by Nova Nelson
I opened my eyes but couldn’t make sense of my surroundings right away.
Something big and fluffy hovered over me, but the only detail I could make out against the dark canopy of trees was the pink tongue.
“Stop it. I’m not that kinda girl,” I muttered through my haze.
It wasn’t entirely true. I’d kissed a few guys whose names I didn’t know (work hard, play hard), but none of them had ever been this hairy.
I pushed the thing off of me, and only after getting some distance did I realize what it was: a giant black dog. Actually, was that even a dog? I’d never seen a dog that big. It was the size of a pony, easily.
The animal backed off a few steps and stared at me with droopy yellow eyes as I propped myself up on my elbows. “Yuck,” I said, wiping the slobber from my face. “Thanks but no thanks.”
“Well, excuse me for helping,” replied the hound before he turned and trotted off into the darkness.
But no, that couldn’t be right. Dogs didn’t talk.
Hmm … Put a tally mark in the “mental illness” column.
Or maybe I’d just hit my head. Where was I? What had happened? How did I get here?
It started to come back to me—the detour, the black figure in the middle of the road … the tree.
But when I looked around, it didn’t add up. Where was my car? Where was the road?
All around me were tall trees stretching up toward a dark, starry sky I glimpsed through the canopy. I lay on soft pine needles in a tiny clearing.
East Texas had tall trees, but not like this. This place reminded me more of the Pacific Northwest, another place I’d wanted to visit but always lacked either the time or funds to do so.
Were it light outside, the woods might’ve been lovely and magical and inviting. For some reason, though, I suspected they would still be eerie in the daytime.
But in the dead of night, I was absolutely certain that they were downright creepy. I needed to get out of here, to a town.
I stood cautiously, worrying that the accident might have left me with some injuries that had yet to register with my rattled brain, but that didn’t seem to be the case. I felt fine. Great, actually.
Well, except for the totally disoriented in the middle of nowhere part.
Dusting the pine needles off my overcoat, I looked down at my white shirt and black trousers to check for tears. Other than the dried leaves and needles clinging to them, they looked fine. No stains, no rips. What a strange bit of good luck.
I headed in the direction of the black dog, thinking he was probably more familiar with this landscape and wouldn’t head straight off a cliff or toward a bear cave or whatever else might be lurking out here. If he was like all the dogs I’d encountered in my life, he was probably following his nose to food.
My stomach growled. Because I’d split before the main course, the last thing I’d eaten was a few mussels as an appetizer at my dinner with Neil. And before that was a light breakfast: one slice of fresh-baked bread with a locally grown and canned apricot pear jam spread over the top. It was delicious, sure, but what I craved now was a greasy burger or ten. Fine dining could be fun, but I was far too hungry for the minuscule portion size.
After ten minutes of walking, the first glimmer of light poked between tree trunks. I sped up.
Then there were more lights.
And more.
I jogged the last hundred yards until I broke from the forest and found myself on the edge of a tiny town.
Lamps lit a narrow street stretching out straight ahead of me, bordered on either side by a spattering of shops whose signs I couldn’t make out from this angle and in such low light. But up ahead, where the road teed, was the most beautiful thing I’d ever laid eyes on.
The lights were on inside, and an open sign glowed on and off. The dang thing might as well have been flashing, There is a God! for how much hope it gave me.
The metal exterior glistened in the moonlight as I approached. Long windows spanned the length of the building, allowing the full glory of the diner to be visible to a hungry traveler such as myself. Patrons filled most of the booths along the front windows, and behind them, a long countertop spread out.
Memories of my parents began to surface. I didn’t have many left, but I held on tight to what few remained. The ones that visited me now were of the Sundays we spent together. They took me to this little rundown diner that had been an Austin staple for decades and was one of the last holdouts against the chain restaurants and places like … well, like Chez Coeur. We went every week, and the wait staff knew my name, treated me like a surrogate daughter. I had free rein of the place and no one objected. Julio, the manager, even let me go back in the kitchen once (a total health-code no-no) and showed me how to make his famous migas.
And then someone went and murdered my parents, and in doing so, also stole the family I had at Rupert’s All-Night Diner.
I hadn’t thought about those Sundays in years, but the delicious scent of beef patties and french fries issuing from up ahead triggered the memories in an avalanche.
Above the front door glowed a neon sign reading Medium Rare. The letters flashed in sequence, one at a time, then all together.
“Listen, diner, you had me at ‘open.’ No need to try so hard,” I mumbled as I passed underneath the showy sign and entered an olfactory trip down memory lane. I shut my eyes and inhaled deeply. If someone could distill this smell into a liquid, I would bathe in it.
Oh, wait. That would just be griddle grease. Okay, never mind about the bathing part. Let the record show I would not bathe in griddle grease.
“Have a seat anywhere!” hollered a voice from behind the long counter. I opened my eyes to see a bulky middle-aged man with a kind face and thick, hairy forearms wave to me before disappearing between the metal double doors into the kitchen.
