Page 70 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

“A brand is just a fancy corporate word for a business’s identity. Right now, everyone thinks your brand is drinking the blood of children and defiling virgins.”

Talula put her head in her hands.

“But that’s the beauty of marketing!” Dahlia grabbed Talula by the elbow and pulled her down onto the couch next to her. “You can take back the narrative and tell the story your way.”

Talula’s lips quirked. “Like sweet potatoes?”

“Like sweet potatoes.” Dahlia nodded. “Let me take you through some quick marketing theory stuff so you can see where I’m coming from. After that, we can talk strategy.”

Dahlia clicked through slides while Talula asked questions and took notes.

“This is amazing,” Talula commented. “Have you worked on something like Samhain before?”

“Sort of. I mostly worked on product campaigns and pop-up events to get people’s attention. Plus lots of commercials.”

“Any I’d know?”

“Maybe.” Dahlia watched Talula, eyes dancing. “You know that hair cream ad? The music kind of goes like this.” She hummed a familiar tune.

“That was you?” Talula turned to Simon. “That’s the one with the grandma on the jet ski! You love that one!”

Simon gave an appreciative whuf.

“Yeah, I’m not just good.” Dahlia’s dimples had never looked so smug. “I’m fucking great.”

“Wait, should we be compensating you? You’re a professional!”

“Allow me to decide my rate, please.” Dahlia tapped her lips, playfully contemplative. “Pay me in cocoa. Forever.”

“Done.”

A while later, as Dahlia was detailing the importance of a strong social media presence, the bell above the café door rang. A woman walked in, her tawny complexion tinged with a hint of green, hauling an absurdly large potted tree into the café with her.

“I’m Dimitra,” the woman said slowly, as if she were chewing on something strange. “This is my tree. We want one caramel macchiato, four shots of espresso with two decaf, two caf, with raspberry syrup and no whipped cream.”

“I can help you with that.” Talula got to her feet. She murmured to Dahlia, “Can we meet back up later?”

“Sure! Want to meet up at my house tonight?”

Excitement fizzed pleasantly in Talula’s belly. “I’ll cook.”

“Nope.” Dahlia shook her head and stuffed her laptop into her bag. “You deserve a break. Do you like Thai food?”

“Love it.”

“Cool,” Dahlia replied easily. “It’s a date.”

With that, she gave Talula a wave, smiled politely at Dimitra and her tree, then left.

Talula’s jaw hung loose in shock. She turned to Simon, sputtering. “She said ‘date.’ Did she mean date? Is it a date?”

“No. It’s not.” Dimitra shook her head. She held up one of her tree’s leaves. “See? It’s a fig. Not a date.”

“For the sake of the eldritch gods of old,” Simon groaned.

“Can we go to a new grove now?” Dimitra asked. “My old one became a soybean farm.”

So they did. This time, when Talula reached for the portal with her magic, she felt more in tune with the Volta than she ever had. With no more than a thought, Talula and the Volta found a protected nature reserve. It was a perfect, quiet, ancient place to put down roots, and Dimitra threw herself toward it.