“I can be of assistance,” says Bulan instead of acting like a Roomba, which would actually be helpful.
The visitors stare at me, then the head, then smile close-lipped in unison. I feel my hackles rise. Nothing good can come from such synchronicity.
“What do you two want?” I ask. “Because this shop is unfortunately—”
“We’re friends of Hanry’s,” says the man.
I frown. “Henry who?”
“Han-ry. Hanry Burleson,” says the woman.
With that, they devolve into silence. I refuse to be the first to speak. It’s not my responsibility to push this conversation along.They’rethe ones who traipsed in here like misguided migratory parrots. I seriously should have remembered to lock that door.
After a painfully drawn-out minute, the woman says: “He said you help with weddings.”
Oh, shit. Hanry must be the name of the forager-guy I met in the graveyard. This is his doing, inviting these people to come visit me—presumably, the couple in need of help with their wedding. Why is he friends with such weirdos?
Because he’s one too. Obviously.
At my feet, the head starts making vacuuming noises and rolling around the floor.
Maybe I’m not really in a position to judge.
“I do like these,” says the man, motioning toward a selection of brittle, browned lotus pods.
“You have great taste,” I say dryly. “Want them?”
“Mmm, yes. We can pay up to four thousand dollars for all you have to offer.”
“Do you mean… the shop?” As I try and calculate the value of dumping Grandma’s inventory on her, the woman crosses the room. She steps over the head casually as it pretends to suck up dust in its mouth. Carelessly, she passes Grandma’s floor-length, vintage mirror.
One of the first times I remember visiting her shop, Grandma was waving sage smoke over this gaudy thing. I thought it all impressive and mysterious until she accidentally set it on fire. So the shabby-chic charring on the frame, the cloudy stains in the glass? They’re the real deal.
Also real? The way the mirror reflects the contours of this dark, square room and its exposed brick walls. And me, in my grocery-store-dyed brown ponytail and my beige, basic pants and top I bought on Amazon. And my fake Roomba.
But there is no reflection of the woman. Or the man.
I drop my broom, banging Bulan as he passes underfoot.
“Vroom-ouch,” he grunts.
“Does that work with your rates?” the reflectionless woman asks, oblivious to my stunned silence. “I recognize this payment may not result in lavish, floor-to-ceiling decorations, but the room will be dark.”
“Yes, very dark,” says the man beside her.
“Like a tomb,” she says.
“Ooh,” he says.
“Ohh,” I say, connecting the dots.
“We realize this is last-minute,” says the woman. The not-quite-exactly-human woman. “But would you consider helping us ornament the wedding? And performing any other tasks as required? We can offer cash.”
“Very dark cash,” adds the male, his mustache twitching.
Putting aside the fact that all I want is to be a hundred miles away from Salem and its macabre dessert tray of non-delights, I’m not actually a wedding planner. Nope. Not in any shape or form whatsoever. I have zero interest in considering their offer. I amnotmaking floral arrangements for vampires.
Because that’s what these customers are. They’re vampires.