“Thanks,” I hollered back, but I don’t know if he heard me over the noise from the other diners and the loud sizzling of meat on the grill.
I looked around for an open booth, and that’s when I discovered that, okay, something was a little off.
I do this. When I get freaked out beyond words, I resort to understatement. It’s part of the not letting people know you’re afraid thing, which is rule number one to being a single, independent, female business owner in an industry run by egomaniacal men.
So when I say something was a little off, what I mean was I saw the Grim Reaper.
The freaking Grim Reaper. He was sitting alone in a booth at the back of the diner, all decked out in his hood, his sickle leaning against the window as he shoved his mouth full of a cheeseburger.
When he noticed me looking, he nodded casually and waved hello.
Noooooope. Not waving back.
I did a one-eighty and headed in the other direction down the row of booths toward an empty one at the opposite end from Death.
Everyone stared at me.
They must not get many new people in town, I thought.
I smiled at them as I passed, trying to make a good first impression and act like I wasn’t totally losing it over the Grim Reaper’s presence.
Then I spotted the legs on one family. They dangled underneath the tabletop and were only visible for a moment as I walked past, but they were clearly goat legs. All of them had goat legs. My eyes darted up to their faces, which followed me like sunflowers follow the sun. Horns. They also had horns. I’d almost missed the things poking out beneath each person’s curly hair, but sure as anything, there they were.
As much as I wanted to do a double take, it seemed rude, and I was pretty sure it would yield the same results. I did, however, glance over at them once I sat down, because, who knows, it could have been a family of goats sitting in that booth, and I’d just been confused and thought their top half was human.
But nope. Two mostly human parents, one mostly human daughter, and one mostly human son. All with horns.
It was fine, though. I wasn’t totally losing my mind.
Had the smell of steak and eggs not been so potent, I would have high-tailed it out of Medium Rare and never looked back (except maybe to make sure the Grim Reaper wasn’t following me).
I was in a tight spot, but that was okay. I’d been on my own for long enough and from such a young age that the only thing I was better at than getting myself into a tight spot was getting myself out of one. I would sit here, not show fear, and order myself some food.
Except …
My wallet was in the car. Dang. Could I dine and dash?
No, I couldn’t afford such bad karma when Death was checking me out from across the room.
I’d just explain it to the nice hairy-armed man when he came over and took my order. I’d say I was lost, didn’t have my wallet on me—maybe I’d even mention the car accident for pity points—and then I’d offer to help with dishes in the kitchen in return for a meal.
With a plan in place, I allowed myself a deep breath.
But the plan fell apart immediately when he approached my table.
Whoa.
He was beautiful. I know men prefer “handsome” or “sexy,” but neither seemed quite accurate for him. He was tall, strong but not in that awful “yeah, I lift” sort of way. More like the way men get from actually doing productive things like farming or logging or inviting a lost, tired stranger back to his place to—
“Hey there,” he said, a big, goofy grin lighting up his already glowing complexion. His hair was the color of wet sand, short in an unmanaged sort of way, and he had the beginning of a beard and mustache growing in. I was familiar with that sort of facial hair. It signaled that he’d shaved early in the morning before a long day. People talk about five o’clock shadow, but in the service industry, we see three o’clock shadow. As in three in the morning. He’d probably worked a double shift, yet here he was, smiling like there was nowhere he’d rather be.
“Hi,” I said.
“You’re new.” Not a question.
“Yes.”
He wiped a hand on his apron and offered it to me. “I’m Tanner.”
Talk about service with a smile. I took a mental note of how surprisingly pleasant it was to have a proper introduction with my server—maybe I’d institute the policy at Chez Coeur when I got back.
But no, the patrons at my restaurant didn’t want to connect with the waitstaff; they wanted to distance themselves.
“Nora,” I said, shaking his hand.
He had a firm grip, but so did I.
He nodded, impressed, and flashed me a half-grin before asking, “When’d you cross over?”
“Excuse me?” I spat, my eyes flickering over to Death, who was leaning his elbows on the table as he stared dreamily out of the window.
“I just mean, when’d you get into Eastwind?”
“Is that still where I am?” I asked.
He narrowed his eyes, studying me. “Huh. Wow. You don’t know where you are. That must be alarming.” Then, to my surprise, he slid into the booth across from me. Rubbing his hands together, he said, “Okay. This means I’m your first point of contact.” He shook out his hands at the wrists and took a deep breath. “Phew! I’ve heard about people being the first point of contact for newcomers, but I never thought I’d get the chance.”
What in the heck was he talking about? I knew rural Texas could be a bore fest, but surely they had to get people passing through every now and again.
“Ask me a question,” he said. “Anything.”
I easily settled on one. “Is that the Grim Reaper over there, or have I lost my mind?”
He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “I don’t know about the grim reaper, but yeah, he’s a grim reaper.” Leaning forward, he added, “He prefers if you just call him Ted.”
“Ted?” I echoed dumbly.
“Yeah,” he said. “And I mean, I guess it makes sense. I wouldn’t want people just calling me ‘witch,’ you know?”
