Page 46 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

Dahlia splayed out her binders and printouts on the café counter. “If we do this right, we have a real shot at changing everyone’s minds, especially with my marketing experience and our secret weapon.”

Baffled, Talula asked, “What secret weapon?”

“You!” Dahlia said, hands on her hips. “Right now, when people see Samhain, they see a devil with a pitchfork. They need to see you, a fellow Pine Hollower who also happens to be a…Wiccan? I think? I actually don’t know how you identify yourself. But you embody both communities, and that means something.”

But I’m not both, not really. I’m just…not enough. Talula ran her hands down her apron front. “I don’t think anybody wants to see me.”

“Of course they do! You’re the heart of what the festival is all about. Giving people joy, a sense of belonging, and cherishing this amazing time of year.” Dahlia shrugged, as if it were obvious. “It’s what you do, what I’ve seen you do for Kiki, Mina, and definitely me.”

Warmth flooded Talula. She moved toward Dahlia—to hug her, kiss her, cry on her with gratitude? She wasn’t sure. Then, Simon’s words came back to her.

If I get a whiff of human distraction, I will have to let the Council know you’re unfit to serve the Volta.

She distracts you from your purpose. From your magical responsibilities.

Guilt and duty and shame stopped her in her tracks. Talula took a step back, her smile slipping.

Do you want to be a sorceress?

Talula knew what she owed the magical community, the Magical Destiny she was falling so horribly short of. Which meant putting distance between herself and Dahlia. A sick, heavy weight settled into her chest. She made her choice.

“I really appreciate this,” Talula forced herself to say. “But I have it under control.”

Dahlia frowned. “But I have so many ideas. Can we just—”

“Stop.” Talula knew there was no going back from this. She could keep failing at being both human and magical, or she could do what Simon, Sara, and her Magical Destiny demanded of her. Her mother was out there, risking everything for their community, while Talula was here, unable to help anyone.

She spoke the words she knew she could never take back, hating herself in every syllable. “This is too much. There’s not a ‘we’ in this. Just me. I don’t…I don’t want to be another story you start, then leave behind.”

Dahlia’s mouth fell open.

Talula felt the words she should say surging up from her heart. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it. But she swallowed them down and watched the hurt bloom over Dahlia’s face like a wound opening and opening and opening.

Finally, unable to bear it anymore, Talula looked away. “You should go.”

Dahlia’s voice broke. “Yeah. I think I should.”

The bell above the door cried out as Dahlia left. Talula didn’t move, could only feel her heart cracking and shattering like glass. Simon walked cautiously over to her.

“That was…effective, I suppose,” he observed.

“You told me to make her feel less welcome. You know she wouldn’t have given up.” Talula clenched her jaw, trapping a sob behind her teeth. When she’d gotten herself under control, she said, “I have a duty. That comes with sacrifices.”

The next week, dark clouds weighed down the sky from morning through night without a hint of rain. Training continued, Talula swallowing down the bile of shame as Simon recited lessons from the decrepit grimoire. Day by day, her mastery of the elements, conjuring, and illusions didn’t see improvement.

Talula hated reporting her lack of magical growth to her mother, and she hated how worn down and tense Sara seemed every time they spoke. There’d been no new leads in the hunt for the hunters, no news on the missing magical beings, including Mhairi. Fear for her mother and her community whispered constantly in the back of Talula’s mind, growing louder and louder every day, and there was nothing she could do but wait and worry.

Thankfully, there’d been no additional close calls with the Volta. Talula helped an elderly engkanto, a ciguapa couple, and a bannick family go through the Volta without incident, but her connection to the Volta felt strained. She had to work harder to sync up with the portal’s power. The pleasant hum that usually reverberated in her bones dimmed to a faint buzz. Talula wondered if the Volta was mirroring back her own mood.

Simon took it all in with his forehead wrinkled, thin black lips tight with concern. He couldn’t blame a lack of structure for Talula’s continued magical shortcomings. And he certainly couldn’t blame Dahlia, either. Talula hadn’t seen or heard from her since their fight.

Instead of biking to the market the Saturday morning after she’d pushed Dahlia away, Talula lay in bed, staring at the bleak, bruised blue of her walls. She told herself she was following Simon’s orders and minimizing her human distractions. But she knew she was punishing herself for what she’d done to Dahlia (and she couldn’t stomach facing more anti-Samhain petitioners at the market).

As a result of all this turmoil, Talula’s culinary pursuits were uninspiring.

“This mush, again?” Simon stared dolefully into his bowl of limp steamed vegetables, microwaved brown rice, and dry, barely seasoned chicken breast. “What about…you know. That other stuff you put on these things? The green leafy bits? The drizzly stuff? The cheese?”

“This is fine.” Talula stabbed a soggy broccoli stalk with her fork.