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Chapter Eight

ISADORA

New Orleans had a vibe, but Eternity Falls was all charm. The sort that came from familiarity, from shared glances across enchanted bakeries, and neighbors who actually waved.

While walking to the Moonlit café for lunch—which Thorne had insisted we do, because “it’s not worth it unless we earn it with cardio”—we’d passed at least six people she knew by name.

Two had waved. One had offered Thorne half a sandwich and a bottle of glowing lemonade “for the walk.” The last one had warned us about a fairy infestation in the nearby bookshop with all the calm of someone discussing the weather.

Thorne had introduced me to all of them, each with a friendliness that made my head spin.

And each had welcomed me with a pleasant smile and friendly eyes.

No judgment, no whispers of the scandal currently surrounding my name.

One vampire I’d met had taken my hand in hers, patted it, and told me a cheating mate was a dead mate.

Her words had rendered me a bit speechless—unheard of, I know—but I’d genuinely thanked her for her kind words before continuing on to the café with Thorne.

“I’m beginning to think you know everyone,” I said as I settled into a chair on the café’s patio.

“I do,” Thorne teased. “Stick with me, baby, and I’ll show you the world.”

I snorted a laugh.

She slid a menu toward me, one that physically shimmered when I touched it. New Orleans certainly hadn’t had that . Nor the teacups that literally floated beside us, lazily spinning mid-air, emitting steam clouds that looked like actual cats.

“Right,” I murmured in fascination as one puff curled into a smug little feline that stretched out its limbs before vanishing into mist. “That’s not even remotely normal.”

“Normal’s a setting on a washing machine,” Thorne said as she reached for a pastry floating on a nearby serving tray. “Besides, why settle for normal when you can enjoy the ab normal?”

The ghostly waiter took that moment to glide by, refilling the cup of the person who sat at the table next to us. The physics and purpose of this café baffled me. The ghost clearly handled physical items and served customers all in exchange for payment.

But…why?

What did a ghost need with money?

“Right,” I said again, because what else was there to say?

This wasn’t the weirdest thing I’d seen in the last few days.

Or even today. But I still wasn’t entirely used to being served by someone who may or may not have been alive in the eighteenth century.

Don’t get me wrong, New Orleans had its haunted locations and a plethora of ghosts, but they stuck to crypts and graveyards, away from human eyes.

I flipped open the menu, which shimmered with iridescent lettering and adjusted its layout in real time—clearly enchanted to read minds. Wild.

“They have something called a ‘Spectral Citrus Dream,’” I said slowly, “with a side note that says ‘guaranteed to cure post-haunting malaise.’”

“Oh yeah,” Thorne said. “That one tastes like lemon meringue and psychological closure.”

I glanced up. “Does anything here not come with a side of existential commentary?”

She grinned. “Just the croissants.”

The menu shifted again, and suddenly a wide range of blood drinks appeared before my eyes—clearly catered toward their toothier customers.

There were the usual suspects—O negative with a hint of cinnamon, a house-aged blend labeled “rustic with notes of fear,” and something called “Blood of My Enemies” that I sincerely hoped was metaphorical.

But what caught my eye was a cocktail near the bottom, glowing faintly in its frame: Velvet Regret . Described as “smooth, intoxicating, and just bitter enough to remind you of your worst decision.” I flagged it for later.

I set the menu down on the table and leaned back in the chair, letting the afternoon sun wash over me. This moment’s reprieve was nice. A break from all the chaos.

Thorne reached across the table and grabbed a handful of napkins. Then she rifled around in her purse until she found a pen. Without a word, she hunched over the napkins and started muttering to herself. I leaned over and caught sight of what looked like a tiny diagram of our bar.

When I couldn’t quite make out what she was doodling, I gripped the edge of my chair, about to scoot closer, when the chair moved beneath my butt. Without any help from me.

I gasped and jumped up from the table. “My chair just moved on its own!”

“Yep,” Thorne said, not even looking up. “The furniture likes to be helpful like that. It also doesn’t like poor posture. It’ll tuck you in if you let it.”

I stared at Thorne, then the table, then the chair. When I didn’t say anything, it moved back, giving me room to sit again. I did so, slowly, then squeezed my eyes shut when the chair scootched me back under the table.

