Page 11 of A Touch of Brimstone

Reginald believed in the supernatural. It wasn’t just something eccentric that people believed, like thinking if you go on enough camping trips, you’ll eventually run into Bigfoot.

Although I had a hard time keeping an open mind about it, he didn’t. Reginald had suspended all logical belief. This required outside-the-box thinking and an abeyance of everything practical.

After leaving yet another message for Reginald to call me, I went through another series of failed attempts to remove the markings on my finger, watching my phone expectantly.

“What’s wrong, Luna?” Reginald asked after I rushed out a quick hello.

“We need to talk,” I whispered. As if someone could hear me.

“What’s the matter?” Concern was clear in his voice.

“I need to show you rather than tell you.”

“I have a couple of clients, but I can come by your place around one,” he told me. “Is that okay?” He seemed so disquieted that I made an effort to sound calmer, more assured when I responded.

“That’s fine.”

I used the time waiting for him to arrive to scrub at my finger again and look up what Dominic had said to me. Nothing came up. It was another language and I was probably spelling it so incorrectly that even Google gave up.

Minutes before Reginald was to arrive, I shored up the courage to open the book again. I handled the pages gingerly, cautious to prevent another page attack. The book was sentient; no matter how illogical and ridiculous it sounded, the book nicked me—no, it bit me. This wasn’t a simple paper cut.

When I opened the door for Reginald, his face was flushed from what I assumed was a quick run up the three flights of stairs in my garden-style apartment. He looked around my place appreciatively. It was much smaller than the home I’d shared with Jackson and definitely on the other side of quaint. Now that it was decorated, he found it far more appealing than when he came with Emoni to visit me two days after moving in.

With the help of intensive bargain shopping, furniture consignment shops, Craigslist, and Facebook Marketplace, I’d created a cozy home. Rust-colored sofa and a large print chair that looked better than it felt. A worn ottoman—one of the pieces I took from my home with Jackson. Reginald smiled at the abundance of plants throughout the living room. The greenery did make me feel like it was a new beginning. A new life.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure what to do first, show him my finger or the book. My words rushed out like a broken dam and it felt like I did both at the same time. Waving my hand in front of him, I held the mangled ring, showed him my finger, and told him that the book bit me. At that moment, it seemed like a perfectly fine thing to say. Of course, the book bit me. That’s what they do. Nick people and erase words. Move along, nothing to see.

He examined my hand first, then the ring that was now a sheet of metal, something I’d never consider picking up off the street.

He picked up the book, hissed, and dropped it. His hands and fingers were bright red. It was the words quickly disappearing from the page that made me grab my phone and start to capture it, recording just seconds of video before the entire book was nothing more than weathered blank pages.

“What. The. Fuck,” Reginald hissed from the sink where he was running his hands under cold water. From his vantage point, he was able to see that there had been words in the book and now the pages were blank.

“Yeah,” I breathed out, shaking my head. With apprehension, I lightly touched the edge of the book, without any problems. I was still hesitant about picking it up. After a few more preliminary safety measures, I picked it up.

Checked each page; all blank.

“It’s a spellbook,” Reginald informed me. That came as no surprise.

Reginald didn’t have the same look of excitement and intrigue as he had when he gave me The Discovery of Magic. His face was strained by the emotions playing across it.

He asked more questions, urging me to remember the phrases I spoke while reading the spellbook. It felt like an interrogation. But the words had all jumbled together. If they made sense or there was some rhyme or reason to them, it would have been easier to remember.

“I don’t know how to help you, Luna,” he admitted, rubbing his hands over his face.

Please don’t let this be the time he confesses he’s not a witch. He needed to be a witch.

Frowning, he looked down at his hands.

“How’re your hands?” I asked.

“Just a little tender. It was a deterrent, not meant to injure,” he said with enough confidence that it reignited my hope in him being able to help.

“I’ve heard of magic like this, but the witches in my coven don’t possess it.”

“Coven?”

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