A Touch of Brimstone (Magic of the Damned Book 1) Page 3

  I doubled over with relief. By the time I’d slowed my breath and calmed, there was no sign of the dog or any sign of the illumination in the alley.

  Retrieving my phone from my other pocket, I looked up the number for animal control. What would I say? “Hey, be on the lookout for a dog. What type of dog? Imagine one that looks like it would guard the gates of hell in every movie.”

  Instead, I called, told them about the dog, and explained that it wasn’t aggressive but might be perceived that way because of its size. After giving them all the requested information, I stayed in the alley, looking out into the emptiness of it as I started to second guess what my eyes had clearly seen. It felt so surreal, I wanted to attribute it to restless nights and long work hours.

  I spent the walk time to the store convincing myself that my eyes had deceived me.

  Instead of immediately going home after my shift, I made a detour to the alley again, walking the length of it, phone in hand, recording my traipse down it.

  Nothing.

  No strangers inquiring whether I was a witch, no massive dogs who deserved an appearance in Supernatural. Things spiraled into the bizarre when I sniffed the air, remembering the stranger’s intoxicating scent. It had lingered in the coffee shop long after he’d left, so why not in the alley?

  Could the stranger and the dog really be two unrelated events? There was no evidence that they were.

  “What are you doing?” Emoni’s voice came from behind me. She must have seen me poke the air where I’d seen the shimmering wall.

  I whipped around, embarrassment flushing my face. How do you explain poking the air?

  “Nothing,” I said with a strained frown. It wasn’t good enough to fool a stranger, let alone the friend I’d known since undergrad.

  Her brows inched together. She grabbed a tuft of her hair and coiled it around her fingers, still watching me. Finally, she blew out a breath. “Luna, I hang around with musicians, writers, photographers, and artists. I can’t have any more weird or”—she air quoted—“eccentric as they prefer to be called, friends. So get it together, girl.” She beamed, her long legs swallowing the distance between us in a few steps. She gave me a quick hug, wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and guided me back to the store. Her demeanor was light and airy but I didn’t miss the glint of concern in her eyes.

  “I have exciting news. Guess who’s playing at the Kingmakers tonight!”

  Emoni’s news did wonders for chasing away the encounter with the man from the coffee shop and the dog. Joining Emoni and her band’s last-minute booking was exactly what I needed: strong liquor, dancing, and supporting my friend while she played in one of the most successful and swankiest bars in the city.

  Her excitement at playing at that bar was contagious. I was buzzing with energy. After only three years, the Kingmakers had become popular and known for showcasing up-and-coming local artists but more notably for when two chart-topping artists, to show the owner gratitude for giving them their first break, made several surprise visits to perform. As I looked around the crowd of people, my cynicism got the best of me, suspecting most of the patrons visited the club on the off chance they’d see a major artist for the cost of a watered-down rum and coke.

  Emoni’s band, Night Ravage, was humming with excitement that I could sense from my seat at the bar as I sipped a Negroni.

  “This is a surprise.” Jackson, a whiskey in hand, slid onto the stool next to me. My eye roll followed. It wasn’t a surprise that he was here, and he had to know I wasn’t naïve enough to think otherwise. He followed the band on social media and knew the chances were high that I’d be anywhere Emoni was playing. As usual, I’d arrived with the band and helped with setup as needed.

  “Really?” I asked with a sigh of exasperation. “It seems like it’s about time for your bi-weekly request for us to work things out. Tell me, how does one work through you apparently accidentally falling into Ava’s cooter?”

  To Ava’s credit, after her betrayal, she had the basic decency to leave me alone. She’d scuttled away and the one time we crossed paths, our eyes met for a brief moment only. She jerked her gaze from mine the moment they met. I wasn’t sure why. Was it difficult seeing the echo of pain that her betrayal had caused? Did she feel the need to hide her shame and remorse? Perhaps I was giving her too much credit. Seeing her was a sucker punch to the gut. But at least I only had to endure it once.

  He laughed. “Cooter. You’re adorable.”