Thorne smirked at my discomfort. “They say that before the current ghostly owner, this café was owned by a former etiquette instructor who died during midafternoon tea. She haunts the place now but mostly focuses on the seating arrangements and fussing at people with bad manners. It’s her unfinished business, I suppose. ”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope.” Thorne shot me a grin. “She once flipped a whole table when someone double-dipped.”

I immediately adjusted my position, careful not to set off the furniture again. I’d experienced enough temperamental ghosts for a lifetime.

“What exactly are you doing?” I asked Thorne.

“Sketching the bar,” she said. “And all the ideas I have for it.”

“Such as?”

“Ambiance.” She added a swirl that might’ve been either smoke or maybe enchanted fog. “You said you wanted the place to feel timeless, right? I’m thinking glam meets graveyard. Like, what if ghosts threw a cocktail party and invited the living?”

I tilted my head. “That is disturbingly on brand.”

“You’re welcome.”

Just then, the waiter appeared beside us, his bow crisp, his expression far too cheerful for a man who appeared to have died in a waistcoat. “Ladies,” he said in an echoing, lilting tone, “your order?”

“I’ll take the Type O Revival ,” I said, closing the menu. It was a black tea mixed with blood, and it sounded heavenly.

The waiter inclined his translucent head. “And you, madam?”

“I’ll have the Midnight Meringue,” Thorne said, without missing a note or looking up from her napkin.

The ghost met my gaze, winked, then floated off, humming something that sounded suspiciously like a waltz.

“Dare I ask how this ghost ended up running the café?”

“Who, Frederick?” Thorne did glance up this time, her eyes tracking the retreating ghost.

“His name is Frederick?”

“Well, Freddie. But yeah.” She resumed her doodling. “He died during the town’s first ball, oh some three centuries ago. Rumor is, he served a duke a stale pastry. Never recovered.”

“Tragic,” I murmured.

“Unforgivable,” Thorne agreed.

We both laughed, and it was the kind that made me feel good deep down inside. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed like that.

Thorne was nothing like my so-called friends back in New Orleans.

They were the sort who would compliment your necklace while calculating its resale value.

And when the Laurent name imploded—courtesy of Trystan’s wandering fangs and financial idiocy—they’d dropped me faster than last season’s shoes.

Scandal, after all, was contagious. And none of them wanted society to see them caught in the same orbit as a ruined heiress.

But Thorne? She didn’t run from my name or tiptoe around the broken pieces of my life. She just shoved a blood pastry into my hands and dragged me into her world with a smile on her face.

Freddie returned quickly with our orders, offering another bow before retreating inside.

I took a sip and hummed my approval. I hadn’t had anything substantial to eat since arriving in Eternity Falls—and while vampires could last a few days between feedings, all the stress and anxiety had depleted my resources.

But this tasted wonderful. And relief spread through my entire body.

Relief that only lasted for five seconds—because then came the approaching click of stilettos.

Stilettos, in my experience, were never good news.

I glanced up, and my brain immediately filed what I saw under “Trouble.”

Two women entered the café. One of them—in a razor-sharp blazer and heels sharp enough to perform minor surgery—walked in like the place belonged to her. The other followed a step behind, wearing combat boots with couture and a leather jacket that looked like it had seen battle.

Thorne froze mid-sketch.

“Oh no,” she muttered.

That didn’t bode well.

“Friends of yours?” I asked under my breath.

“Not even close,” she said. “Those are St. Germains. Lucien’s little sisters. The one in the blazer is Juliette, and the one who looks like she’s part of a biker gang is Evangeline.”

Aha.

Juliette inspected the patio until her gaze landed squarely on me. Then her lips curved, and it wasn’t into what I would call a kind smile.

Evangeline, who was stunning in a slightly feral sort of way, glanced at Thorne and cracked her knuckles.

Oh boy.

Juliette approached first, pausing beside our table with a practiced composure I recognized far too well. Her gaze raked me over—not with disdain, exactly, but more like curiosity. Almost like she was appraising a new piece of art and deciding how much it was worth.

Now this was the type of socialite behavior I grew up with.

“You must be Isadora Laurent,” she said.

I arched a brow. “Must I be?”

She extended her hand. “Juliette St. Germain.”

After a moment’s consideration, I took her hand and gave it the required shake. We could all remain civilized, right? At least, for now.

“And this,” she added, gesturing to her sister, “is Evangeline.”

The woman in the combat boots offered no greeting.

“Lovely to meet you both,” I said.

“We happened to be in the area,” Juliette said. “And thought a spot of tea might be nice.”