I walked the whole way through town before feeling the blood between my legs. God damn it. And I'm always so careful...
It was a ten-minute walk and two hundred years of history from my apartment to The Black Hare. It was clear out, and cold. I wrapped my leather jacket tighter. Bright gold leaves dotted the path.
I grasped the massive door ring and pulled. Early settlers built this place as a church, though it had been left to rot for decades. A gust of coffee-shop warmth blew out before I could swing the pointed door shut.
"You want the usual, Dana?" Elliot asked as I rushed past the counter.
"Yes, please. Back in a sec."
I crossed to the end of what used to be the nave into a tiny washroom. Dead branches tapped at its wavy glass window. I wadded up some toilet paper as best I could, pulling up my tight leggings with a wiggle. I sighed, checking my watch. In a few hours, the blood would be the least of my worries.
When I came out, Elliot had already cleared a space and poured a latte. I sat at the counter and unwound my scarf, shaking out my long black hair. "Thanks," I said.
"You're welcome. On the house. Full moon special."
"It's Devil's Night tonight too, eh?" I said, looking around. Children in costume were crawling on the velvet couches at the other end of the space, loudly practising for tomorrow's trick-or-treating.
"I took down the silver crosses this week."
"You know that's a myth, right?" I smiled, turning back to him.
"Only every time you tell me," he said, looking into my eyes.
"Yeah, well. Maybe Aultsville needs a proper church after all."
Elliot had used his father's money to save this church from ruin. He'd wanted to do a pub originally. "A bar is bad news," his father said. "All the hassle of drunks and none of the benefits. The insurance would kill you. You want to do food retail? Do a coffee shop." And so they compromised. Elliot had quietly, steadily used up every ounce of the heritage board's goodwill and his contractors' patience to turn it into The Black Hare. A coffee shop, but with copper pipes, stained glass, tagelharpa music on the speakers. Our very own shining example of small-town renewal.
My upper lip only just touched the latte's foamy cap when a loud crash came from outside. Patrons startled, saucers clattering, and turned to the entrance. One half of the heavy oak doors swung open.
The telltale squeak of ten-hole Doc Martens echoed up the nave. Their owner plunked down beside me and crossed his arms. "Hiya, Elliot," he said straight ahead.
Elliot stood stiff but he didn't turn around. "Hello, James."
James Giroux. Local Don Juan. Local everything, really. While Elliot's family claims to have lived here since written records started--I swear they think they came over with Champlain--James's family have been here since time immemorial. Their families didn't exactly get along. Feuds run deep here. Nobody ever forgets.
"Cute place," James carved an exaggerated arc with his nose as he gazed at the roof beams. "Guess you proved yourself, huh?"
"You could say that." Elliot wiped the already-clean counter over and over. The espresso machine hissed.
"I get it," he said. "Gotta impress good old Dad. You have any beer, or did he not let you serve any?"
Elliot stared at him. He reached over to the taps with a glass, poured a pint, and slid it over without spilling a drop.
"Where have you been?" Elliot asked after watching him drink.
"Why? You miss me?" James said into the glass.
"No."
"Well, I've been here. Just don't feel like being a tourist in my own town. You can't even open Instagram without seeing shots of these floor tiles."
Most people in Elliot's position, I thought, would've snapped back at James. But Elliot understood. In colonial settlements like Aultsville, the most violent thugs got the power, always. Elliot's family was like that, but not Elliot. Even when other children called James names or threw roadkill at me, and even when those pranks turned harder, more obscured, in high school, Elliot was always kind. He was kind to everyone, of course. He was popular. He always had the prettiest girlfriends--ones who, like many girls in this town, probably 'slipped up' once or twice by sleeping with James. But I liked that Elliot used his imperious family's name as a shield for others, not a weapon for himself.
Plus, getting to see those broad shoulders up close didn't hurt.
"It's a blood moon tonight, you know. And on Devil's Night," James was saying, leaning back. "The bush party's gonna be epic this year."
"You going, James?" I asked. I never go.
"You kidding me? I wouldn't miss the chance to see the hockey players and puck bunnies make total asses of themselves, so, yes."
"Aultsville's finest," I said. At least we agreed on that.
Some of the children ran up to us as one harried parent paid the bill. "Devil's night! Devil's night!" they chanted.
James turned to the children with a glint in his eye. "Sure is! You ever heard of Flying Head?"
"No." said a mini-Captain America.
James scraped his chair back. I rolled my eyes. I knew where this was going.
"Well. Flying Head is a creature who comes out on Devil's Night. She has a hunger for flesh. Human flesh! You know what she looks like?"
The kids shook their heads, moving closer.
James dropped his voice to a whisper. "People say she's got a hairy hide; too thick for bullets or knives to pierce it. She's got long, greasy hair. And big, shiny, terrible eyes. Yellow eyes. And if you want to escape, you'll never run fast enough. You know why? 'Cause... she's also got... BAT WINGS!"
