Chapter 8
In the bleary minutes before her morning alarm went off, Talula was awoken by a hrmph. She opened her eyes—a cantankerous dog stared disapprovingly a few inches away from her face. Talula jolted upright.
“About time.” Simon’s front paws were propped up on the mattress to peer eye to eye with Talula. “You slept for an eternity.”
Talula checked the time—it was a quarter till six in the morning. She last remembered rereading Dahlia’s text messages around midnight. “I barely slept five hours.”
“That’s far too long.” Simon tsked.
“Actually, it’s not. Human adults are supposed to get seven to nine hours every night for maximum health benefits. Otherwise, we…” Talula searched her groggy brain for the right word. “Explode.”
“You explode?” Simon asked, aghast.
“Well, we can get sick and die.” Talula shrugged. “But we do need lots of sleep.”
“I don’t remember sleeping that much.” Simon’s ears flicked back. Talula detected a hint of self-doubt in his voice.
“Humans spend almost a third of their lives asleep.” Talula yawned. Belatedly, the implication of Simon’s words registered in her brain. Suddenly, she was much more awake. “Wait! You used to be human?”
“Yes, before I learned the secrets of the universe and grew tired of my physical form.”
Talula cocked her head. “How’s this one working out for you?”
Simon scowled. “Not as I’d hoped.”
“Then why’d you choose it?”
“That’s none of your concern,” Simon barked. “Get out of bed. We must discuss your training regimen.”
“I’ll meet you in the kitchen. I have to do human things now.”
“Like what?”
“Like urinate.”
Simon considered this. “Fine. But don’t take too long!”
After Talula had finished her morning routine, she traipsed down the stairs.
Thankfully, Sara had tidied up the kitchen before she left, so the Talula Zone’s borders had grown enormously.
It made Talula smile to see how much kitchen space she could now safely use.
But the sour look on Simon’s face from his perch on the kitchen table dampened the effect.
“How’d you get up there?” Talula opened the fridge and grabbed ingredients.
“Magic. Obviously. What are you doing in that metal box?”
“I’m making breakfast.”
“You’re eating? Again?” Simon’s outrage was several sizes too large for his small, fluffy body.
“We have to do this several times a day.” Talula sliced off a pat of butter. “Three full meals and snacks in between.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“How long has it been since you were human?” Talula tossed the butter into the pan, then flicked on the burner. While the pan warmed, she cracked a few eggs into a small bowl and whisked them up.
“Difficult to say. Time passes differently when you’re an amorphous congregation of magical particles.”
“Do you remember anything about being human?” Talula asked, as the decadent aroma of melting butter wafted heavily through the kitchen.
“I remember plows being a pretty big deal at one point.”
Talula pulled out her phone for a quick Internet search.
She whistled. Simon was at least fifteen hundred years old, even if he’d just been magical essence for the last millennia.
Sorcerers typically lived over a century, their magic extending their lifespan.
Simon must have been quite powerful in his previous era to have lived so long.
Though he wasn’t nearly as old as Sara, but then again, nobody was as old as Sara.
Simon shifted in his seat irritably. “Can you halt the inquisition and converse with your teacher, who chose to take corporeal form after millennia of untethered magical bliss for you?”
With a half smile, Talula filled the For Tea Only kettle with water and set it on the stove. “Go ahead.”
“From what Sara has told me, you struggle with the magical basics—your elemental affinities, conjuring, creating illusions, as well as controlling the Volta.”
Chagrined, Talula looked away and chopped a handful of chives.
“Based on my observations and cursory evaluation, you’re able to create a small amount of witchfire, and your psychic connection to the Volta seems adequate,” Simon continued.
Talula perked up. “That’s not bad!”
“It’s not good, either.” Simon huffed. “No doubt because of Sara’s willy-nilly approach to magical education. You should be visiting other dimensions by now. Summoning tidal waves. Conjuring ambrosia from Jupiter’s own cup!”
“I know.” Talula felt Simon’s words like punches to her already battered ego. “I’ve tried so many different things, but nothing’s clicked yet.”
“Considering Sara’s undisciplined approach to magical pedagogy, your progress—or lack thereof—makes considerable sense. Your magical advancement requires structure. I can provide that.”
Talula loosened, a sudden sense of validation rising in her chest. She’d always struggled with her mom’s training methods.
It never felt like Talula had enough guidance to succeed.
Now here was Simon, echoing those same thoughts.
Maybe Mom’s been wrong about how to improve my abilities.
