Page 95 of The Blue Moon Café & 24-Hour Occult Emporium

“Can you pick me up?” Simon hissed. “I couldn’t see anything last time.”

Grinning, Talula hoisted Simon into her arms.

The curtains drew back.

Thirteen black-cloaked figures appeared, heads bowed. Each held a long, mysterious staff in their hand. From beyond the stage, a drumbeat began. The first drum strike shook the protesters out of their silence. They began chanting, loudly. A few attendees shot annoyed looks at them, but most were transfixed by the show.

The closest figure onstage reached out, beating the staff in a counter-rhythm to the drum. Row by row, the other figures followed, weaving a pattern of sound that drowned out the protesters. There was a flick, and bristles sprung from the staffs, turning them into broomsticks. The crowd roared in surprise. The dancers beat the brooms together, whisked the bristles against the stage floor, clashed them against each other, spun them over their heads and behind their bodies in swift, complex arcs. Even the most ardent protesters stopped chanting, their jaws agape, eyes wide. Finally, the dancers leapt as one, seeming to fly as the beat fell into a crescendoing finale that thundered through Talula, bone-deep. The thirteen figures bowed their heads, brooms in hand. A banner unfurled behind them that read,

Let Samhain Sweep You Off Your Feet.

The curtain fell.

The audience was silent. Talula counted her heartbeats. One quick beat. Two. Three. A cheer erupted. Awestruck attendees leapt to their feet, shouting and whistling. Some even glanced over smugly at the protesters as if to say, Wasn’t that incredible? Why are you being such morons about this?

Then the protesters found their wind again and started jeering with gusto. They stampeded up to the velvet rope, yelling and taunting. Talula’s blood turned cold. As the cosplaying bouncers rushed to block the protesters, Talula and Simon ran to join them.

“You should all be ashamed!” one protester yelled.

“How could you let your children be a part of this madness?”

“Look at these freaks!”

A nearby eight-year-old wearing superhero pajamas crossed her arms. “That’s not a freak, that’s Batman.” Her parents quickly scooped her up and ushered her away.

Emilio and the cosplayers created a human wall at the velvet rope. Anna was there, too, trying to sweet-talk protesters into turning around.

“Boss, how do you want us to play this?” Emilio asked Talula gruffly.

Talula watched attendees hurriedly packing up as the protesters shouted. There were only twelve of them, but their hatred poisoned the air. Talula knew that if the protesters were back tomorrow, no attendee would stay for long.

She had to handle this. She would suffer no fools.

“That’s enough,” Talula yelled. Her voice cracked, but she pushed on. “We’re your neighbors. We’re your community. Act like it, or leave.”

Almost as one, the protesters turned their attention to Talula, their fury narrowing to a laser focus. The jeering got louder. And meaner.

“I have every right to be here!”

“You’re the one who needs to leave!”

“Get out of our town, bitch!”

Something warm and wet struck her cheek. Talula wiped a sleeve over her face, shocked and disgusted. Did I just get spit on?

Emilio and Anna stepped in front of Talula as more vitriol came her way. She couldn’t trick them with donuts. She couldn’t enchant them into changing their opinions. She had no power in the face of this crowd. And they could ruin everything.

“Thank you for coming to our second pre-Samhain performance!” a familiar voice boomed. Talula turned to see Dahlia with a microphone on the Magic Box stage. “Let’s give our magical performers another hand!”

A few clusters of attendees clapped, some reluctantly, some quite fervently.

Dahlia continued, “As you know, every year the Blue Moon hosts a festival to celebrate fall and the spirit of magic in its many beautiful forms. This year’s festival will be legendary. You want to know why?”

“Why?” Anna shouted cheerily as she elbowed a protester “accidentally” in the solar plexus.

Dahlia beamed. “I’m so glad you asked! An anonymous donor has offered a little extra support for this year’s Samhain. Our mysterious benefactor has pledged a hundred dollars for every single person who comes to a Magic Box show this week. So let’s see here, that’s…one, two, three…”

Dahlia made a comically big deal of counting the protesters. “That’s more than a thousand dollars just from these people over here with the signs.” Dahlia addressed the protesters. “Thank you all so much, your presence here contributes to our mission. Literally. Directly. Monetarily. Isn’t that just magical?”