A Touch of Brimstone (Magic of the Damned Book 1) Read online

  A Touch of Brimstone

  Magic of the Damned

  McKenzie Hunter

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Message to the reader

  Books by McKenzie

  Acknowledgments

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  * * *

  McKenzie Hunter

  A Touch of Brimstone

  © 2020, McKenzie Hunter

  [email protected]

  * * *

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  * * *

  Cover Artist: Orina Kafe

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  ISBN: 978-1-946457-13-4

  1

  Jackson, my ex, red-faced, doubled over and clutching his berries while lambasting me for “overreacting” while sprinkling in variations of “bitch” wasn’t how I expected our three-year relationship to end. But there we were. One of my best friends—or rather one of my ex-best friends—cowered in the corner, hastily trying to dress. She was making a desperate attempt to keep the top sheet she’d swiped off the bed around her.

  “Don’t bother with discretion, Ava. I’ve seen you naked before and Jackson definitely has, too.”

  She hurriedly put on her shirt and panties, grabbed her pants and shoes, and scurried out of the room. Jackson was huffing and grunting in pain, his hands cradling his cheating stick.

  Finding them in bed together was more than just shocking and enraging; it was a revelation about him and our relationship. My discovery made his confidence, which I had adored during our relationship, morph into something ugly. What was on full display when he rolled out of the bed was a cruel audacity that bordered on narcissism. Standing in front of me as naked as the day he was born, his Good and Plentys dangling, he showed no remorse or shame, and his eyes fluttered with annoyance as he mumbled something about it not being what I thought.

  In a moment of awestruck incredulity, I was rendered speechless. What?

  “Really? It’s not what I think. So, you weren’t just inside Ava with her moaning like she was making an upload for Pornhub. I can assure you; I know what sex looks like. This is exactly what I think.”

  He simply jutted out his arrogant, self-entitled jaw in defiance. “Luna, as usual, you’re overreacting. It was an accid—”

  “Accident? Did you trip and fall into her?”

  His response, accusing me of being unnecessarily crass, led to me kneeing him in the groin. That wasn’t an accident.

  “Where are you, Luna?” Emoni asked, leaning across the counter of the coffee shop of Books and Brew, where I was seated. Her face was just inches from mine. I wondered how long she’d been trying to get my attention. Telling her I’d been thinking about Jackson was out of the question; she’d worry. Something she’d done often over the past few months. Concern had already etched a frown on her face. I flashed her a smile and tapped the book in front of me.

  “Sorry. It’s such an interesting read. One of those rare books where you just ruminate over the information,” I lied.

  Picking up the book, she grimaced at the title, The Discovery of Magic, then flipped through Post-its I’d used as placeholders, since it was a borrowed book.

  “This is so you. You’re finding yourself musing over witches, goblins, fae, vampires, werewolves, and all the freaky things that go bump in the night,” she teased as she returned to restocking the cups. Her tone was light and playful, but I caught the furtive look of concern she gave me.

  “No fae or goblins. They don’t specify werewolves, just shifters.”

  Her brow hitched. “No.” She pointed an accusatory finger at me. “Bad Luna. You will not try to pull me into your world of fantasy. It’s not my thing and you can’t make me.”

  “It reads like fiction,” I told her, aware that nothing I said would change her mind.

  “But it’s not fiction.”

  “Don’t knock it until you try it.”

  Working at Books and Brew was a reader’s dream job, but of the many things Emoni and I had in common that made us fast friends in college, our reading preferences weren’t among them. They couldn’t be any more different. My tastes were less discerning; if it seemed interesting, I’d give it a try. Emoni loved fiction, biographies, mystery, and thrillers and rarely strayed from those genres. After a moment of silence, each of us giving the other half smiles and persuading looks that had never worked in the past, we ended at an impasse.

  “What are you having?” she asked.

  “Whatever will keep me awake for my shift.” I worked more now and that hadn’t escaped Emoni’s notice. The humor drained from her eyes and unease crept back into them the way they always did when she knew the conversation topic was veering toward my breakup with Jackson.

  It wasn’t just catching Jackson cheating that hurt. It was how much his cheating changed my life. For a few weeks I was homeless, staying on Emoni’s sofa until I made the move from the three-bedroom house we’d rented from his parents, below market value, into a one-bedroom apartment, just a few square feet larger than the bedroom Jackson and I had shared and in a questionable neighborhood. Money was tight and it was hard getting used to sleeping alone.

  “Are you getting settled in your apartment?” she asked, her voice neutral, although her eyes couldn’t hide what she felt. She wanted desperately to wish my sorrow and pain away.

  My smile took more effort than I wanted to admit, but the more I hurt, the more Emoni alluded to kneecapping Jackson.