At that, Talula felt a rush of guilt—Sara was out there, putting her life in danger chasing the hunters, and still trying to do her best to support her daughter through this (albeit unexpectedly furry) magical instructor.
Refocusing on breakfast, Talula plopped two plates of eggs and buttered toast on the kitchen table. She let chopped chives fall generously over the golden tumble of egg curds, then poured two mugs of tea.
Simon took several deep sniffs of the plate. “What is this?”
“Breakfast.”
“I don’t eat breakfast. I sustain myself on the nectar of the universe.”
“That probably worked when you were just magical essence. But now you’re a dog. Sort of.” Talula snagged a fork and sat next to Simon. “You might need more than just universe juice.”
Simon scowled. “If I’d known manifesting myself into this stupid, squishy body would require so much maintenance, I’d have remained incorporeal.”
Talula inched Simon’s plate closer to him.
“Fine.” Simon shook out his fur, irritated. “After breakfast, we’ll return to the Volta so that we may provide refuge for magical beings.”
Talula’s fork halted halfway to her lips. “You’re coming with me to the café?”
“You’re not capable of providing portal aid unsupervised.” Simon prodded at his food with his nose. “It’s the wisest course of action. We can also rectify your ghastly lack of magical knowledge.”
Shamefaced, Talula took a bite of breakfast, but she had already lost her appetite.
At the café, Talula went through her opening chores, turning on lights and warming up the espresso machine.
Meanwhile, Simon followed Talula around the café.
Lecturing. “We need to go back to the essentials, starting with your elemental abilities, then moving on to conjuring, then illusions, while breaking up those lessons with Volta work.”
“Sounds good.” Talula tied on her apron.
“I’ll draw a circle of protection around you, and you can start meditating on the essence of air—”
“Now?” She whirled toward the dog.
“Yes! Why else do you think we’re here?” One of Simon’s black eyebrows rose quizzically.
“Because it’s my job?”
“Your job is to become the Guardian of the Volta, Arbiter of Magical Refuge and New Beginnings, Protector of the Adrift and Destitute—”
“Which I can’t do if the café is closed,” Talula protested. “Besides, we need to keep up appearances.”
“Sara assured me that this café was the least frequented establishment in the area. For whom do we have to keep up appearances?”
The bell above the café door rang out in answer.
“I finally cracked it this time! It’s not one story; it’s a bunch of them. A book of short stories!”
Simon’s black eyes bugged out of his canine skull as Dahlia charged into the café. Dahlia was so unfairly beautiful that morning, her loose curls tied up in a bun and a plum-colored sweater dress skimming her curves. Talula found herself croaking, “You look…really nice today.”
“And you’re always stunning.” Dahlia smiled at Talula.
Dahlia’s warm words and soft dimpled grin hit Talula like a bus. This is why they call it a crush, Talula thought, physically bracing herself against the counter. I’m being crushed by dimples.
Did she have any idea if Dahlia was outright flirting with her or just courteously returning a compliment? Absolutely not. And she had no idea how to find out. Or if she was even brave enough to find out.
As Talula tried to regain her composure, Dahlia knelt to greet Simon. “Hey Simon, still looking for your owners?”
“I decided to keep him for now. Until someone claims him,” Talula hurried to explain.
Dahlia tentatively offered her hand for Simon to sniff. He turned around and waddled away, nose in the air. She chuckled. “That’s one stuck-up dog.”
“You have no idea.” Talula ignored Simon’s glare and started Dahlia’s usual order. “But anyway, you were talking about short stories?”
“Yep. I was thinking of tying them together with a bigger story, like in The Illustrated Man or One Thousand and One Nights,” Dahlia explained, sitting at a counter stool instead of her usual armchair. “What do you think?”
“You’ll have the freedom to work within a bunch of different genres but play up the themes you like across all of them.” Talula turned toward Dahlia as she steamed milk. “It’s genius. I love it.”
“Good.” Dahlia locked eyes with Talula. “I wanted to text you about it last night, but I didn’t want to seem like too much.”
“Text me whenever about whatever,” Talula said.
“Yeah?” Dahlia asked eagerly.
“Absolutely,” Talula answered. The way Dahlia was looking at her made Talula’s head fill with the fizz of champagne bubbles. Dahlia’s eyes were such a warm, lively brown. Like freshly ground cloves or a smear of chocolate.
“HRMPH,” Simon grumbled. Not subtly.
Talula nearly jumped. After a quick dirty look at Simon, she added whipped cream to the mug and presented it to Dahlia.