartbreak with his guardian being burned at the stake when the sun was high and bright. He'd stumbled and cried but landed on his feet when he'd found sanctuary at the Satanist Temple. From there he'd met two geniuses and heralded an organisation that wanted to bring about the end of the world called the Cooperative. Michael Langdon was nearly at his most glorious, he just had to kill the Salem witches, then the rest was apple pie, the rest was winter and roses.

While she hadn't spoken or seen Michael, his words haunted her. Look to the blood moon, my Carrietta Tabitha Moore. The bloodlust witch had spent the last few months researching blood moons throughout history when she wasn't with her coven or working at a thrift shop. She longed for Ava Gold when she was camped out in the local library, scrolling through digitalised records and articles for all and any mentions of witches and blood moons. Tabby often found herself thinking of Ava Gold amidst the silence of the library and the smell of ageing paper and ink. She wanted to reach out to the kind girl she'd brought back from the dead, but Tabby wasn't sure how to explain everything to Ava Gold, whom she'd left in the ruin of prom so many nights ago. Instead, she swallowed down the ache in her chest, filling the Ava shaped hole in her chest with diligent research.

After months of weak leads and grainy screen of black and white, blinking through fatigue at an outdated computer screen, Tabby finally found what she was looking for, and it left her mind spinning. Spinning faster than her carousel.

It was well after midday and children decked out in costumes dashed around her, trying to find hidden candy amongst the bookshelves—the library's version of trick-or-treat—as Tabby's heart stopped in her chest. The newspaper article was old, and the computer screen didn't make it any easier to read, the text a blend of hand-written slashes and typed font. An angel and a demon fought over a packet of Milk Duds over Tabby's shoulder as she peered closer at the screen, squinting to read the tiny, faded words.

"On the last Sunday of August 1692, a blood moon rose to colour Salem in blood," Tabby read under her breath. "A crowd had gathered in the courtyard of town, around the stake that bound one Catherine White, a young woman convicted of witchcraft." The angel screamed at the demon, and Tabby sent a quick glare at the children before returning to the article that had clearly been rewritten and translated by a historian decades later. "When given permission to speak her last words, the witch spat out a mouthful of blood and wailed at the moon. The version of her speech varies, but one line remains the same." The demon won the box of candy in the end and Tabby was on the edge of her seat. "I shall die under this red moon and be born under another."

Gooseflesh crept over Tabby's arms as she absorbed those words, letting her lips move over them silently. She scrolled down a little further and found an illustration of this infamous Salem witch Catherine White, but she wasn't looking at Catherine's face, but her own drawn centuries ago.

It was uncanny, like looking in a mirror. Same wide eyes, high cheekbones and spacious forehead. Same slim nose and lips like soft pillows. The only difference was the Carrietta Tabitha Moore was wearing a sundress and Catherine White was dressed in Puritan attire, neck framed with lace. She was still reeling as she printed the illustration out and fled the library with a thunderous pulse, as if her heart was beating for two.

—

The coven's house was ripe and full, like a harvest moon for the Halloween party. People cluttered the rooms, half-hidden in costumes and sculling at Antonia's spiked apple cider. Jack-o-lanterns burned with an orange gloom and real bats and ravens speckled Tobias's makeshift greenhouse—the partygoers speculated how much the four had paid to hire such creatures, but they'd never know that the bats and the ravens come and stayed for the night on their own instincts.

Michael Jackson's Blood on the Dance Floor warred against the television streaming movies—Practical Magic, Scream, and of course, the Halloween films. Mina owned the dance floor, twisting and twirling around in a getup straight out of the 60s hugging her generous curves and matching white go-go boots. Tobias was handing out magic mushrooms he'd grown himself in a perfect Victorian three-piece tweed suit, and Antonia—dressed up as a dead bride—was pinned underneath a mermaid on the staircase, lips locked together, the mermaid's hand sneaking to snatch her lacey garter around one thigh.

Tabby wandered around her house, around her party, smiling at faces she knew. Granted, she didn't know many of the faces filling the smoky rooms decorated with dripping candles and mirrored balls. Most of the invited guests were local kids that Tobias knew from the skatepark, or surfers Antonia knew from the beach or students Mina knew from her literature class, the same class she'd begged Tabby to tag along to. Tabby had declined sweetly; she didn't need to read about gothic heroines anymore.

She wasn't enjoying the party as she had hoped to, had expected to, for her mind was foggy with the ancient words of Catherine White. I shall die under this red moon and be born under another. She hadn't had the time to tell her coven about her discovery after she returned from the library, not with the witches getting ready for the bash they were throwing, and Tabby was left with the haunting words, the troubling feeling that she was Catherine White. But that could be right, surely?

