Page 67 of A Touch of Brimstone

“I’m still looking into leads. I think it’s an uprising—a coup in the making.”

Once I was dead, the people attempting the coup could persuade those who wanted to maintain the supernaturals’ anonymity to switch their support to them. After all, that was the group that got things done. Would they be better or worse than the Conventicle? The assailants from the attack wanted me dead, so even if they were better at controlling the supernaturals than the Conventicle, I still couldn’t root for them. At least the Conventicle wasn’t actively trying to kill me.

“Luna, you’re out of this after today. I will work on behalf of humans’ best interest.”

I wanted to believe him. Even more when his warm hands rested on my hips, amber eyes entreating me to do so.

I couldn’t. He worked on behalf of his own interest. I needed to work on behalf of mine. It would be great if we had a common goal, but I didn’t see that happening.

Not every bar has the welcoming vibes created by music loud enough to be heard from outside but not be overwhelming and an exterior that welcomes you in to have a drink and good times. Two harsh lights that wouldn’t be out of place in an interrogation room were at each end of the single-story dingy blue stucco building. Dirt and discoloration from age obscured the signage. The inside looked dim, and if it weren’t for the number of motorcycles parked outside, I would have thought the building was vacant.

“So, this is where Emmanuel hangs out?”

Dominic nodded, apparently not sharing my concern. It wasn’t just the grim building; it was also that the bar wasn’t on the main street, it was thirty miles from the city, and the only other business establishments were several miles away. They could be as loud as they wanted here without disturbing anyone. Which meant no one could hear screams for help.

“He doesn’t have a home where we could have met?”

“Of course. He wanted to meet here.”

“That didn’t strike you as odd?”

“Doesn’t matter either way to me.”

He got out of the car and when I stayed put, still eyeing the place, he came to my side and opened the door.

Ignoring his extended hand, I hopped out of the car. I got this. Just a powerful witch I’m borrowing magic from, at a bar way off the beaten path, where screams won’t be heard. Easy-peasy.

I had to stop reading mysteries and crime novels.

The inside was just as poorly lit as I expected, and all eyes turned to us. Well, Dominic, dressed in a crimson shirt, granite-colored pants, and leather shoes, with the messy coiffed hair and rugged low beard of a man who belonged in a posher bar than this. Even with his sleeves rolled to the middle of his forearms, showing the arcane symbols and intricate designs that were understated compared to the tats of the bar patrons. Most wore short sleeves or tanks, showing off an impressive and beautiful tapestry of colors. Others were dark with portraits of predatory animals: wolves, panthers, and snakes.

All eyes remained on us, the interlopers. Dominic traipsed through the bar with airy confidence, people parting for him instead of him having to weave around them. Pulling my shoulders back, I stood taller, trying to put on the same airs. It’s easier to do when you have magic, claws, and preternaturally fast and precise movement.

Dominic slowed until I was next to him, a hand well placed on the small of my back, momentarily redirecting my attention from the crowd to the tinge of warmth that spread over my back at his touch.

He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “It’s fine. This is just a power move by Emmanuel, to unsettle us.”

“He succeeded. I’m unsettled.” I would’ve preferred to meet at a restaurant. Maybe an ice cream shop. Nothing menacing in a Coldstone Creamery.

Staying close to Dominic, I tried to present the same level of confidence he radiated. I thought I was pulling off the “don’t screw with me vibe” in its entirety. I will knock you out with my phone. Squash your man grapes and elbow you in the tatas.

I was grabbed by the waist and slammed back against a firm chest covered with a softer layer of fat. A rough beard rubbed against my cheek.

“You don’t seem like the type that goes for the pretty boys,” the alcohol-laced breath whispered in my ear. Before I could raise my foot to smash it into his and ball my fist to punch him, the hold he had on me relaxed.

Dominic was no longer in front of me. He was behind the man, hands clamped around his throat and knife held at his jugular. The stout man huffed out a breath through clenched teeth. His eyes were ablaze with anger, but as the knife bit into his skin, flight and fury shadowed his face.

“I’m the nice one. You touch her again, I’m going to let her at you.” Dominic continued to hold the man, looking far too confidently at people who were now armed with blades and guns. One was scarily close to Dominic’s temple. He eased his hostage around, using him as a shield. What lingered in his eyes was calculating, cold, and dangerously unsettling.

“Let him go and there won’t be any trouble,” said one woman with a gun trained on Dominic. The implication was there wouldn’t be any trouble for Dominic and me, but her voice didn’t hold the confidence that she believed it.

His lips kinked into a mirthless smile, his voice rough and hinting at unspeakable levels of violence. “We’re just here to visit Emmanuel. You don’t give me any trouble, I won’t give you any.”

“Release him,” the woman demanded.

The grin firmly in place, Dominic said, “Of course. Your wish is my command.” No semblance of humility was in his words.

You convinced me you’re a jackass. He was quickly next to me, urging me forward, not even giving the crowd of people the courtesy of looking back. Taking his lead was hard. Unable to hear footsteps over the music or see movement because of the low lights, I was alert. I’d had enough violence to last a lifetime.

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