Page 1 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

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Standing alone on a street overrun with sycamore trees, the Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium was small-town Pine Hollow’s biggest oddity. Its steely espresso machine and sleek café bar were complemented by shelves of herbs, crystals, amulets, and all sorts of mystical tools and tokens. A sofa, two armchairs, and a coffee table offered cozy spots to flip through tarot cards or sip a latte.

Ambience aside, the Blue Moon’s ratings were absurdly bad.

One reviewer had called the café’s drip coffee “bitter brown yuck stuff.” Another reported the espresso was “worse than rancid seagull vomit.” Talula—the owner’s twenty-four-year-old daughter and sole café employee—had winced at that one. The Blue Moon couldn’t even redeem itself as a pagan paraphernalia proprietor, either (WiccaBitch42 had given them a meager two stars). It was like everything about the café—from its strange hybrid business model to its terrible coffee—was designed to keep people away.

Which, of course, it was.

No one was supposed to be a customer at the Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium. No one human, anyway. Because the Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium wasn’t truly a coffee shop or even a supplier of supernatural accessories.

It was a way station. A magical way station.

And, besides, the coffee really was terrible.

The café chose to maintain its (barely) one-star Yelp status to deter human visitors and disguise its true purpose. For the most part, it worked.

That is, until Dahlia Jones moved to town.

“I’m writing a Western!” Dahlia exclaimed, her voice as bright as the golden bell ringing above the café door. A burst of autumn air followed her in. “I’m a genius. Also, cocoa, please!”

“Yeehaw?” Talula offered with a smile, ingredients already in hand. “Who’s your main character?”

Dahlia flung herself into her usual armchair. “Matilda the Mad, badassest cow-woman in the West.”

“Why is she called Matilda the Mad?” Talula asked, whisking cocoa ingredients.

“I thought it sounded cool.”

Talula raised a critical eyebrow at her customer. “Really thought that one out, huh?”

Dahlia gave her a shameless grin. “Not even a little bit!”

“Does she call herself ‘Mad,’ or did someone else give it to her?”

Dahlia pondered. “Both. I think she enjoys the reputation of madness. It helps her break societal rules. Like, ‘Oh, Matilda the Mad is talking to her horse, reading books, and wearing pants again? That’s because she’s insane!’ ”

Lips quirked, Talula nodded her approval. “Better.”

“Yes!” Dahlia scooted up in her seat excitedly. “Plus, her horse is named Phillip because it rhymes with ‘giddyup.’ Kinda.”

“You and names,” Talula groaned teasingly as she steamed a jug of milk. This routine of cocoa-and-plot-hole-poking started weeks ago, the first time Dahlia Jones—a twenty-seven-year-old aspiring author—walked into the café. Pine Hollow’s newest resident had taken one look at the place, declared the Blue Moon “a fertile petri dish for creativity,” and ordered a cocoa. Talula knew she should’ve dumped some crappy Nestlé into a to-go cup to keep up the café’s horrible reputation, but Dahlia’s genuine delight and infectious grin had made Talula feel, frankly, concussed. So Talula made the cocoa the way she liked it, with organic cocoa powder, vanilla bean paste, and wildflower honey blended into steamed milk and topped with homemade whipped cream.

Dahlia had taken one sip, tipped her head back, and yelled, “FUCK, THAT’S SO GOOD.” Then: “I’m Dahlia.”

There’d been a tiny dot of whipped cream on the tip of Dahlia’s nose.

“I’m Talula,” Talula had said, her heart sputtering like a firework about to lift off.

Then, Dahlia worked on her laptop for hours. Periodically, she’d say things like, “Time travel logic is such a pain,” or “What do you think about gophers as a symbol for colonialism?” Talula, unable to resist utilizing her minor in English Lit, had answered. To Talula’s surprise, Dahlia came back the next day with a brand-new story idea and a plea for cocoa. The routine was set.

Now Talula handed a fresh mug of cocoa to her favorite (and only) regular customer.

Dahlia smiled, her dimples like little parentheses. “Thank you. For the cocoa and the brainstorming session.”

Cheeks hot, Talula flapped a hand gracelessly at Dahlia as if to say, “Oh, you!” She darted back behind the counter before her blush got out of hand. As Talula rinsed out the milk jug, she snuck a peek at her customer. Today Dahlia wore a simple black top and a colorful shawl in vivid geometric patterns. She always wore something a little eye-catching and different, like a horde of golden butterfly hairclips holding back her black, spirally tresses, or a pair of brightly embroidered loafers. But really, for Talula, there was always another reason to look at Dahlia.

Which is why Talula didn’t notice when the vampire walked in.