Page 6 of Valentine's With A Vampire

I pick up a stray piece of parchment and run my thumb over the edges. That lantern singled him out. The festival, like our town, has ways of revealing truths people don’t want to face, and Declan looks like a man already weighed down by burdens. My teasing might have been the last thing he needed.

A faint jingling from the door startles me. I glance up, half-hoping it’s him returning. Instead, one of the local witches pokes her head in to ask if a special order arrived. I paste on a polite smile and wave her inside. My thoughts linger on the memory of Declan’s tense shoulders, the confusion in his eyes, and the way I flippantly teased him about fate.

I sense the festival’s magic stirring in the town, stirring in me. There’s an odd feeling swirling in my chest, something I can’t quite name. Regret, maybe. Curiosity, definitely. Possibly a spark of anticipation. My parents always say Evershift works in mysterious ways. Perhaps I should ease up on the mischief and offer an olive branch next time. Or at least a gentler explanation.

Chapter 3—Declan

I STEP OFF THE SIDEWALKand march straight toward the wooden arch that marks the town’s entrance, determined to leave Evershift Haven in the rearview mirror. This is the fourth time I’ve attempted to exit since dawn, and I’m once again inspired to try after my encounter with Vandria St. John. Each time, the road loops back around, guiding me right here again, as though the universe is playing a joke.

A glimmering mist lingers in the air the moment I pass under the arch. The sign overhead creaks, almost groaning in sympathy. I find myself walking the same curve of road that meanders by the pastel coffee shop, “The Enchanted Espresso.” The moment I spot that café again, tension throbs behind my temples. There’s no rational explanation. I started out heading west. Now I’m approaching from the east.

I push down the urge to curse aloud. The lantern at my shoulder bobs, an ever-present companion since it latched onto me at the bookshop. I refuse to look at it, though it’s impossible to ignore the faint glow. It hovers a few inches away, gold light dancing across my peripheral vision. Half an hour ago, I tried tying it to a fence post with a discarded shoelace. The lantern simply drifted free and caught up to me again. The townsfolk passing by watched with mild interest and a few stifled laughs.

I veer onto a side street, determined to find a different way. The air smells like cinnamon and faint wood smoke. A swirl of pink leaves blows across my boots with each leaf shaped like a heart.

A sign near the corner reads “Mystical Motors” in shifting letters made of gears. Throk’s garage. He was unavailable last night, but I figure it’s worth a shot now. The large metal doors are halfway open, revealing a cluttered workshop inside. Hissing steam escapes from a contraption near the entrance, and wrenches float by themselves, turning bolts. It’s all so bizarre I almost turn around. Then I remember my van, stuck at the entrance to this insane town.

A giant shape steps into view—broad shoulders, greenish skin, and tusks jutting slightly from his lower lip. This is not a man in a costume. The green skin extends up his neck, blending seamlessly with a stubble-like texture near the edges of his jaw. Muscles ripple beneath a sleeveless work shirt. There’s no zipper or hidden seam. He towers a solid foot above me. Everything about him screams orc, and that word shouldn’t even exist outside of fantasy.

He narrows one eye, scanning me as he sets down a massive spanner that’s floating at his elbow. The moment he releases it, the tool hovers upright, waiting for instructions. “You’re the guy with the broken van.”

I nod. “Yeah. Declan Stewart.”

“Throk Ironheart.” He nods once, then turns. “I towed it in this morning but haven’t had a chance to look at it yet. Follow me.”

He leads me through the workshop. Spare parts lie in neat clusters, with each cluster labeled as Engine Components, Hex Removers, Tire Enchantments, and the like. I scramble to categorize what I’m seeing. The air hums with an otherworldly energy that sets my nerves on edge.

We step around a half-dismantled motorcycle that seems to gently rock on invisible currents. Throk lifts a palm. “Your van is around the corner.” He strides outside, ducking under a large overhead beam. I follow.

My van rests on a small platform near the edge of the lot. Throk approaches, sets a hand on the hood, and closes his eyes for a moment. Nothing about that gesture is normal. It’s almost like he’s talking to the engine. He pulls back, scowl deepening. “Yeah. That thing’s not working until the festival’s over.”

My gut twists. “Festival’s over? That’s days away. I can’t wait that long.”

He shrugs, large shoulders rolling with casual finality. “The enchantment that snagged your van is strong. Thanks to Grizelda’s pregnancy, town magic is in overdrive. Your best bet is to wait it out. I might do some patchwork, but it’ll fry again if you drive too soon.”

My fists clench at my sides. “There has to be something you can do.”

He slides a rag from his back pocket, wiping a smear of oil off his forearm. “Not unless you want me to completely rebuild your engine with enchanted parts. That can cause more trouble once you leave Evershift Haven. Most folks don’t prefer a magically altered vehicle in the human world. Trust me on that.”

My chest feels tight. This is ridiculous. I gesture at the hood. “Surely, you can patch it enough to move.”

He glances at my scowl, then snorts. “I get it. You’re upset. Problem is, it’ll break again as soon as you hit the barrier on your way out if you rush things.” The lantern at my shoulder flickers. Throk eyes it with a grin. “That thing mark you as a festival favorite?”

I grit my teeth. “Apparently.”

He raises a brow. “Tough luck. They don’t let go easily. You’re stuck with that orb until it’s satisfied, or the final night closes it down.” He snaps his fingers. “Oh, that reminds me. Grizelda gave me this. Something about your leftover flowers.”

He ducks into the garage, rummage around a cluttered workbench until he emerges with a small pink misting bottle.The contents shimmer when he holds it up. “She said the flowers in your van were starting to wilt. This stuff is supposed to keep them fresh.”

That detail drags my mind back to the reason I was even on the road, to deliver Valentine’s bouquets. Fortunately, I’d already dropped off the roses for a big wedding happening yesterday. Thank goodness, because she had been a true bridezilla, and she wouldn’t have understood me being a no-show, especially if I tried telling her I was held hostage in a magical town.

He opens the back doors to reveal a few remaining bouquets and presses the spray nozzle. A soft pink mist drifts onto the drooping petals. The effect is instantaneous. The petals straighten, vibrant color floods back, and the stems look firmer. I stare, words catching in my throat. There aren’t many orders remaining, and I’ll never get them delivered today, Valentine’s Day, but it’s still amazing to see the spray’s effects.

He grunts in approval. “Works like a charm. You want some more, ask Grizelda. She might charge you. Might not, depending on her mood.”

I approach, hands spread. “That’s...actual magic.”

He hands me the bottle. “She told me to use it all if you plan on trying to salvage those flowers for your delivery. Keep spraying them until we can fix your van. They’ll last.”

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