The little witch, dressed up as a 70s beauty queen with blown-out hair and halter dress in a daring shade of aqua blue, found herself outside the house. She let the darkness wrap around her like a cocoon, leaning one shoulder against one of the porch's pillars. From her spot she could just see some children running down the street, hauling pillowcases filled with candy. Margaret Moore had never entertained treat-or-treaters, always shutting off the porch light and locking the door. Back on that one-way street in Los Angeles, kids had stopped even trying to conjure candy from the Moore house.

Standing in the shade of the beach house with a party thriving behind her, Tabby imagined Catherine White burning at a stake centuries ago, shouting and laughing at a blood moon, sending out her spell as flames devoured her up. The imagine resembled the burning dreams she had every now night perfectly, down to the last detail.

"You had a beautiful day," a voice said from the darkness. Tabby blinked away the flames in her mind as Michael Langdon strolled from the shadows, taking the porch steps without a single sound. He was now as silent as the shadows the embraced him tenderly.

"Beautiful isn't the word I'd choose," she replied with a heavy heart, but she was thrilled to see Michael again after so long. She twisted against the pillar, back against the concrete, as she studied Michael with hooded eyes.

He seemed older yet again, proud and powerful in a draping black coat and blood-red gloves tight across his knuckles. His hair was slightly longer but the gold was turning to rust. Tabby suspected he'd be a pale strawberry blond in no time, mimicking that of his dead mother, Vivien Harmon. There was a sturdiness in his jawline that hadn't been there before, cut with grief but solidified by dedication. He was so close to killing the witches of New Orleans, destroying them once and for all, but he'd missed his own little witch bathed in perpetual sun and salt.

While he wished she'd stay by his side always, he wanted her to be happy more than anything, and if leading her own coven in Santa Cruz was her happiness, he'd leave her orbit only to herald the apocalypse. In due time, Michael Langdon would give Carrietta Tabitha Moore the world, a wintry world for them to rule. In due time, this modern Hades wasn't only going to give this modern Persephone the underwood, but the entire world on a platter of brimstone and rose petals.

When Tabby didn't speak, Michael cocked his head to the side, examining her. He thought she was blooming lovely. "You found Catherine White," he remarked knowingly.

She nodded curtly. "I found Catherine White," she echoed. That troubling feeling was heavy on her shoulders, heavier than a wooden cross. If she still wore her golden cross, she'd no doubt reach for it. Now, she wore her dead mother's pearl instead, in memory and in spite. "I'm not a descendant of a Salem witch, am I?"

"No." Michael stepped in closer, letting his incredible warmth cradle around Tabby, arms made of hellfire and passion. "You're a reincarnation of a Salem witch. Dead under one blood moon, born under another," he explained.

"Mama knew the night I was born," she offered up meekly. Half of her wanted to cry, wanted to weep; the other half wanted to laugh.

Michael nodded. "But she couldn't kill you." He traced her jawline with his gloved hands. The latex strained against his fingers, one thumb brushing against the corner of her mouth. "My father wouldn't have let that happen. He knew I was coming, knew I'd love you." Tabby's breath hitched at the declaration of love falling from Michael's lips. "And Lucifer doesn't punish lovers," he added, fingers curling around the back of her neck.

Tabby didn't need to hear it again, didn't need to hear that Michael Langdon loved her. She'd known for a while, had known in an overgrown graveyard. But she also knew that love was never equal, it couldn't be. Despite that, she loved Michael Langdon fiercely. She pushed into Michael's heat, kissing him harshly. He moaned his pleasure, opening his mouth in return, gloved fingers gripping tighter at her throat—the grip, the tension of the latex on her soft skin and the taste of Michael left Tabby intoxicated and heady. But she wanted more, wanted blood.

She locked her teeth around Michael's bottom lip and held on tight until blood streamed into her mouth, as hot as lava, as delicious as honey. Michael was exhilarated and not even a tiny bit surprised. He knew his Carrietta Tabitha Moore had a blood kink, and blood smeared against their joined mouths.

Tabby was letting the Devil in, tongues meeting as he pushed her harder against the pillar, pinning her down with lust. The night blanketed them as I Put A Spell On You spilled from the party. She felt invincible and godly with Michael's hands on her flesh, with his blood slick on her teeth.

"I have so much to tell you," he said breathlessly before kissing her again and again and again. Michael Langdon's blood painted her lips, and his heat speared her heart, all on the night of All Hallows' Eve. The end was near, but it wouldn't be the end for a reincarnated witch and the antichrist.