  In that moment, I wasn’t enamored by his wide, charismatic smile or his lush mass of chestnut curls tapered at the sides. Or his round face with the pronounced dimpled chin and hooked nose. The combination of features worked for him, gave him character. Jackson was aware that his unconventional but striking looks drew women to him. It worked and he knew it.

  “Obviously adorable isn’t what you want, which is why you looked elsewhere.” I smacked my palm against my head. “I forgot. You didn’t look elsewhere. What did you say? Oh yes, it was an accident. You accidentally slept with my friend.”

  He huffed a sigh. “I’ve told you a number of times, that was a bad word choice. It wasn’t an accident. But a mistake. We all make them, and I think it’s something we can work through.”

  “Does Ava know you’re here trying to ‘work things out’?” At each of his attempts, I wasn’t sure how I had ever loved such a self-absorbed, unrepentant jackass. I’d been seeing him through rose-tinted glasses. They were off now, though, and his personality was being seen through an unfiltered lens.

  My knowledge that he was still involved with Ava didn’t faze him.

  “Let’s say that I entertain this idea of working things out.”

  Why not? I had time to kill. “What happens to Ava? Or do I become the side woman?”

  His jaw clenched and he looked contemplatively into his glass of whiskey. “Not at all. You two are friends—”

  “Were.”

  “Were. But you’re no longer friends because of me,” he started out slowly. Emoni had stopped fiddling with the microphone to give him a narrow-eyed look. It eased slightly when I smiled in her direction. Her brow rose in response, a nonverbal inquiry to ask if I was sure. At my slight nod, she returned to adjusting her microphone and preparing for her set.

  “She really hates me, doesn’t she?” he asked.

  “Hate is being kind. You have no idea what she wanted to do to your man chops.”

  He frowned, took another sip from his glass. “As I was saying, you were friends and the situation with her—”

  “The ‘situation’ being you cheating on me with her,” I corrected again. He didn’t get to minimize the situation.

  “Cheating or whatever. We all used to hang out and have a good time. I don’t see why it can’t be like that again. But more involved than before.”

  I choked on my drink once I realized what he was insinuating. This jackass thought his cheating should be rewarded with a what? Three-way? Throuple? “Hey, I can’t keep it in my pants so let me have both of you.” I had no idea if he’d discussed this with Ava or if he thought that if I was on board, it would be easier to persuade her. “I’m a good guy. I think it’s selfish of you to not want to share.”

  My head nodded as I took things in. He took it as consideration. This was beyond appalling. He wasn’t suggesting it as a lifestyle he wanted to explore but because he didn’t want to be accountable for anything. I wasn’t convinced he could be faithful even then. His arrogance and entitlement were boundless.

  “I’ve never been in a bar fight before,” I informed him. “To be more precise—a fight. Period.”

  His brow furrowed in confusion.

  “I plan to change that stat if you don’t get the hell away from me. First, I’m going to throw my drink in your face. Then I’m going knee you in your giblets. While you’re whining about your throbbing crotch, I’m going to punch you in the face. Take this as your one and only warning.”

  Rage was rising in me at a pace that I c
ouldn’t control.

  Deep breaths. No violence. You’re here for your friend. But I wanted violence. I wanted to act on my threat.

  I had to remove myself from the situation. I wouldn’t ruin Emoni’s show. “Stay away from me,” I demanded and moved to the other side of the bar. I was farther from the band but Jackson was no longer in view. Within a half hour, the number of people in the bar had doubled. It was full but not packed and every so often, I’d look in the direction I’d left Jackson to make sure he was staying on his side of the bar.

  Through the crowd, I got a glimpse of his slow migration toward me. As he lingered in one spot, the low lights in the room hit his frown of consideration. I hoped he would reconsider and turn around. He didn’t and weaved through the crowd toward me.

  I looked away, hoping he got the message. Drawing my attention from Jackson was the warm body that sidled up next to me. My eyes lifted to catch the stranger’s eyes before his gaze moved to my approaching ex, whose attention had drifted from me to the stranger. A smirk lifted Jackson’s lips while his eyes narrowed. He rounded his shoulders in a show of defiance and raw aggression.

