Juice the Vegans

By Calla Gold

Julie’s first table was already two rounds deep in aged mead. The four boisterous warlocks in patched black robes had been harassing her since they arrived. “More salt, my pretty,” cackled the tall one.

“You’re in a ‘no-casting’ zone.” Julie swished her foot across a circle of spilled salt. The mild glamour broke, and the tall warlock’s mop of black curls vanished to reveal a shiny pate.

“Care to join the fun?” He winked.

“Thanks, but no.”

She turned away and barely saw the sweep of a wand. A cold gust of air sent her barrette into the rafters. Thick black hair swirled in front of her face. She raised her hand, and with a flick of her wrist, the hair braided itself and twirled into a bun.

“Killjoy!” yelled the warlock.

“Do you want hair in your soup?” Julie called back as she moved on to her next table.

During the day, the Ash and Stone enjoyed a reputation with the locals for its oddball regulars and delicious, if unexpected, menu choices. The rest of downtown Carpinteria’s commercial district might be dead by twilight on a Tuesday evening, but when the clock ticked midnight at the Ash, the music changed, the lights dimmed, and “Undead Night” crackled to life.

Julie took a deep breath, savoring the hint of seared meat, freshly baked bread, and brown butter sage wafting from the kitchen. Her small magics were a distant echo of her powerful ancestors and barely kept up with the mischief from the rowdy patrons.

Julie’s head bobbed to “Another One Bites the Dust.” She waved at her co-worker Georgette as she crossed the wide, busy dining area toward the staff room. Georgette followed her in, lighting a clove cigarette.

“Why is it always the ugliest warlocks who try the hardest to break my calm charms?” Julie swatted the smoke away from her face.

“Stop resisting the crazy, Jules. Just slap chow, scoop tips, and select a honey from the fine display on offer out there.” Georgette’s multi-colored hair moved slightly, and a single snakehead wriggled before turning back into an orange strand.

“I just want to get through the shift without a pig snout sprouting on my face or accidentally flambéing someone’s mocha latte.”

“How is it that no one has hog-tied and branded your cute self?” Georgette asked.

Julie rolled her eyes. “You can have the whips and handcuffs. I’d worry about finding a snake charmer.”

Georgette reached up and brushed back her locks, which exploded in all directions from a stern metallic hair clip. “It’ll be a boring night if the werewolves don’t show.”

“I’d take boring,” Julie muttered.

Back in the dining room, Julie topped up coffees, delivered orders, and seated new customers. The slow beat of “We Are the Champions” drew voices too long from Karaoke Night. Their patchwork chorus pulled a sway from Julie’s hips.

Georgette glided over to Julie’s side. “Undead cutie alert on Table 6. And he requested a table in your station.”

Julie’s brows furrowed. “It better not be Remus. He begged me to mate with him after pestering me for my phone number last week.”

“This cutie’s no werewolf. You need to get yourself out there; it’s not like you’re immortal,” Georgette said.

Julie threaded a path to Table 3 instead, where five women wore pink wristbands from the local Psychic Fair. A striking redhead in a psychedelic headband wore a t-shirt emblazoned with a colorful Lovers card from a Tarot deck. Her blue eyes held Julie’s while the other women at the table pelted her with questions.

“Is the Caesar salad vegan?”

“Do you fry the onion rings in animal fat?”

“Does the veggie burger come with vegan cheese?”

Georgette snuck up behind Julie and said to the table, “Water is vegan. How about a pitcher of water?”

“Georgette!” Julie hissed and spun around to face her, whispering, “Don’t you care about tips? I’ll turn your pen into a stinging nettle if you don’t lighten up.”

Georgette’s lip curled. She whispered, “Fucking vegans!” then stalked away with a saucy shake of her head.

The redhead gazed up at Julie, blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Julie’s eyes lingered on the customer’s dimpled cheek, slightly pink from the sun. Her hair glowed in the mock gas lighting from above.

“I’m so sorry,” Julie sputtered, embarrassed. “She’s unhinged on the subject of vegans. Something about anyone who won’t eat bacon doesn’t deserve to live.”

The woman’s smile widened. “The uncanny world’s disgust for our eating habits is a good thing. We’re okay with it.”

Julie found out that Zena, the redhead, was a famous psychic from Hollywood. Zena’s vision about the Ash had brought the group in tonight.

Julie glanced back as she walked away from their table to look at Zena one more time. Zena’s eyes met hers.

