Page 72 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

“I know you have feelings for this young woman. I don’t blame you—she’s kind, joyous, and loyal. But she’s involved in our mission now, don’t you see? Your mother has to be told. Otherwise, Sara can’t make informed decisions about this place, this sanctuary. With the hunters still at large, our people need that sanctuary now more than ever.”

“What if Mom tells me I have to break it off?” Talula’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Dahlia and I, we’re not even anything yet.”

“You must choose which risk you can live with. The risk of love and loss, or the risk of loneliness with the surety of our community’s safety.” Simon lay down, set his head on his paws, and let out a heavy breath. “It is not an easy choice.”

The two were silent for the rest of the day.

Sixty-seven minutes before Talula was supposed to meet Dahlia, she’d finished showering, blow-drying, moisturizing, fancy lip-balming, and outfit-selecting. All the while, she mentally chanted, It’s a fig, not a date to ward off her nerves. Before treading downstairs, Talula let her hand rest on her mysterious cookbook. It gave her an odd sense of comfort, this secret teacher. Before she left, she made Simon’s dinner—a butter-basted rib eye cooked rare, paired with parmesan-crusted potatoes and a lush, simple salad.

“This won’t curry my favor,” Simon said from his usual kitchen stool. “I won’t change my mind about telling your mother about Dahlia.”

Talula cut the steak into tender, choke-proof morsels. “I know.”

“Then this isn’t a bribe?” Simon asked, his eyebrows raised.

“It’s a thank-you.” Talula shrugged. “I think you understand me now, maybe even trust me. You might even like me. Whatever happens, I appreciate that.” Talula slid the plate to Simon. “I’m calling my mom now. Then, I’m going to Dahlia’s. Noosh-eh joon.”

“Thank you,” Simon muttered begrudgingly. He took a bite and groaned with pleasure. “Be gone. I need to be alone with this exquisite hunk of meat.”

Snickering, Talula walked into the living room, out of Simon’s earshot. She called Sara. Each ring stretched out for eternity, blaring into Talula’s skull. Her heart thudded like a too-fast metronome.

“Hello—”

“Hey, Mom—”

“—you’ve reached Sara Smith. I’m not available for telephonic communications, but you can always try astral projection. Or talk after the beep! There’s going to be a beep. Soon. I think? Let me ask my daughter. My love? Do I do the beep or does the phone—”

Talula hung up. She’d try calling again. Later.

Because right now, Dahlia was waiting.

Adrenaline still thrumming in her blood, Talula tugged on her coat and headed out the door. Outside, a growl of thunder ripped through the sky.

18

Dahlia flung her front door open to a thoroughly soaked Talula.

It had poured on the ride to Dahlia’s parents’ house. Talula had arrived extremely damp and out of breath from trying to outrun the storm and her stomach’s rioting butterflies. She felt like she’d just climbed out of a dunk tank. Despite her efforts, her carefully chosen outfit—tights, boots, sweater, and soft blue shirtdress—was soaked.

Meanwhile, Dahlia was dressed like Dahlia. Black pants and an oversized button-up that looked like Bob Ross’s palette had thrown up on it (but in a really, really good way). A few fine-chained gold necklaces glinted around her neck, including Kiki’s. Talula did some quick math to figure out if the number of buttons unbuttoned on Dahlia’s shirt meant date or fig. She kept losing count when she got to the notch of Dahlia’s collarbones.

“Whoa! Get in here before you, like, actually drown.” Dahlia dragged Talula inside and up a flight of stairs. “You’re putting on dry clothes. Right now.”

They entered the messiest room Talula had ever seen. Clothes were everywhere. A frenzy of multicolored sticky notes covered the walls. A stack of library books stood next to the door, topped by a small, grocery store pumpkin. The room smelled warm and good and a lot like Dahlia. Talula was trying not to do the stalker thing and memorize every inch of the place when something soft thwacked her in the face.

“Change, babe. I refuse to let you die of pneumonia before we save Samhain.”

“Nobody actually gets pneumonia from weather,” Talula felt the need to point out.

“Then what were all those ladies in Victorian novels dying of?” Dahlia chucked a pair of socks at Talula.

“Consumption.” Talula grinned.

“The fake wandering uterus disease?”

“That’s hysteria.”

“Somebody ought to do something about those uteruses.”