Supernatural Side Hustle (4 of 13)
I’m writing this for those with a permanent side hustle — I see your hard work and I thank you for the deliveries you’ve made. I’m sorry for answering the door in my pajamas and without a bra. In my defense, those things are torture devices.
Thank you.
The notification chimed on Wren’s phone at 11:47 PM:
“Your ride request has been canceled. Rider chose alternate transportation.” That made twelve cancellations tonight. Twelve.
She pulled her ancient Honda Civic into a gas station parking lot and checked the ride-share app’s community board. The top post showed a witch on a sleek carbon fiber broom, grinning at the camera with wind tousled hair. The caption read:
“Why wait in traffic when you can fly? #BroomLife #FastLane.”
3000 likes in an hour.
Wren slumped against her steering wheel. Two weeks until November 7th. Two weeks until she turned twenty-five. Two weeks to earn three hundred dollars for the cherry red Doc Martens she’d been eyeing since August, plus maybe enough left over for a few used books from Cauldron & Quill, the supernatural bookshop where she worked.
Her phone buzzed. A food delivery request. Finally:
“Pickup: The Crimson Cup. Drop: 1313 Shadowvale Lane.”
She knew that address. The Corvinus family. Vampire teenagers. She’d delivered there before. They always ordered rare steaks and left generous tips in cash, probably to avoid their parents seeing their DoorDash receipts.
Wren grabbed the order and drove like her rent depended on it, which it did. She was three blocks away when something dark streaked past her windshield. Then another. Werewolf couriers, most likely, their fur blurred by speed. She pressed harder on the gas pedal.
She was one block away when a figure literally appeared in a puff of smoke on the customer’s porch. A demon with a delivery bag, already knocking on the door.
“No, no, no!” Wren yanked the wheel, mounted the curb, and skidded to a stop. She grabbed the bag and sprinted.
The demon turned, horns glinting under the porch light. “Sorry, human. Better luck n…”
Wren didn’t slow down. She’d played rugby for exactly one semester in college before the student loan reality hit. She knew how to commit to a tackle. The demon yelped as Wren barreled past, slapping the doorbell with her palm. “DELIVERY FOR CORVINUS!”
The door opened. A teenage vampire with purple-streaked hair and a band t-shirt looked between Wren, who was panting and holding a slightly crushed bag of takeout, and the demon, who was sprawled on the lawn, looking offended.
“Did you just… tackle Azaroth?” The vampire’s eyes widened with delight.
“I was first,” Wren gasped.
The vampire, Lilith, Wren remembered, started laughing. “Oh my gods. Felix! FELIX! You have to see this!”
More teenage vampires appeared: Felix with his gaming headset around his neck, twins Mara and Marcus in matching black hoodies, and a younger one, Damien, who couldn’t have been turned more than a month ago.
“The librarian tackled a demon for our cheese fries,” Lilith announced.
“Respect,” Felix said, taking the bag. He pulled out a wad of cash. “Hundred dollar tip. You earned it.”
“Wait,” Marcus said, studying Wren. “You’re the one with the crystals in your car, right? The selenite tower?”
Wren blinked. “You noticed that?”
“Hard to miss. Very witchy aesthetic for a human.” He exchanged glances with his siblings. “You trying to get into magic for real, or is it just for the vibes?”
“Both? Neither? I don’t know.” Wren pocketed the cash gratefully. “I just know I need to make rent and buy boots before my birthday, and apparently every supernatural creature in the city is faster than me.”
The vampires huddled together, whispering too quickly for human ears. Finally, Lilith turned back, “What if we helped you make money?”
“How?” Wren’s brow raised.
“You want to compete with supernaturals? You need an edge. We,” Lilith gestured to her siblings, “know where all the weird jobs are. The ones regular apps don’t show. The supernatural gig economy.”
“That sounds extremely sketchy,” Wren said.
“It is,” Felix agreed cheerfully. “But it pays well.”
“What’s your birthday wish?” little Damien asked suddenly. “I mean, besides boots.”
Wren thought about her tiny apartment, her student loans, her careful budget that left no room for spontaneity. “I want one really good story. Something that makes the shoe department girl at the mall believe I actually have an interesting life.”
The vampires grinned in unison, fangs glinting. “Oh,” Mara said, “we can definitely help with that.”
The next night…
Wren found herself driving to an abandoned warehouse at 2 AM with an address the vampires had texted her. The “package pickup” paid five hundred dollars. “This is how people die in movies,” she muttered, clutching her rose quartz for protection as she parked.
Inside, the warehouse was full of booths, creatures, and chaos. A goblin marketplace, Felix had explained. Underground trading for items that couldn’t be sold through legitimate supernatural channels.
Her job: pick up a sealed box from Vendor 47 and deliver it to an address in the historic district. Don’t open it. Don’t ask questions.
She found Vendor 47, an elderly goblin woman with more teeth than seemed structurally sound.
“You’re the human courier? Bold choice.” The goblin handed her a box the size of a shoebox, surprisingly heavy. “This goes to the Thornwood Estate. Backdoor only. If Lady Thornwood’s husband answers, run.”
“Why would I…”
“He’s a basilisk. Direct eye contact is fatal. But you’ll be fine! Probably.”
Wren held the box at arm’s length. “What’s in here?”
“Preserved phoenix tears. Very illegal. Very expensive. Very unstable if shaken.” The goblin smiled. “Drive carefully.”
