Page 79 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

“Simon!” Talula exclaimed. “Do you mean it?”

“I do.” Simon gave her a wry doggy grin. “And frankly, we have nothing to lose.”

“Frankly”—Talula grinned—“I was going to go ahead with the plan no matter what, but having you on board is so much better.”

She scooped Simon up in her arms and danced him around the room as the café speakers sung out the intro to Stevie Nicks’s “Enchanted.”

“But I have conditions!” Simon yelped, indignant. “And I want another steak! A big one! And put me down this instant!”

20

On Thursday morning—nine days before Halloween, six days before the town hall meeting—Pine Hollow woke up to a more magical version of itself. Piles of fairy-tale pumpkins appeared in front of the post office. Delicate and ancient-looking wind chimes sang hauntingly in the trees. Stacks of old tomes held up elegant candelabras in front of the library. A cauldron filled with dry ice huffed purple-hued mist by the grocery store. Banners materialized everywhere, hung from the lampposts, trees, and flagpoles. The blue-black fabric was emblazoned with familiar words. But the way they had appeared overnight made people linger, savoring an anticipatory thrill of something extraordinary on its way.

“Magic exists. Who can doubt it, when there are rainbows and wildflowers, the music of the wind and the silence of the stars?”

—Nora Roberts

“What you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it.”

—John Anster

“The world is its own magic.”

—Shunryū Suzuki

Talula had rejected Dahlia’s vote to include a quote from Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn.

“Real magic can never be made by offering up someone else’s liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back.”

“That’s so dark!” Talula had shuddered. They had reviewed designs on the café’s couch Wednesday afternoon before sending it all to Dahlia’s “emergency banner guy.” Buffalo chicken pizza had been delivered as the spicy inspiration food du jour.

“It’s romantic!” Dahlia had grasped at her heart dramatically, getting buffalo sauce on her shirt.

“You wouldn’t think that if it was your liver.”

“I’d give you my liver.” Dahlia had shrugged.

At that, Talula had found herself halfway between horror and, somehow, horniness.

Dahlia had continued, “It’s the only organ that grows back, no biggie.”

Talula, pink-cheeked, had accused, “You learned that from Grey’s Anatomy.”

“I absolutely learned that from Grey’s Anatomy.” Dahlia had laughed. “But that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t give you my liver if you needed it.”

The urge to lean over and lay a big, full-lipped kiss on Dahlia had seized the young sorceress. As if he could smell Talula’s impulse, Simon had stopped gnawing on a pizza crust to give her a warning hrmph.

This was one of Simon’s conditions to their plan. He’d convinced the Council to send extra funds to support Dahlia and Talula’s schemes, but the four-legged sorcerer insisted on chaperoning all Save Samhain operations.

(“Your liver is probably gamey,” Talula had muttered to her canine mentor.

“And yours is full of lovey-dovey ooey-gooeyness,” Simon had hissed back.)

“No liver banners,” Talula had said firmly to Dahlia.

“Fine. I’ll save it for your birthday card.”

Talula had tried not to look too pleased.