Page 21 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

Dahlia tipped back her head and let loose a cascading laugh that reverberated through the café. Half of her face was one big, gorgeous grin, her freckled cheeks scrunched up around her eyes. Talula’s heart somersaulted in her chest. The dog, however, was more alarmed than amused.

“You’re spectacular.” Dahlia chuckled. (Talula couldn’t tell if Dahlia was referring to her or the dog. She didn’t dare clarify.) Dahlia put out a hand for the dog to sniff. The dog gave her an offended look. “Where’d he come from?”

“No idea.” Talula placed the finished cocoa on the countertop. “He just showed up this morning, and I fed him some ground beef.”

“What’s this green stuff in his eyebrows?” Dahlia pointed to a leafy bit in the dog’s fur.

“Garnish,” Talula replied abashedly.

Dahlia gave another marvelous laugh. For a moment, Talula thought about going home and downloading the moment off the café’s magically protected security camera, just so she could have undeniable proof that she’d been responsible for that laugh twice in the same morning.

“You’re a lucky dog, aren’t you, Max?” Dahlia cooed. “Or Walter? Or Biscuit? God, I want to pet you so much.”

The dog walked to the middle of the café, then lay down on a sunlit patch of rug, his snout on his paws, back legs splayed out. “Hrmph.”

“Understood, Untitled Dog. We do not have permission to pet you.” Dahlia put her hands up in mock surrender. She turned to Talula. “Do you have any stuff for him? Leashes? Kibble?”

“Nothing.”

“My parents used to foster shelter dogs,” Dahlia said, getting to her feet. “There’s probably some supplies in the garage. I’ll be right back. Take pics if he does something cute!”

Talula crossed her heart dramatically. “I will!”

Dahlia gave her a thumbs-up, then rushed out, sending the entry bell into a frenzy.

The dog—still splayed out on the rug—rolled his eyes back to give Talula a weighty look.

“I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean,” Talula muttered, tidying her cocoa-making implements. “You’re pretty judgy for a freeloading dog.”

“Hrmph,” said the freeloader.

Talula grinned. Despite his attitude and lack of friendliness, she couldn’t help but like this dog. He had a very high opinion of himself and wasn’t afraid to show it. Talula respected that.

“I’m going to call you Simon,” Talula said in a Dahlia-like declaration.

The Untitled Dog—who was, at least for now, Simon—did not express an opinion.

She started to Google “ways to make a dog like you” when the café bell chimed.

A breathless man in a brown uniform poked his head in. He was hauling a large old-fashioned travel trunk on a dolly. “I have a delivery?”

“I can sign for it.” Talula leapt up.

With a grunt, the delivery man carefully offloaded the trunk on the occult side of the café. It made a dense thunk as it landed. He handed Talula a clipboard and a pen. She glanced at the clipboard. “No return address?”

He shook his head, and Talula scribbled a signature. When he’d left the café, she approached the trunk cautiously. It was held shut by a large bronze padlock. Even more intriguing, words from an ancient language had been carved into the metal. Talula recognized the script from one of her mother’s oldest books…though she felt as if she’d seen the text more recently. Much more recently. She studied the words.

“Ancient Aramaic? Sort of?” Talula wondered out loud. She turned to glance at the dog. “Simon, do you know anything about this?”

Simon didn’t even blink. Luckily, Sara had been less willy-nilly in Talula’s language studies. Talula had spent years learning vocabulary and conjugations from other languages to enable her to one day master grimoires in any tongue. Though that day was a long, long way off. Still, Talula had a decent handle on quite a few languages, magical and otherwise. She sat down to get a closer look at the trunk. From what she could tell, the words were instructions for opening the lock, but with a riddle-ish twist. She recognized great-grandparents of words she knew in various languages, like power (or danger?), priestess (or mother?), flame, and magic. The last two words gave her an idea—witchfire.

Sorceresses could control existing fire, but creating it was another matter altogether. Every magic-wielder could translate the power of their life force into witchfire. It didn’t feed off oxygen, just a sorceress’s will, burning only what it was told to. Depending on the magic-user’s intent, its heat could be a warm caress or the sear of a lightning strike.

At the thought of witchfire, Talula’s hands went clammy almost instantly. She was nervous after her witchfire failure with Mina. But here, in the quiet calm of the empty café (not counting Simon), maybe she could do it. After all, there wasn’t a potential vampire attack to prevent. Talula took slow breaths, clearing her mind. She closed her eyes and focused on her core, where her magic lived. She envisioned her hands as the matte black burners of a stove and listened for the tick-tick of ignition.

Talula opened her eyes and grinned.

Rainbow-hued witchfire encircled her hands, flickering gently like candlelight. Euphoric at her magical success, Talula gave a big whoop and punched the air with victorious, fiery hands.