Chapter 17
“Your problem is brand awareness,” Dahlia explained as the animated letters cartwheeled across the screen. Simon watched, mesmerized.
“I didn’t even know we had a brand?” Talula replied meekly, setting cocoa and leftover French toast on the coffee table.
“A brand is just a fancy corporate word for a business’s identity. Right now, everyone thinks your brand is drinking the blood of children and defiling virgins.”
Talula put her head in her hands.
“But that’s the beauty of marketing!” Dahlia grabbed Talula by the elbow and pulled her down onto the couch next to her. “You can take back the narrative and tell the story your way.”
Talula’s lips quirked. “Like sweet potatoes?”
“Like sweet potatoes.” Dahlia nodded. “Let me take you through some quick marketing theory stuff so you can see where I’m coming from. After that, we can talk strategy.”
Dahlia clicked through slides while Talula asked questions and took notes.
“This is amazing,” Talula commented. “Have you worked on something like Samhain before?”
“Sort of. I mostly worked on product campaigns and pop-up events to get people’s attention. Plus lots of commercials.”
“Any I’d know?”
“Maybe.” Dahlia watched Talula, eyes dancing. “You know that hair cream ad? The music kind of goes like this.” She hummed a familiar tune.
“That was you?” Talula turned to Simon. “That’s the one with the grandma on the jet ski! You love that one!”
Simon gave an appreciative whuf.
“Yeah, I’m not just good.” Dahlia’s dimples had never looked so smug. “I’m fucking great.”
“Wait, should we be compensating you? You’re a professional!”
“Allow me to decide my rate, please.” Dahlia tapped her lips, playfully contemplative. “Pay me in cocoa. Forever.”
“Done.”
A while later, as Dahlia was detailing the importance of a strong social media presence, the bell above the café door rang. A woman walked in, her tawny complexion tinged with a hint of green, hauling an absurdly large potted tree into the café with her.
“I’m Dimitra,” the woman said slowly, as if she were chewing on something strange. “This is my tree. We want one caramel macchiato, four shots of espresso with two decaf, two caf, with raspberry syrup and no whipped cream.”
“I can help you with that.” Talula got to her feet. She murmured to Dahlia, “Can we meet back up later?”
“Sure! Want to meet up at my house tonight?”
Excitement fizzed pleasantly in Talula’s belly. “I’ll cook.”
“Nope.” Dahlia shook her head and stuffed her laptop into her bag. “You deserve a break. Do you like Thai food?”
“Love it.”
“Cool,” Dahlia replied easily. “It’s a date.”
With that, she gave Talula a wave, smiled politely at Dimitra and her tree, then left.
Talula’s jaw hung loose in shock. She turned to Simon, sputtering. “She said ‘date.’ Did she mean date? Is it a date?”
“No. It’s not.” Dimitra shook her head. She held up one of her tree’s leaves. “See? It’s a fig. Not a date.”
“For the sake of the eldritch gods of old,” Simon groaned.
“Can we go to a new grove now?” Dimitra asked. “My old one became a soybean farm.”
So they did. This time, when Talula reached for the portal with her magic, she felt more in tune with the Volta than she ever had.
With no more than a thought, Talula and the Volta found a protected nature reserve.
It was a perfect, quiet, ancient place to put down roots, and Dimitra threw herself toward it.
“You did that quite quickly,” Simon observed. “Usually there’s more grimacing and deep breaths.”
“No volcanoes, either.” Talula shrugged, admiring the sparkling blue miasma of the Volta’s magic fluttering around the basement. “Maybe tapping into my elemental abilities makes it easier for me to connect with the portal?”
“Perhaps.”
“Or maybe I’m turning into a Volta monster?” Talula joked.
“It’s possible.” Simon turned a cold, ruthless stare on his pupil. “If so, I’d have no choice but to destroy you.”
“What?” Fear drenched Talula from head to toe.
Simon’s stony gaze lasted for another two seconds before he erupted into barks of laughter. “Volta monster! Ha! That was quite entertaining.”
Talula rolled her eyes, but a grin tugged at her lips. “Thanks, professor know-it-all.”
“You’re welcome,” Simon replied, preening.
The two walked up the basement steps to the main café.
“So…” Simon cleared his throat. “It seems Dahlia has the town hall matter well in hand.”
Talula’s eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “Did you just compliment Dahlia? Out loud?”
Simon rolled his eyes. “I know competence when I see it. Dahlia’s rectangular contraption of dancing calligraphy seemed to be full of answers to our current predicament.”
“That’s a computer—” Talula started but then realized something. “Do I have your blessing to go on the date?” (If it’s a date, Talula corrected herself.) “For Samhain?”
“Yes.”
“Do you even know what a date is?”
“I watch the larger rectangle in the living room. I know things about this world.” Simon gave an offended huff. “You still need to focus on your magical training.”
“Absolutely.” Talula nodded fervently.
“I don’t want you getting all gooey and distracted.”
“This is a goo-free zone,” Talula said, gesturing to her entire body.
Simon wrinkled his nose. “Unseemly.”
Chuckling, Talula grabbed a broom to sweep up the bits of dirt left behind by Dimitra’s fig tree. She hummed sunnily as she thought about going back to Dahlia’s house that night.
“You should tell your mother about this town hall meeting.”
“I did; she said not to worry.”
“And you must tell her about Dahlia.”
Talula gripped the broom so hard, her knuckles turned white. “Please don’t ask me to tell her how I feel about Dahlia.”
Simon gazed up at the ceiling for a long while. Finally, his eyes settled on Talula’s hazel ones. “How do you feel about Dahlia?”
“Big.” Talula didn’t even know the answer was on her lips until she spoke it. “Really big.”
“Then you must.”
“I don’t think—” she began, but Simon held up a paw.
“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.