Page 151 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

Simon scratched at the door again, a few timely minutes after Talula and Dahlia had fully woken themselves up. “The good pastries will be gone soon, you sex fiends.”

Dahlia pulled Talula in for one more kiss. “We better go before he earwigs us.”

“We never confirmed that he could do that,” Talula muttered as she reluctantly tugged herself out of bed. “If he could, he’d use it to keep us from the road trip tomorrow.”

For Dahlia’s birthday, they’d decided to take a month off and drive the convertible all the way down the coast, hitting every odd roadside attraction and culinary gem they could find.

Simon had reluctantly agreed to stay behind after several concessions:

Two Talula-portaled notes a day with updates on their location.

Talula and Dahlia’s promise that if he did join them, he’d spend most of the trip as a deeply uncomfortable third wheel.

For the rest of the year, they’d quit teasing him about his former identity (which was finally revealed after Simon discovered them watching old episodes of Merlin. They binged the entire series in a week so Simon could hate-watch it and provide unhinged commentary like, “For the record, I dressed better than that donkey-eared ragamuffin. And my spells always worked the way they were supposed to!”).

Talula and Dahlia’s plan was to drive south to Baja, then come right back up. Talula could picture it so easily—Dahlia with a pair of driving gloves and a fifties-style kerchief wrapped around her curls, a bag of cherries from a roadside fruit stand in Talula’s lap, their voices hoarse from singing with the radio.

But Talula had one more thing to do before they could hit the road.

Their farmers’ market visit went as usual, with Simon strutting like a king among earwigs while they shopped and chatted with vendors. They came across Kristen (as they sometimes did, though less and less frequently). And, as she always did, Dahlia waved at her with one hand and held Talula’s with the other until Kristen looked away.

Afterward, Talula took Dahlia to the Blue Moon.

“I have an early birthday present for you.” Talula’s heart raced as they passed the rakshasa manning the register. “Simon, stay here.”

Simon rolled his eyes. He dragged a croissant to his custom-monogrammed dog bed in the café’s most sunlit corner.

“Ooh, secretive.” Dahlia clapped her hands. “Very sexy. I’m down.”

Talula pulled her through the Employees Only door and down the stairs to the Volta. The Volta sparkled as it always had, blue filaments floating eagerly toward Talula and Dahlia. They both stopped to take it all in.

“It’s like looking at the ocean.” Dahlia sighed. “Something so mighty and beautiful that you kind of ache a little.”

Talula cupped Dahlia’s cheek. “I know what you mean.”

She searched Dahlia’s warm eyes, awed by the trust and love she saw there. Then Talula reached into her bag and pulled out a container of homemade cookies nestled next to an almost-familiar book.

“Dessert after breakfast?” Dahlia reached for the sweets.

Talula shook her head. “They’re not for you.”

In between shifts, her romantic life, and her suddenly very busy social calendar, Talula spent a few minutes every day in the Volta. She’d spend her time there learning the secrets of magic from her alternate self. She’d come out after what had felt like weeks in the Volta but was only a few minutes in her world. Talula needed that time to prepare for this moment, along with the help of Volta Talula, Sara’s magical wisdom, and Mrs. Bochart’s baking advice.

“Do you trust me?” Talula offered up her hand.

Dahlia took it. “With the world.”

Together, they stepped through the Volta. In a flash of cerulean sorcery, the Volta showed them the sidewalk across from the Joneses’ house.

Dahlia cocked a hip, an eyebrow raised in confusion. “Why do I feel like we just took a private plane to go across town?”

Talula stayed quiet, watching as Dahlia took in the familiar scene. Finally, realization crept over Dahlia’s face.

This was the Joneses’ house two autumns ago. The trees in the yard had turned red-gold, and pumpkins were perched on porches and front steps. Nearby, children shrieked gleefully as they crunched through leaf piles.

Across the street, in the house Dahlia would eventually live in, a deep, booming laugh warmed the fall air.

“Oh. Oh,” Dahlia whispered. “That’s…that’s my dad.”