The insistent beat of “Don’t Fear the Reaper” created subtle waves across the dining area. Shoulders weaved, and heads bobbed next to still islands of conversation and romance-induced focus.

Unable to avoid it any longer, Julie approached Table 6—of the undead cutie alert—and took a deep breath. Three pale vampires sat in silence, unmoved by the amplified vibrations: two unsmiling, cadaverous men and a striking twenty-something male.

His intense green eyes pinned Julie with unblinking scrutiny. Her chest tightened with a jolt of recognition. She’d seen that handsome face before.

“Hi, I’m Julie.”

The young vampire cocked his head. “You don’t remember me? You’re in my evening art class at City College. I was enthralled with your soaring dove painting.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“I’m Damon.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Julie rubbed a non-existent wrinkle from her apron. “Would you care to hear tonight’s carnivore specials?”

“Indeed.”

“For the starter, we have fresh truffles in a pig’s blood reduction. For mains, we have a savory beef-liver tart, the bone marrow platter, and lamb’s ears with a calf’s blood infusion.”

Arching his eyebrows, the vampire handed back the wine list. “We’ll have the 2019 Blood Hills Cabernet and the truffles to start.” Julie dipped her chin and headed for the kitchen.

Five minutes later, Georgette scowled at the little bowl of nutritional yeast in Julie’s hand. “That stuff smells like barf.” A shout and laughter erupted from the back of the dining room. “We should eject the lot of them.”

“The drunken warlocks?”

“Seriously, Jules? The freaking vegans. The vampires in my station are complaining.”

“About what?”

“The stink of soy, the stench of pleather, or some shit. I’m surprised you can’t smell it.”

“Hey, speaking of the vegans, did you sense anything from the redhead?” Julie felt heat prickle her neck, rising to her cheeks.

“They’re delusional.”

“At least they want to save the planet, not suck its blood.”

“What about that cutie with those intoxicating green eyes?” Georgette gazed across the room, then shook her head.

“Could you hit pause on the hook-up tips? He’s just a guy in my art class.”

Georgette wiggled her hips. “And so it begins.”

Barks and growls broke through the hubbub by the door. Julie whipped her head around to see Remus, the leather-jacketed werewolf who’d annoyed her on his last visit to the Ash, struggling to be first through the door. Julie grimaced at the sight of him and his two fur-faced female companions.

“Here we go,” Georgette yelled. “Freaking werewolves.”

“Julie!” Remus growled. “I came for you.”

“She’s not interested.” Georgette’s hair turned to snakes as she faced the pack.

One of the female wolves wrestled Remus to the ground, claws raking his head, drawing whimpers and yelps. When she yanked him to his feet, his gelled fur stuck up in uneven clumps, and blood dribbled from beneath his ear. Her muzzle curled at Georgette and her bobbing snakes.

“It’s undead night, not unwashed night!” the tall warlock bellowed.

Zena stood like a Valkyrie on the prow of a Viking ship. “Mind your manners, puppy,” she yelled at the wolves.

One of the warlock’s confused companions stood up as well, facing Zena. “Juice the vegans!”

“Gross,” The alpha werewolf growled. The vampires at table six wrinkled their noses in unison.

Zena laughed. “You couldn’t juice an orange!”

The warlock’s cheeks flushed, and he thumped back into his chair. His companions brayed.

Georgette grabbed a handful of plastic-coated menus. “How many?” she asked the werewolves as if they hadn’t spilled blood moments ago.

“Two,” Remus sulked. “I’m not staying where I’m not wanted.”

“Shut up.” The alpha cuffed his head with her paw. “Table for three, please.”

Georgette herded the werewolves into her own station. She glanced back to see Julie mouth, “Thank you.”

Julie had been told various spells and wards prevented the uncanny from hurting the humans inside the restaurant. A drunken warlock had tripped her with a levitation charm last week and a plate landed on a human customer’s head. She worried for their safety. But the humans—foodie-curious, clueless thrill-seekers, and random insomniacs-—hungered for the unexplained.

For all that Julie complained to Georgette about the barely-controlled chaos at The Ash, she tingled with a live-wire focus when the clawed, the thirsty, and the kindlers of effect gathered.

“Julie…” Damon spoke. His sexy vampire tone was a silken voice wrapped around a hypnotic command.

Her upper body swiveled toward him, metal fillings to a magnet. Her eyes locked on the movement of his elegant hands. They lifted, curving as if around a delicate vase. His green eyes burned like a bobcat’s. The room dimmed, and voices became murmurs. Julie noted the slowing of motion around her.