  “It’s cozy.”

  Cozy and very tiny. But mine. There wasn’t anyone to complain about the stack of books on the nightstand, me staying up too late to read, or, well, about anything. Over the years of living together, Jackson’s complaints became plentiful. I thought it was a product of two very different people sharing a space. He was probably comparing me to Ava. I tried to find the humor in the irony of how much they disliked each other initially.

  For a brief moment, I delved into the emotional rabbit hole, trying to pinpoint the moment she’d stopped thinking of him as being too pompous and aloof, a claim she’d made often, and started viewing him as someone she’d betray a friendship for. Or when he started to find her overly whimsical personality endearing rather than annoying.

  I wasn’t getting out of the rabbit hole anytime soon because I started replaying the moments when Jackson invited Ava over to watc
h movies, to join us for drinks, and for dinner. I mistook their change in attitude toward each other as the inevitable transition to tolerating each other for the sake of the person you both loved. He and Emoni had undergone a similar evolution, though a wall of wary distance always remained between them. There wasn’t any doubt they’d tolerated each other for the sake of their relationship with me.

  Emoni, the self-proclaimed barista extraordinaire, handing me a cup of coffee pulled me out of the labyrinth that had the potential of ruining my day. “Here you go. A finely ground Robusta coffee. If this won’t get you through an eight-hour shift, I’m not sure what will.”

  The heat from it warmed my hands that were chilled from the Midwest balmy fall. I took an appreciative sip. “Ten hours today,” I told her.

  She frowned.

  “Lilith called in sick. I never mind coming in or working long hours.”

  Working kept my mind from being idle and recalling the images of Jackson and Ava entangled in the bed. It didn’t chase away the hurt but made managing it easier. The months had ticked by, but there was still an Ava and Jackson-size hole in my heart and life. Each day it got a little smaller. Getting over a three-year relationship and the loss of a friend I’d known since elementary school wasn’t going to happen overnight.

  “More opportunities to discover more of your weird books,” Emoni said, her nose wrinkling as she gave my book a quick glance.

  “I didn’t get it from the store, it’s a loan.”

  “Let me guess, Reginald?”

  The tarot reader from the apothecary store next door had become my paranormal books reading buddy. During our book discussions in Books and Brew, Emoni always gave me her affectionate quizzical look that screamed, “How are we friends?”

  “Well, we can’t all have side gigs and hobbies as glamorous as yours,” I teased, keeping my gaze down on my coffee, fully aware that she was glaring at the top of my head. She always did when I made similar comments.

  I lifted my eyes to find her nose scrunched. Being the lead singer of a band, she didn’t consider it a hobby. To her, it was a job, her calling, what she called “her breath.” And when she sang, it imbued her with something that transcended life. She enjoyed it and it showed in all her performances. What kept the look on her face was her modeling side jobs that she got from local artists.

  A few months ago, she reluctantly admitted she enjoyed seeing paintings and photos featured on social media and in the artists’ studios, but that was the extent of what she liked about it. “It’s hardly a job. There’s no skill in being born with anatomical features in the right size, shape, and ‘definition’ and ‘sculpt’ that appeal to the humanoids,” was her typical response to any mention of it. “Humanoids” was the derisive term she ascribed to people who were obsessed with beauty and things that weren’t in a person’s control. I knew it was her response to being called “exotic” too many times.

  African American, with enviable flawless deep-mahogany skin, full defined lips, thick-coiled midnight ear-length hair, umber-brown eyes, and an oval face came together to create what many people often called exotic. We cringed at the description, believing it was an umbrella word often used to describe people whose appearance was different from most of the people in the city. Our consensus was that “unique” seemed like a word you’d use to describe a person who had all the right features but somehow things went terribly wrong. Instead of being a Rembrandt, your features were a mishmash of shapes and angles, likening you to a Picasso. Talent and artistic contribution aside, there was an insult in being called a Picasso.

  Modeling jobs were inconsistent, whereas our employment at Books and Brew was steady money. We counted ourselves fortunate to be original employees of the combination coffee shop and bookstore. Located in the art district, the store was one of the less eclectically decorated businesses in the area. Dark wood furniture filled the space. An oversized tan sofa took up the entire wall to the left of the room, and teal-blue painted chairs brought a splash of color to the mundane beige walls. The curved-back metal-and-wood swivel bar stools at the counter added some chic comfort to the decor. The color scheme was continued in the connected bookstore.

