Page 21 of The Folklore of Forever (Moonville #2)

Twenty-One

If you see a white flower with an even number of leaves, pluck one to make it odd for luck.

Spells, Charms, and Rituals, Tempest Family Grimoire

“But what about me?” Morgan insists, sounding put out. “I need you to stay romantically available, just in case we don’t find the Black Bear Witch.”

“You are disgusting. And why haven’t you bothered trying to seduce Luna, by the way? Have you forgotten she’s a witch, too? If you need any old witch to fall in love with you, let’s remember I’m not the only single woman here.”

(For the record, I would never allow Luna to fall into such a trap. I pose the question merely out of curiosity.)

His face darkens. “It’s too late. I’ve already shown public interest in you, by buying your auctioned date, and she’ll get suspicious if I try to switch Tempests.” He leans his elbow on a shelf, bestowing me with a megawatt grin. “Bail on your date and I’ll show you the time of your life. I know I didn’t mean all those pretty things I said to you before, but I do now. Truly.”

I swat him away. “Here, shelve these last two, will you? This occasion calls for my best bra, which means I’ve gotta dig through an avalanche of unfolded laundry.”

At the mention of the word bra , Morgan’s intense stare locks on mine, and it’s as if his skull is transparent, so easy is it to see the words Don’t Look at Her Chest rolling across a billboard in his brain. He fails to heed them.

I point. “Caught you.”

“There was a fly on your shirt. Don’t look, he’s already gone. I can’t believe you’re taking valuable time away from our mission to sit with a man who probably floods anthills for fun.”

I roll my eyes, annoyed that he’s made me smile. “Bye, Morgan.”

—

I open the shiny silver door to Dark Side of the Spoon, fully aware that I am overdressed for a first date at a small-town diner. I tried on several low-key outfits before giving it up and throwing on a black spaghetti-strap dress with a corseted waist and black lace tights along with the most gorgeous green Pendragon boots you’ve ever seen—they look as if they’re made of leaves, spiking up my ankles. I am obsessed with these boots. Pendragon shoes are quite pricey, and twice now I have splurged on their Enchanted Forest collection. What I’ve saved in rent money by living in a camper van these past few years, I’ve channeled into clothes and shoes. This is my curse: I hate drawing attention to myself, but I love fashion more.

I haven’t been in here before, and the interior matches the front door: shiny and silvery. It has a fifties retro-futuristic motif, with space art on the walls. The long counter is packed with customers, but Dylan’s the only person sitting in a booth. He waves when he spots me.

Nerves flutter.

“Hey, you.” I slide my purse along the vinyl bench across from him. There’s a glass of water and a menu waiting for me, and his soda is half gone. “Am I late? We said six, right?” I laugh nervously.

“No, you’re not late. I’m always early. Kind of an annoying habit sometimes.”

“If only you’d been early to the auction,” I joke. “Then we could’ve had this date three weeks ago.”

His face falls. “I tried to be. Extenuating circumstances.”

“I was just kidding,” I rush to reassure him. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He nods, perusing his menu. It’s quiet for a beat.

“Have you eaten here before?” I ask.

“Yeah. I had the burger last time.” He makes a so-so motion with his hand. “Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Oh. I hope the other food’s good.” Another nervous laugh. “If it isn’t, I’m sorry for suggesting this place. It’s the only restaurant in town I haven’t tried yet.”

“That’s perfectly all right.” Dylan flips his menu over, skimming appetizers on the back side.

I fiddle with a pepper shaker shaped like a rocket ship, unsure of how to steer a conversation.

“You look amazing,” he tells me.

“Thank you, I—”

The door opens behind us and right by walks a man with a head full of (lustrous) black hair. He slips his fingers into it and keeps them like that, elbow blocking the face, as if that will conceal his identity. He sits in the booth directly behind Dylan and vanishes behind a menu.

I haven’t finished my sentence, and Dylan is staring at me. His gray shirt is neat and crisp, bringing out the color of his irises.