The trip to Thornwood Estate took fifteen minutes that felt like fifteen hours. Wren drove five miles under the speed limit, both hands on the wheel, barely breathing. Every pothole made her flinch. The estate was a Victorian mansion that looked like it ate other houses for breakfast. Wren crept around to the back door and knocked softly.
A woman in an elegant silk robe answered immediately. “The phoenix tears. Excellent.” She handed Wren an envelope. “Cash, as requested. You did well, human.”
Wren didn’t count it until she was back in her car. Seven hundred dollars. She’d made seven hundred dollars in two hours. Her phone buzzed: a text from Lilith, “How’d it go?”
“I might have committed a felony”, Wren typed back. “But I’m closer.”
“Good. Rest up. Tomorrow night gets weirder.”
And the next night…
“Absolutely not,” Wren said, staring at the harness.
“It’s completely safe,” Marcus insisted. They were standing in an empty field at midnight, and the other Corvinus siblings were rigging something that looked like a parasail mixed with a nightmare.
“You want me to deliver packages while being PULLED BY VAMPIRES through the sky.”
“Exactly!” Lilith clapped her hands. “See, broom riders dominate the air space now. But they have to follow air traffic rules. We don’t. We’re not vehicles. We’re just flying. Technically.”
“This is insane.” Wren wrung her hands
“The pay is fifteen hundred dollars for three deliveries,” Felix said. “Halloween week surge pricing. Rich supernaturals want their party supplies fast.”
Wren looked at the harness, then at her phone’s calculator. With what she’d already made, fifteen hundred would cover boots, books, AND her dental appointment she’d been postponing.
“If I die, I’m haunting all of you.” Wren agreed.
“Get in line,” Damien said cheerfully.
The first delivery went smoothly, a crate of enchanted champagne to a pack of wealthy werewolves. Wren only screamed twice as the vampires dove between buildings. The second delivery got complicated. They were carrying a tall box marked “FRAGILE — PIXIE CAKE” across downtown when they hit someone’s broom turbulence. The vampires scattered to avoid a collision, and Wren swung wildly, clutching the cake box.
“LEFT!” Marcus yelled.
They veered. Wren’s shoulder clipped a gargoyle.
“MY WING!” the gargoyle shouted.
“SORRY!” Wren called back as they zoomed away.
They crash landed in an alley three blocks from the delivery address. The cake box had crushed on one side. Through the cardboard, Wren could see iridescent frosting and what looked like actual pixies sleeping inside the layers.
“This is a cake made OF pixies,” she said flatly.
“Made FOR pixies,” Lilith corrected. “It’s their traditional…wait, are those pixies supposed to be awake?”
The pixies were waking up. And they were angry. What followed was a chase through downtown involving six furious pixies, five vampires, one human, and a cake box that kept breaking apart. They finally bribed the pixies with the cake itself, leaving them happily devouring frosting in a fountain. Wren delivered the empty, frosting-stained box to a confused fae party planner and got paid anyway.
“That’s strike one,” a voice said from the shadows.
A figure emerged, an older vampire with a city official’s badge. “The Corvinus children causing chaos again. And now you’re recruiting humans?”
“Uncle Dracen!” Felix gave a nervous wave. “We were just…”
“Breaking seventeen flight regulations, property damage, and pixie disturbance.” Dracen looked at Wren. “You’re the librarian. I’ve checked out books from you. You recommended that mystery novel about the witch detective.”
“Did you like it?” Wren asked weakly.
“Loved it. Sequel comes out next month.” He sighed. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t see this. But no more aerial delivery stunts. The broom riders have enough insurance problems.”
They agreed quickly. Very quickly.
Later…
With two days until her birthday, Wren had enough money for boots, books, and three months of comfortable breathing room. She’d also accumulated: one slightly bruised shoulder, a reputation among supernatural couriers, six new contacts in the goblin marketplace, and a standing invitation to the Corvinus family’s Halloween party.
On November 6th, she worked her library shift and had an actual conversation with Mr. Chen, the ancient dragon who always requested obscure historical texts. He mentioned needing someone to organize his personal library.
“I pay well,” he said. “And I promise not to hoard you with my gold.”
“Dragon humor?” Wren guessed.
“Dragon humor,” he confirmed.
That night, the vampires took her for one more flight, no deliveries, just flying. They soared above the city while witches on brooms zipped below, and Wren felt the wind pull her hair back and thought about how three weeks ago, her biggest concern was whether she could afford name brand pasta.
“Thanks for the help,” she told them as they landed. “And sorry for involving you in felonies.”
“Are you kidding? Best week ever,” Felix said. “Usually, we’re just gaming and drinking bagged blood. This was exciting.”
“What’re you going to tell the shoe girl?” Lilith asked.
Wren thought about it. The phoenix tears, the pixie chase, the demon tackle, the vampire parasail, the dragon’s job offer.
“Maybe I forgo the conversation for the boots,” she decided. “She might not believe the rest.”
They laughed.
Happy Birthday, Wren!
On November 7th, Wren wore her cherry red Doc Martens to work and bought four used books about real magical theory, not witchy aesthetic, actual theory. She had bruises in weird places, cash in her account, and a wild story or two that she’d probably never fully tell. But when a teenager asked for a book recommendation, and she spotted purple streaks in their hair, she smiled.
“Fantasy or real life?” she asked.
“Definitely supernatural,” she said with a fanged smile. “Is there a difference?”
“Not anymore,” Wren said, and helped them find a book about humans who were brave enough to live in a world they weren’t built for.
Seemed relevant.
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