  The New Age apothecary to the right of the coffeehouse was more of a catchall, selling herbs, vitamins, candles, oils, healing crystals, massagers, yoga cushions, and handwoven baskets. Reginald rented a space to do his readings. The shop leaned into the modern Bohemian look: soothing beige walls, rattan tables used for displays, hanging plants in the corner of the rooms, and large-leafed plants near the register. He’d accented it with shades of orange and terracotta.

  A hookah lounge neighbored us to the left. Our little corner of the block catered to the artists, eccentrics, and people who viewed the world through a different lens.

  I sipped on my coffee while Emoni went to the register to take an order. We had our regulars but this wasn’t one. I sat back and watched in amusement as Emoni plastered on her friendly but rigid smile. It was a look I’d grown familiar with as she assessed new customers, wondering if they were going to order the coffees we were known for or one of Starbucks’ famously trademarked drinks. It always led to Emoni’s barely affable tight-lipped smile as she pointed to the menu of available coffee drinks and with great effort politely informed the person that Starbucks was two blocks over.

  It was after someone ordered a Caramel Ribbon Crunch Frappuccino and then recommended we make something similar that Emoni suggested to Cameron, the owner, a way to deal with the fancy coffee crowd. First violation, they would be politely asked to leave. A second offense would be met by coffee beans being hurled at them until they ran out of the building, feeling rightfully shunned. Cameron didn’t object firmly enough to the suggestion. In fact, her eyes held a gleam of mischief.

  “If you don’t love coffee and books, why come here?” Cameron had defended herself when I pointed out that she didn’t seem to hate the idea of assailing unsuspecting customers with coffee beans.

  “They didn’t come in here to be pelted by dark roast beans by affronted coffee lovers either. First rule of business, don’t chase away your customers,” I teased.

  Her response was crinkling her nose and making a face. We’d been with the company since it opened five years ago, which explained the less than purely professional relationship she had with us.

  With twenty minutes to spare before work, I divided my attention chatting with Emoni between customers and reading my book.

  I was reaching for my coffee when Emoni took notice of the ring that spiraled midway over my finger, missing the joint to allow free movement. The ridges, waves, and intricate patterns made me think of the scales of a dragon. Where a head should have been on the body was a flattened triangle with a more elaborate design of markings.

  “This is interesting,” she said, turning my hand over to get a better look at it. After she released my hand, I admired the ring with the same appreciation I had when I found it near the dumpster in the alley two weeks ago. It was a striking ring; the owner had to be looking for it. I figured that if I wore it daily, its owner would certainly recognize it, but no one had claimed it yet.

  “I can’t believe I found it. It’s unfortunate I won’t be able to keep it if someone claims it,” I admitted.

  She gave it another quick look. “I’m sure you can have someone replicate it or make something similar,” she said.

  I hoped that wouldn’t be the case. I planned to give it one more week before considering the ring mine.

  I glanced at the clock, hopped off the stool, and gave Emoni a motionless wave before hugging the book to me and heading to the adjoining bookstore where I worked.

  “Ristretto, please,” requested a deep, distinctively accented voice as a man sidled close, startling me. I dropped my cup and book. Before I could save the book from being damaged by the spreading coffee, it was scooped up. Grabbing some napkins, I cleaned up the mess. Someone behind the counter came out with a mop and wet floor sign. When I st
ood, my eyes trailed up the man holding the book. He towered over my five-two frame by a little over a foot.

  Too many beats of time passed as I tried to pull my gaze from his smoldering amber eyes with flecks of gold and the striking intensity of banked fire. Veiled by long midnight lashes, they revealed more than his indecipherable expression.

  His eyes traced over the lines of my face, which Emoni affectionately described as a “Valentine” face opposed to the traditionally accepted heart shape. I shoved my hand through my loose auburn waves and became self-conscious of the light-blue ribbon I’d woven into the lone braid because I was bored.

  The stranger’s eyes moved from my face, to my white t-shirt with a cat reading a book, to my fitted jeans, to my galaxy-imprinted Chuck Taylors, and then to the book. He scanned the title and flipped through a few pages then locked eyes with me. His hesitant smile drew my eyes to his supple lips. The light shadow from his beard complemented his sharply defined features. Dressed in a black button-up and black slacks, he seemed out of place in an area where people adored color. If they were wearing black, it wasn’t tailored clothing. My eyes dropped to the network of tattoos that peeked from under his sleeve.

  “The Discovery of Magic,” he said in a low, smoky voice before returning the book to me. The intangible energy that wafted off him caused me to stand far too close, violating all social norms and decorum.

  “It’s an interesting, eye-opening read,” I offered.

  “Is it?” His question was rhetorical. He inched his face closer to me, his fiery eyes inquiring as he took me in. Speculative. “You’re a witch.” The inflection left me wondering if it was a question, but his appraising look seemed like a reluctant accusation.