“You look amazing, too,” I hurry to say. “I love the glasses.”

“Yeah?” He touches his frames. “I’ve been thinking about getting LASIK.”

“Don’t!” I blurt. Then I clear my throat, my voice lowering. “I’m a big fan of the glasses. Just saying.”

This pulls a genuine smile from him. “Good to know.”

We spend the next little while sneaking shy glances, cutting away to our menus when caught. Personally, mine could be written in German, for all I’m able to focus. When the waitress comes to collect our orders, I panic because I’ve been staring at pictures of food for six minutes but have retained absolutely nothing. “Um.” I pick the first meal I see. “I’ll have the Out of This World Cheeseburger.”

A tiny frown develops between Dylan’s eyebrows.

Now I remember that he didn’t recommend the burger and am about to ask for five more minutes to decide, when Dylan tells the waitress, “Guess I’ll have the biscuits and gravy, with bacon and eggs over easy.” Behind him, Morgan is holding up a spoon and angling it to see what’s going on at our table. His presence here has me so addled that I forget what Dylan and I were talking about, and we’re left to stare blankly at each other.

“So.” Dylan folds his hands on the table. “What have you been up to lately?”

I open my mouth to answer, but I’ve got nothing sensible to say. If I tell Dylan what’s actually going on in my life right now, he’s going to think I’m unwell.

“Just…keeping busy. Writing.”

A low snort issues from the next booth over. My blood pressure rises.

Dylan drums his fingers on the table. “Your series?”

“Something new, actually. I finished the series.” I bite my lip. “I’m almost afraid to ask what you thought of Cave of a Thousand Crystal Wings .”

He smiles sheepishly. “I haven’t gotten the chance to read it yet.”

“Oh! That’s fine, no rush. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, it’s all right. I’ve been meaning to, but I’ve got a lot going on and…”

“Yeah. I get it.”

“Right.”

I point at the napkin dispenser. Most of the napkin dispensers in the diner are custom-made to look like the planet Neptune, but the ambitious owners must’ve run out of money because ours is a regular metal box with a Neptune sticker slapped on. “I think we picked an unlucky table.”

“Would you prefer to sit somewhere else?”

“No, I was only making a joke. The napkin dispenser. Uh…Neptune…”

He follows my line of sight, confused. “Oh. Ha.”

I scramble for an easy topic. Please, god, let the food arrive soon. “What have you been up to lately?”

“Prepping for the pickleball tournament in Athens.”

“Really? Sounds fun.”

“Everyone thinks pickleball sounds fun, but I promise it’s harder than it looks.”

“Ah. Yeah, I bet.”

My coffee arrives, and I rush to sip it, burning off the roof of my mouth.

“But if you want to give it a try,” Dylan replies, “I can see if there are still memberships available.”

“Um. That’s okay.”

“I’ll text you what I find out.”

Morgan drops onto the bench beside me. “Budge up.”

I gape at him. “What are you doing?” When I don’t move, he forcibly scoots me over with his hip.

Dylan cannot comprehend such rudeness. “May I help you?”

“Sure thing, Bob. You sell vacuums? You look like you’d sell vacuums.” The waitress arrives with our food, and Morgan flashes her an angelic smile. “Could I trouble you for a slice of apple pie, miss? I would be so very grateful.”

She beams. “Why, of course! Aren’t you a charming one!”

I roll my eyes. Our waitress asks Morgan if he has a motorcycle, because he “looks the type.” After some back-and-forth he promises they’ll do bike stunts all over town together if he ever does get a motorcycle, even though this woman is old enough to remember JFK’s time in office. She brings him a slice of pie that is three times the size of an ordinary serving, and he croons, “It looks just as gorgeous as you do.” She adds a scoop of ice cream to his plate, free of charge.

He’s a devil. Using his wiles to get ice cream, to get my attention when he doesn’t deserve it, calling everybody gorgeous. He probably calls his dentist gorgeous, too, trying to finagle a discount. The cops, whenever he gets speeding tickets. I’ve had enough!

