Chapter 1
Juniper
Whoever made the decision that every nook, cranny, and ass crack of this dive bar needed Christmas lights strung up it should be fired—except that would be me, and my dog, Pack, would be really disappointed if he couldn’t crash out on a warm bed in the corner of the bar, getting attention from patrons and scraps from the kitchen all day.
I curse my November-ambitious Christmas spirit as I step on the final ladder rung and stretch my arms toward the ceiling, hoping to catch the cord on the hook a much taller person put there last year. Thank fuck we kept the hooks up. Without Todd here to do this shit, I’m the next tallest person in the bar.
Maybe the owner, Jasmine, will be okay with the Christmas lights staying up all year long. After all, it really does add to the cozy ambiance of this place. The locals would probably enjoy keeping the spirit alive all year.
That—along with the wooden, surfboard-holding, shirtless Santa who Jasmine’s currently propping up in the corner behind Pack’s bed. The noise of seagulls flying by the open back doors catches my ears. I glance out at the beach, squinting at the bright sun reflecting off the ocean waves as Jasmine’s wife, Danielle, beats a nail into the siding to hang a wreath on.
Welcome to Drifter’s Island, North Carolina, where we’re most famous for our quiet beach, no commercial establishments, and Christmas—specifically, the only holiday beach festival in NC that doesn’t just celebrate Santa and surfing instead of snowboarding, but also local winter folklore of the Rumpus Brothers.
Cue the plastic, horned ice demon drink luge Marge is dusting off behind the bar.
I finally get the string light cord hooked around the latch on the ceiling and grab the top of the ladder before I lose my balance.
“Looking good, ladies,” a voice says from the front door.
I peer down, seeing our newest kitchen hire, Chester, coming in for his shift.
“Hey, Ches, make yourself useful and help me out here,” I say to him.
Chester shuffles off his lightweight jacket. “I don’t do heights,” he tells me, but walks across the room toward me anyway.
“That’s fine. I can handle the heights. Just need a hand—” I throw him the end of the light strand. “—getting this taut without busting my ass since Marge is busy waxing magic Christmas tongues over there.”
“Oh, don’t start, Jun,” Marge says.
“Don’t you think that luge needs to be retired this year?” I ask her, struggling with the lights. “Wasn’t the paint chipping off into people’s drinks?”
Marge runs the washcloth over the mouth tunnel, smiling as she admires the piece. “People love this sculpture. Locals come just for the special taste of the signature cocktails.”
“Special taste of lead,” I mutter as I take the rungs down. Chester snorts and steps back to let me move the ladder over. “Can we at least have it repainted before this weekend?”
“Jasmine, she’s trying to take away the magic again,” Marge says to her, the laugh lines by her green eyes crinkled when she glances my way.
“I don’t want to take away the magic. I just think it needs some love. See? I’m trying toenhancethe magic.”
Jasmine sighs comically as she leans on the bar top. “You’d throw them away if I let you,” she says to me.
“Probably,” I agree.
Marge and Jasmine chuckle.
“What do you think, boss lady? Should we get North touched up?” Marge asks.
Jasmine runs a finger down the sculpture’s long, pointy tongue. “Only if Blaze gets the same treatment,” she says about the opposing demon figure. She reaches across to him and flicks the forked tongue. “Hey Dani, what’s the name of the guy you hired to paint the mural on the side?” she asks loudly.
Danielle hangs the wreath and rubs her hands together like she’s hoping the friction will help her chilled hands, then joins us inside. “Nick. Why?”
“Juniper, here, thinks we should have the Rumpus Brothers touched up before the festival this weekend,” Marge replies, brows raising at Danielle.
“I just think people deserve whiskey without floating paint chips in it,” I reply.
“It’s nostalgic,” Danielle says, the three of them chuckling.
“It’s nostalgic to poison people?” I ask.