  “Go away.” The man from the coffee shop’s deep-edged voice hinted at something ominous. His command earned him a look of shock and irritation from Jackson.

  “What did you say?” Jackson ground out through clenched teeth after the shock wore off.

  The man stepped in front of my ex. The stranger’s imposing presence overwhelmed the area. Jackson put noticeable effort into maintaining his composure and insolence. But the hubris remained; he had tons to spare.

  “Believe me, you don’t want me to repeat myself,” the stranger told him. His breezy tone sounded menacing. With a viper’s strike of movement, precise and swift, he was behind Jackson, giving me an unobstructed view of his hand as it wrapped around Jackson’s throat. Jackson’s face blanched and he managed to let out one strangled gasp before his words were cut off. Mr. Ominous whispered something in Jackson’s ear.

  I should do something. Scream. When you witness an assault, you do something.

  The stranger released Jackson. Jackson shuffled back, glaring at the man, then he sneered at me before backing away. Leaving his drink on the bar’s counter, he headed for the exit.

  The stranger’s amber eyes showed an unsettling level of indifference for someone who’d just wrapped his hand around someone else’s throat. He eased closer to me, leaving just a few inches. The light cascaded over the sharp angles of his jaw and cheek, over the bridge of his nose and the outline of his full lips. Looking into his intense eyes was like staring into a fiery abyss. His presence: coiled violence. If I’d seen someone who emanated such intensity and bound danger, I’d cross the street to avoid them. Here in the crowded bar, I was in his crosshairs. Steely curious eyes regarded me with interest.

  My side eye wasn’t as inconspicuous as I thought.

  “You wanted him to leave.” He said it so matter-of-factly, I choked out an inappropriate scoff of laughter.

  Fully aware of his lethality, I took several steps away from him. He inched forward. I inched away. He stopped, giving me space, a bemused gentleness moving over his features. It was disarming but not enough to keep me from being guarded. If necessary, I’d redirect the course of action to him that I’d planned for Jackson.

  “Yeah. But I tend to just ask. I guess choking a person out is an option, too.” I smiled. I thought he’d mirror it. Isn’t that what normal people do?

  “Give me your name,” he ordered.

  I hadn’t seen him move, but the new distance between us was noticeable. Stifling the air around us, his all-consuming presence made the people surrounding us seem miniscule.

  “Dominic,” he offered when I didn’t respond. “I’m Dominic.”

  We were definitely closer. There wasn’t enough room between us to extend my hand to greet him. Shaking his hand: too formal. Was nudging him in the chest to give us space an acceptable greeting?

  After several moments of stony silence, I offered my name. “Luna.”

  He repeated it in a low voice. Slowly enunciating each syllable. Tasting the word. Seemingly turning it over in his mind, trying to place it.

  When he spoke again, he leaned in, right against my ear. Heat radiated from his body, enveloping me. I inhaled his scent of sandalwood, my hand going to his waist, my thumb brushing over the hard muscles of his abs. Damn. My mind wandered to a place it shouldn’t.

  “Are you still enjoying the book?” he asked.

  There was only one book he was inquiring about. I nodded, trying to read his expression. He’d asked me about being a witch, and I was curious as to how far down the supernatural rabbit hole he was.

  “It’s more detailed than I expected. I’ve read my share of fantasy books. But the author presents it in a manner that leads me to believe it’s nonfiction.”

  “In what way?”

  “The detail. It’s very specific, especially when he writes about shifters and vampires. It’s very reminiscent of Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire, a gothic supernatural tale that draws you in so much you feel like you’re reading a biography. The Discovery of Magic reads like I’ve been made privy to someone’s journal about their experience with the supernatural world. Very introspective.”

  A dark cast fell over his eyes as they bored into me. Lips set into a tight line. Had I offended him? He believed in magic and witches, so were vampires and shapeshifters a leap? Like Reginald, would he claim to have his own dubious magical ability? “Luna, my magic is making vodka disappear faster than anyone else. When I ease it to my lips, it just disappears.”

