Page 118 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

“Go to Samhain. Don’t go to Samhain. But don’t you ever give someone else the power to decide what truth is right for you. God bless Pine Hollow.” With that, Mrs. Bochart spun on her heel and marched out of the auditorium.

“I think that was boomer for ‘mic drop’?” Dahlia whispered in Talula’s ear. Talula coughed, trying to cover her laugh.

“Thank you for…that,” the moderator said, barely holding back the surprise in her voice. “Council members, do you need a moment to confer?”

The five city council members looked around at one another, then shook their heads. The moderator turned more fully in her seat to face the decision-makers. “All those in favor of banning Samhain?”

Hands were raised.

“All those against?”

The remaining hands rose. Talula counted. Then counted again. A shocked hum spread in the audience.

“Motion to ban Samhain has failed.” The moderator’s lips quirked in a smile. Her steely eyes met Talula’s. “Pine Hollow says yes to Samhain.”

In a blink, the room was a hurricane of whoops, cheers, and various elated shouts and one ecstatic howl. Dahlia grabbed Talula out of her seat. They jumped up and down, screaming with triumphant laughter. Then they were surrounded.

Farmers’ market vendors, librarians, children, parents, teachers, neighbors, LARPers, and so many more created a jubilant halo with Talula and Dahlia at its center. Talula had never felt so utterly loved in her whole life. Someone wiped dampness from her cheeks with the edge of a sleeve. Talula turned to Dahlia and smiled.

Eventually, the moderator half-heartedly asked them to take it outside. Dahlia, a true rascal, dashed to the moderator’s mic and made her announcement. “Time for another Magic Box show!”

The entire auditorium picked up and hightailed it through the exit doors.

“Come on.” Dahlia grabbed Talula’s hand. They ran like kids through the streets, following an impromptu parade of Pine Hollowers. Dozens of people stopped Talula to say thank you, share a memory of Samhain, or just smile at her. All the while, Talula never let go of Dahlia’s hand, warmth building in her chest with every step.

The night was cold, but the rush of victory kept the attendees warm (that, and Muriel’s emergency flask, which made the rounds). Someone had brought pumpkin-shaped pastries and was sharing them as far as they would go. Kanishka’s aunties had inexplicably set up folding tables and were handing out unfathomable amounts of samosas. The square felt less like an outdoor audience space and more like a spontaneous block party.

Dahlia dragged Talula to the front of the Magic Box stage. The curtains drew back to reveal a dozen or so figures, shadowed in darkness. A beat began to thrum, buzzing in Talula’s breastbone. The figures held up their hands, where fat licks of flame came to life.

The bass beat picked up, the sound filling out into a heady mix of melody, lyrics, and hip-twisting rhythms. The dancers used hula hoops of flame to spin and twist to the music. Others had double-ended staffs that swished and jabbed at the darkness around the stage. A few more had what looked like flaming ribbons attached to wands, swirling in dangerous arcs and helixes of light; others had hooped skirts limned in embers.

Dahlia leaned into the shell of Talula’s ear. “Hot, right?”

Heat flooded Talula’s veins that had nothing to do with Muriel’s emergency whiskey. The dance was intoxicating—and catching. The square turned into a full-blown, fire-fueled dance party. Talula joined in, her arms in the air, moving her body to the beat. Dahlia reached for her, fingers resting on that beautiful borderland between Talula’s hips and waist. The music played, the fire glowed, the crowd danced, and Dahlia and Talula moved together until they were barely an eyelash apart. Talula could barely think; she was drunk on Dahlia’s closeness, the music, the radiant night. She had to observe—absurdly—that candlelight was for chumps. Tidbits of wick-fed sparks had nothing on the urgent, sultry light of fifteen fire dancers tumbling about under the blue silk of an October night.

“Thank you.” Talula breathed. “For everything.”

Dahlia was practically grinning against Talula’s lips. “You’re everything, Talula.”

Talula couldn’t speak. She was too fixated on Dahlia’s mouth, a scarlet sun burning at the center of Talula’s galaxy.

“Do you want this?” Dahlia asked, eyes depthless. “Do you want me?”

And Talula wanted to say yes, to kiss this girl in front of the whole town and scream, “I’m yours, I’ve been yours since I first laid eyes on you, and I’m sorry I wasted so much time.”

She wanted to choose Dahlia.

Talula tipped her face forward.

But then, almost as if summoned by that choice, memory ripped through her heart.

No romance is worth the distraction. Her mother’s words drilled into Talula’s skull. Her mother, the magical creatures, Talula’s whole community—none of them were safe yet. She couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not when she still wasn’t good enough for her Magical Destiny.

“I—” Talula swallowed, her heart caught between the teeth of this decision. “I can’t.”

Dahlia’s face fell, and Talula stepped back.

“Dahlia, I’m sorry,” she offered before turning and walking away.