I growl through clenched teeth, “Are you lost?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’m on a date.”

I knock my knee against his, trying to shove him off the bench without creating a scene. “Then go wait for your date at your own table.”

“ You are my date.”

Dylan shifts uncomfortably. “Zelda, do you know this guy?”

“She sure does!” Morgan sips my coffee. Spits it back out into the mug. “Shit, that’s hot.”

“Morgan! Leave. ” I press all my weight against him, but I might as well be trying to push a parked car. My wriggling does nothing except create friction, and Morgan looks sidelong at me. His face is entirely too close, and his eyes have a happy, overcaffeinated glint to them. His mouth threatens to smile.

I scoot away with a quickness. “You are intruding.”

“I am collecting. You owe me a date.”

Dylan’s gaze swivels between us. “You’re dating?”

My reply is an emphatic “ No. ”

“I bought the date she auctioned off,” Morgan informs Dylan, tone pleasant. “And I’m here to receive what I’m owed.”

This is an outrage. “I already went on that date with you!”

“Mm.” Morgan squints one eye. “No. We never officially confirmed that that outing was for the auction.”

Dylan’s mouth is in danger of disappearing, growing thinner and thinner. “I don’t understand.”

“Morgan is deranged,” I tell him consolingly, reaching across the table to touch the back of his hand. “Please ignore him.”

Dylan sizes up the man seated to my left, who is now wolfing down apple pie. Since I last saw him, Morgan’s changed into a red Hawaiian shirt with the top three buttons undone. I suppose he considers this his date-night attire, but he looks like Magnum P.I.

Dylan eyes the wedge of bare chest Morgan’s got on display and decides he can’t ignore him. “This is weird.”

“What’s weird about it? I’m having a great time.” Morgan cuts his dessert in half, scraping some to the edge of the plate toward me. “Try this. It’s scrumptious.” To Dylan: “If not vacuums, then maybe carpet cleaners? Definitely a traveling salesman, though, and definitely floor-related products.”

I almost laugh, which is irrational, because I am exasperated. I cannot be exasperated with him and amused. That would only encourage his bad behavior. “Stop it.”

Poor Dylan has no idea how to react. “I’m a bank teller.”

Morgan scrutinizes him. Shakes his head decisively and continues to eat. “Disagree.”

I am of two minds. One: this date has not gone particularly well. It wasn’t going well even before Morgan gate-crashed it.

Two: first dates can be awkward. Dylan didn’t get a fair shake. I gather up my purse and ask him if he wants to go somewhere else.

“I’ve only got another twenty minutes,” he says miserably. “My brother’s bachelor party is tonight.”

Morgan points a fork at Dylan. “I’ve got it! You sell Encyclopedia Britannica .”

“I don’t sell anything,” a frustrated Dylan retorts, but Morgan cuts him off.

“I’ll take L through V . Wait!” He waves the fork, flinging some flaky pie crust into Dylan’s eggs. “Just give me G .”

My date watches in silent disgust as Morgan polishes off what’s left of my cheeseburger. I can’t remember if it was any good or not, I’ve been so flustered.

“Needs pickles,” Morgan muses.

Dylan exhales through his nose. “It’s getting a little crowded in here.”

“I agree.” Morgan tries to stab Dylan’s last piece of bacon with his fork, but Dylan slides his plate out of the way. “Shall we take this show on the road?”

“Zelda, I think I’m going to call it a night.” Dylan stands up. “This was…” He can’t come up with a suitable adjective and simply shakes his head. “Good night.”

Oh no. “I’m so sorry.” I try to get up, too, but Morgan’s got me blocked in. “Maybe another time?”

Dylan’s grim face says Don’t count on it .

Morgan smiles up at him. “You’ve got the check, right? I didn’t bring any money.”

Dylan leaves swiftly, hissing between his teeth. I’ve botched it. I’ve completely botched it. Here’s a handsome, presumably good man who was legitimately interested in me, and I ruined my chances by indulging—or at least not adequately discouraging—another man who has admitted to my face that he tried to trick me into liking him, for abominably selfish reasons.