She gaped at the other tables in her station. Their smiles frozen, their gestures like statuary, and their voices deepening like a train horn disappearing around a bend.

“What’re you doing?” Julie asked.

“Making time to talk.” His dismissive swish-and-flick hand motion leaped in contrast to the room’s molasses-pour speed. He stood. Like steam rising from wet summer pavement, faint glimmers of pink and green rippled up the length of his body. “Your dove, it stopped my heart.”

“Your heart stopped long ago,” Julie said.

“Technicalities.” His fingers grazed the cravat at his throat.

“Enough!” Julie pivoted, her arm sweeping around as if underwater. As she completed a circle, the room brightened.

“Hot damn!” The voice sped up like a plugged-in record player. Glasses clinked a toast, someone in the kitchen called out food orders. Georgette breezed by holding a jeweled goblet, blue flame rising over tumbling vapor.

Ozzy Osborne’s voice, gritty and raw, sandpapered over the electric guitar riff of “Bark at the Moon.” Julie set down a final entrée for the warlocks when the fine hairs at the nape of her neck rose. She turned to see Remus wolf-strutting toward her, eyes wild.

“You will be mine!” he roared.

Damon the vampire leaped over the table, spilling what was left of his wine, and landed next to the vegans. Zena jumped to her feet, upsetting her chair.

Georgette spun around. Her metal hair clip broke open and fell away, snakes whipping violently back and forth, striking the air.

“No means no,” Julie yelled at the werewolf.

Damon swooped in front of Remus, seconds before Georgette. Nostrils flaring, his fangs grazed over the petrified werewolf’s right ear. Julie flexed her right hand and bit her lower lip. She took a deep breath and pointed at Remus, focusing the love-redirection spell on his leather jacket pocket. Her fingertip emitted a fine line of flame, with hiccups of spitting sparks, advancing at the pace of an arthritic basset hound. The specter of approaching flame froze the vampire’s open-mouthed hiss and stalled the writhing and lashing of Georgette’s snakes.

Chairs scraped back, and yells drowned out the music. Remus’s blazing eyes followed the flaming line toward his chest. He snarled, canines snapping, scattering sparks. Meandering glints settled, highlighting intricate designs on Georgette’s snakes. Flickering specks nestled among the soft folds of Damon’s cravat, sending a buttery soft glow up his neck.

Georgette and Damon stared at each other in riveted stillness. Snakeheads slowed to sweep back and forth as gracefully as seagrass under waves; the vampire’s emerald eyes glowed.

Smoke curled above the mesmerizing flame hitting Remus’s jacket pocket. A circle slowly blackened an inch around until a charred leather remnant fell to the floor, revealing a purple tee underneath.

“You attacked me,” Remus whined.

Julie glared at him. “You threatened me.”

The werewolf poked a claw into the hole in his jacket. His muzzle curled up into a snarl. He shoved past Julie’s now-distracted defenders, an angry glint in his eyes. Weaving between tables and bumping chairs, he stalked Julie as she tried to get away. His snout raised, nostrils flaring, he drank in her scent. She edged backward, her hands searching for the openings between tables.

“Stop it!” Zena boomed. She ran around an empty table, jerked out two chairs, and positioned herself between the werewolf and Julie, trapping him between the tables. “Who’s dog-sitting here?” she yelled to the table of werewolves. “Leash your hound.”

“Remus!” The stocky alpha leaped up, jumped two tables, and landed behind the snarling werewolf.

Remus clawed the leather-backed chair before him, releasing a cloud of poly-fill stuffing. The Alpha grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him, growling, back to their table.

Julie touched the woman’s shoulder. “That was not safe…”

“Are you kidding?” Her laugh sent a tingle through Julie. “The undead never eat vegans. They think we’re unnatural. It’s the most effective protection a human can buy.”

“Isn’t it kind of…vitamin-deficient and impractical?”

Zena shrugged. “It beats dealing with the crap you’ve been fending off all night. If you’re interested, I’d love to teach you.” Her eyes twinkled.

Julie ripped a ticket from her pad after scrawling her number on it. “I’m sorry the Ash didn’t turn out like you expected,” she said.

Zena chuckled as she took the piece of paper. “It was exactly as I envisioned it.”

Copyright © 2024 Originally published in the Santa Barbara Literary Journal, Volume 11: This Must Be the Place.