Page 85 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

This man must be Kiki’s abusive partner. He’d come looking for the jinn. Talula swallowed. “Like I said, you need to leave.”

He laughed, but this time it was a mean laugh, one that showed his canines. He took another step, entering the behind-the-counter area, blocking Talula in. As the man moved closer, Talula caught a glimpse of Simon following behind on four quiet paws. Simon’s eyes burned with rage, his shadow beginning to lengthen and writhe. Talula gave Simon the tiniest head shake. They couldn’t risk exposure with enormous demonic shadow hexes. They needed something small and effective. Even though her frightened pulse crowded her mind, Talula clung to one thought. I can handle this.

“Get out. Now.” Magic began to simmer beneath Talula’s skin. “Or you won’t like what happens.”

“Sure about that? Because I like where this is going.” The man leered. Then he sniffed. He glanced over at the plate of sliders Talula had made. “Free samples? How hospitable.”

He helped himself to one, shoving it whole into his mouth and swallowing with barely a chew. While he was distracted, Talula braced herself. Time to fight back.

But before she could make a move, the man paled.

“What—” He ripped the bun off a slider. “Mangoes?”

The man began to cough, his cool, cruel demeanor dissolving into panic. A red flush crawled up his throat. He retched. “Who puts mangoes in a chicken sandwich?”

It took a moment for Talula’s fight-or-flight brain to put the pieces together. The realization hit her all at once. He’s allergic to mangoes. Like, badly allergic.

Talula dropped her magic—she didn’t need it. She strode up to the man and shoved with both hands. He fell backward, landing so hard she heard his skull make a cracking sound against the hardwood floor. Talula snatched up her phone and took a picture of him. She pointed to the cameras in the corner of the shop. “This picture and video from the last five minutes are getting sent to the police right now. If I were you, I’d get the fuck out of here.”

To emphasize Talula’s point, Simon leapt and closed his jaws around the man’s right hand. His bite was as quick as it was deep. The man screamed and scrambled to get away. Hives bloomed like carnations over his face as he stumbled out of the café. He managed to send a murderous look through the windows before sprinting off.

Talula ran to the café’s door. She twisted the deadbolt with force, then spotted something caught under the doorframe. She picked it up, hands shaking. It was a sleek black business card with just a few lines of light gray text:

Damien King

Saif Co

Simon galloped over to Talula, as quickly as his short legs could carry him. “Are you alright?”

She gave him a wobbly smile. “I did it.”

Then she sank to the floor and burst into tears.

If Simon looked worried before, now he looked downright terrified. Awkwardly, he leaned his furry weight against her side and whined, “I’m so sorry; please don’t explode!”

Talula gave a mucusy snort. “I won’t explode.”

“Thank goodness.”

When Talula got ahold of herself, she wiped her face on her apron. “That was awful.”

“It certainly was. No wonder Kiki ran from that festering pus bucket. And I’m teaching you that earwig curse.” Simon swore. “But I’m proud of you. You listened to your instincts and handled that with power.”

“I didn’t do anything, though.” Talula shrugged. “It was the mangoes—”

Talula went completely still. She remembered what the man had said. Who puts mangoes in a chicken sandwich?

She’d thought the exact same thing when she’d worked through the recipe. It was such a specific addition to a classic. Almost intentionally so.

Talula thought about the cookbook. First, the well-timed quiche for the stern health inspector. Then, the delicious sandwich that was the perfect poison for one very specific man. Kiki wasn’t just trying to teach Talula sorcery. They were trying to help. And with more recipes ahead, that could only mean one thing—more trouble was coming. Thinking of the anti-Samhain movement and a horde of magical trophy hunters at large, Talula realized she couldn’t keep Kiki’s cookbook a secret any longer. Too much was at stake.

“Simon,” she said. “We need to go home and call my mom. I have something to tell you both.”

At Simon’s insistence, they reported Damien’s harassment to “the local constabulary.” It went about as well as Talula expected. She dealt with questions like, “Are you sure he wasn’t just flirting?” and “What did you say to provoke him?” The cops took her information and a description of the man, before informing her—as Talula had thought—that they couldn’t do much besides file a restraining order.

“But there’ll be a record of the incident—” the ruddy-faced officer explained.

“So you’ll have documentation which might make it easier for you to convict if he kills me?” Talula asked, hazel eyes hard as stone (she still remembered a thing or two from listening to true crime podcasts with Kristen).