Something is clearly wrong with me.

My jaws fuse together as Morgan leisurely finishes my coffee, humming along to the radio. When he finally meets my eyes again, he lowers the napkin he’d been dabbing his mouth with. “Are you going to eat the rest of your fries?”

I pinch the skin of his forearm between my fingers, then give it a sharp twist.

“Ow!” he yelps, jumping. “What was that for?”

“ What was that for? You ruined my date!”

“I don’t know why you’re so upset. I think we all really hit it off. Do you think he’ll text us later?”

I duck under the table, emerging on the opposite side of the booth. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

For a moment, his facade suspends, and I see a different emotion pass behind his eyes. Guilt. It looks as if he’s about to apologize, but when he opens his mouth, what comes out is: “My latest theory on waravers is that the waning gibbous moon gives them a telepathic energy field that they use to communicate with clouds. What do you think?”

I stare at him.

He stares back.

I’m livid with both of us. “I have no words for you right now.”

“Words?” he repeats. “Where we’re going, we don’t need words.”

I slap a few bills down on the table for the tip and get up. “Either you pay for dinner, or I’m going to hurt you. Emotionally. I will figure out what you love, and ruin it.”

He hands over his credit card at the counter, posture relaxed. I grab a bunch of junk for sale next to the register—a wrapped pastrami sub sandwich, which I don’t even like, a Dark Side of the Spoon mug, two swirly lollipops, a Martian keychain, a stick of gum—and I make him buy it all.

“Did you enjoy your meal?” the guy at the register asks.

“It was wonderful!” Morgan turns to smile at me, and I cross my arms, refusing to look at him. When we’re finished, I grab the bags and tear off out the door.

Morgan runs to catch up. “Hey, slow down!”

“You sabotaged my night. You are a terrible, selfish, foul little dingbat.” The heel of my right shoe catches a crack in the sidewalk. I almost go toppling over, but he yanks me back by my purse strap.

“I’m not little. If you believe what it says on my driver’s license, I’m as tall as Brooke Shields.”

I let the handles of my bags slide into the crooks of my elbows so that I can wad up my hair in my fists. “Gahh!”

He peeks into a bag. “One of those lollipops for me?”

“Get away, cretin.” I dash past Bowerbird’s Nest, Gilda Halifax’s costume shop, with the same dusty mannequin dressed in a gold sequin tuxedo that’s been fading in the window since I was in grade school. Tacked to the eaves is a neon sign with the purple outline of a hand on it, advertising Palm Readings, plugged in with a thick orange extension cord taped to the brick siding. Next door, the glass walls of Laser Crater Arcade are dark, but every few seconds there’s a flare of blue or yellow strobe light within.

“You need to walk more carefully,” Morgan warns. “Those boots are going to kill you.”

“These boots are going to kill you .”

“So this is the thanks I get for intervening! That date was horrendous—pickleball is easy, I’ve played it, and I’m seventy-eight percent certain he was trying to scam you into buying a hair dryer.”

“This isn’t the 1960s! There aren’t door-to-door salesmen anymore.”

“If traveling salesmen aren’t real, explain where my dad was from 2002 to 2005.”

I hurry faster, leaving him behind.

“Aw, c’mon!” Morgan calls after me. I throw a quick look over my shoulder. He’s still at the corner, arms raised up over his head with one hand gripping the other wrist, a silhouette against bright shop fronts. “Wanna go back to my place and make out? Or review my notes on the gingersnappus? We can discuss it on my podcast! Why aren’t you responding? Hey! Miss Boots! Are you mad at me?”

I jam my key into the front door of The Magick Happens. “I’m putting you on probation. You will not accompany me on investigations until further notice.”

“What! Is this because I lied about my height? I’m five eleven! That’s the same height as Michelle Obama.”

The door slams on his pained “Miss Boooooots !”