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.