“Why would people call you witch?”
Tanner scrunched up his nose and turned his head slightly to the side. Did he think I was just messing with him? Was the answer that obvious?
“Because I’m a witch,” he said.
Okay, so the answer was obvious, if given the necessary information, which I hadn’t had. But now I did.
“You’re a witch?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Is that what they call you? A witch? Not a wizard or a warlock?”
It wasn’t the most productive line of questioning on my part. Instead, I should’ve asked, “Are you screwing with me?” because witches aren’t a thing.
Except I’d just had it validated that the Grim Reaper—I’m sorry, Ted—was less than twenty yards away from me, and, if my eyes were to be believed, there was a family of goat people three booths down. So, sure, why couldn’t this gorgeous man be a witch?
I guess my question had offended him, though. He sat up straight, raising his chin. “Witches can be dudes.”
I held up my hands defensively. “Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean to offend you.”
His strong shoulders softened. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Being a witch is awesome enough that I don’t mind the occasional diss from people about male witches. But you’ll figure out the perks soon enough, I guess.”
His grin was so warm, it sucked me in and I almost didn’t notice what he was implying. “Hold up. Why would I figure out the perks?”
He wobbled his head side to side anxiously. “Well, because, you know, the odds are … you’re a witch.”
I laughed. “Okay, you got me.” I looked around the restaurant. “Where are the hidden cameras?”
“Hidden what?” he asked, sounding concerned.
“Cameras.” I waved it off. “Never mind. I’m just saying you have to be kidding me, right? Why on earth would you think I was a witch?”
He paused, worrying his lip. “Well,” he said, “because you’re not a leprechaun or a faun or a vampire—I can tell that by looking at you. There are a few other things that can be ruled out just by looking at you, but I won’t bore you with all that. Mostly, I’m thinking you’re a witch because, outside of the occasional Avalonian who visits, which, no offense, I can tell you’re definitely not just by how you’re dressed, the only new people we get in Eastwind are witches.”
It was a lot to process. I decided to chip away at it one small piece at a time. “Now, I have a lot of questions about what you just said, but I’m gonna put a pin in them, because there’s a burning question I can’t shake.”
“Go ahead.”
I leaned forward, whispering, “Does that family over there have goat legs?”
His hazel eyes lightened and he laughed. It sounded like spring felt. “You mean the Tomlinsons?”
I shrugged. Sure, the Tomlinsons. As if I would’ve introduced myself to them already, said, “Hi, I’m Nora Ashcroft. And you are?” and then casually walked away like they didn’t all have hooves.
“They’re fauns,” he continued. “They don’t have those where you’re from?”
“Nope.”
“So what do they have where you’re from?”
“Just plain humans.”
He scrunched up his nose, shaking his head vaguely. “I don’t understand. What do you mean, plain?”
“Like me. Just a person. I don’t know.”
He whistled low. “Sounds like a boring place, no offense. Bet you’re glad you wound up here.”
I chuckled. “Reserving judgment.”
He slid out of the booth. “Now I got a question for you, Nora. What can I get you started for breakfast?”
Chapter Three
Watching the way Tanner related to everyone in Medium Rare made me hope that if I ever got out of this town, he would come with me. Chez Coeur could use someone like him. He just had this way
about him that lit a lamp behind the other person’s eyes. There was an instant connection when he slid into my booth and acted like I was the only thing in the entire world that mattered in that moment.
I shamelessly scoped him out as he brought a slice of pie over to Ted at the far end of the restaurant, and even Death himself seemed to light up when Tanner looked at him.
And I have to say, I was wildly impressed by Tanner’s ability to remain so casual and friendly with Death.
I could have sat there all night watching Tanner work his magic, trying to figure out what his secret was, except my stomach was straight up eating itself.
While the front-of-house service was great, the back-of-house could use a little help. Had it just felt like I was sitting there for half an hour, or had it actually been that long?
The delay allowed my mind to run laps over the events of the night. Boy, had it been a long one.
I was jonesing something fierce for my cell phone. I needed to get in touch with Georgina, the manager in charge of opening Chez Coeur the next day, to let her know I wouldn’t be in. We had a huge delivery of duck arriving first thing, and I was always the one that handled those deliveries since there was usually an inventory discrepancy and …
Man, my life back home was tedious. Ted and the Tomlinsons (great TV show title, by the way) were vastly more interesting than anything I’d seen or done in the past … forever?
No, I wasn’t going to sit here and trash my whole life. I’d worked hard for that life. I’d worked my butt off for it seventy hours a week for years.
Where was my food?
Impatient, I looked around for Tanner to see if he’d check on it for me, but I couldn’t spot him. Maybe he was already in the back checking on it.
That was fine. I knew my way around a restaurant.
Abandoning my booth, I pushed my way through the double doors separating the front-of-house from the back.
The sound of grease on a hot griddle was deafeningly loud, the kitchen swelteringly hot. I peeked around the corner toward the line, looking for someone to bug. But there was nobody manning the griddle. Or anything. Where was everyone?