  “You have no beliefs in the occult?” he asked.

  “No.”

  His tongue slid across his lips, moistening them as he leaned in. I tried to make out the words he whispered. The air thickened around us, and I sucked in a sharp breath when the heat of our closeness was replaced by wisps of coolness that slithered over my skin and wove around my skin, constricting around me. The tightness then loosened and breezed over me like a brush of wind. His eyes were pools of darkness, submerging me, leaving me unable to look away. The sensation abruptly stopped. I yanked my eyes from his.

  “Tenebras Obducit,” he hissed. “Impossible.” He grimaced and was gone.

  Scanning the crowd, I looked for him. A glimpse. Nothing.

  More people had flooded in. It wasn’t packed. Navigating was difficult but not impossible. It wasn’t crowded enough for him to completely disappear. But he had.

  What the fuck was that?

  Putting aside the weirdness was difficult and I had to force myself to focus on Emoni’s performance. But my attention kept being pulled to Dominic’s parting words. Was he insulting me? Possibly, based on the sneer. He definitely wasn’t complimenting me. Taking out my phone, I wrote the words out, spelling it phonetically despite not knowing exactly what he said—or called me. I’d search it later.

  Night Ravage now got my undivided attention. Emoni did. No matter how many times she performed, like the audience, I was captivated by her powerful and hauntingly elegiac voice and her undeniable stage presence. The audience had succumbed to fluid mesmeric movements, ensnared by her. This was her element. Despite her saying that music gave her life, I believed it was the opposite. She infused vitality into the lyrics like no other.

  Night Ravage’s music was a delightful mélange of R&B and Rock, with hints of Tina Bell’s influence in the lyrics. Despite her contributions being overlooked by most, she had an everlasting fan in Emoni.

  After the performance, as usual, an hour or so was spent talking to the audience, networking, selling merchandise and music. Once it was over, I helped the band take their equipment to the band’s SUV. Once everything was stored away, we stood outside the vehicle debating if we were going to go for waffles. At this point it was just pro forma. After each show, we debated this and it always ended with us at an all-night diner, eating waffles. Gus, the guitarist, draped an arm around Emoni
and pressed his cheek to hers.

  “That was madness! They loved us. They really did… well, they loved you.” His face was ruddier than normal, a burnished red, similar to his hair. He gave Emoni another squeeze before releasing her. “You were amazing. I told you that you had the vocal range for that song. I can’t believe you almost didn’t sing it.” He moved toward the driver’s side. “Have we decided? Waffles?”

  Of course it was waffles. It was always waffles. Emoni would devour her food and eat his, too. Buzzing from the high of a show, Gus was never hungry, just looking for a reason to spend more time with Emoni.

  “You know he likes you, right?” I informed her for the umpteenth time. If she sounded like a foghorn, he’d still compliment her on having the foggiest of horn voices.

  She shrugged it off. “It’ll pass. He knows there’s no chance. I mean, seriously, the lead singer hooking up with the guitarist. Why not the drummer and make it even more of a cliché?” She tutted. “You’re one to talk. Tell Jackson to go away in no uncertain terms and be done with him.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  “You want me to talk to him?” she asked, her eyes glinting.

  “No, because I don’t have bail money,” I teased.

  Before she got into the SUV with Gus, I gave her an abridged version of the encounter with Dominic, discussing his curiosity about the book and how I thought he believed in witches. I left out the shift of energy between us, the cool air that grabbed me in a bear hug then relaxed into a breeze that flitted across my skin, and the whole weirdness of it. She would have simply dismissed it as a strange version of attraction between two obviously peculiar people. I couldn’t blame her. What other explanation was there?

  “He asked me if I believed in the occult. Supernatural stuff! Why don’t you seem surprised?”

  “If he lives around here, it’s not bizarre for him to believe in the supernatural. And he did see the book you were reading,” she pointed out. “He probably thought you were into that, too.”