Page 3 of A Touch of Brimstone

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.

Is he screwing with me? Did he really believe in witches? And even worse, he thought I was one.

“It’s fiction. No one’s a witch,” I said. “It’s a loan from the tarot reader next door.” I jerked my chin in the direction of the store next to the coffee shop. Reginald called himself a divinatory, and because of the accuracy of his readings, he’d been called a witch. Something he never corrected. If people thought he was one, it would be good for business.

“I’ve had a reading by him. He’s not a witch,” the stranger stated.

I know. Because no one’s a witch.

His penetrating and searching eyes moved to my ring. I looked at his face for any sign of recognition. There wasn’t any but there was definitely intrigue. His attention flicked to my face, auditing my features with keen interest. His lips pressed into a tight line. Without another word, he turned on his heels, dropped money in the tip jar, and left without his coffee.

Emoni looked into the jar then her eyes trailed after him. “He just paid forty dollars for the privilege of looking at you and skimming through your weird book,” she pointed out. The wheels were working behind her ever-calculating eyes. “This could be profitable,” she teased.

“I’m not sure there’s a huge market for peculiarly intense people randomly walking into coffee shops.” And definitely not for ones who believe in witches.

She grinned. “We can hope.”

Whether it was random was questionable, as the stranger was joined by two other people, one of them a slight man, a little over five-nine, who surveyed the area as they walked away. His thick, coal-black shoulder-length hair obscured his profile. He moved with fluid grace. Whatever the stranger who’d asked if I were a witch said caused him to stop and turn, narrowed eyes on me.

The woman who’d joined the stranger stopped as well. Turning around, she walked toward the coffee shop’s window, her long honey-and-chestnut box braids swinging with her quick approach. Russet-brown skin with rosy undertones gave her a vibrant, welcoming look, which was a contrast to the severe, luminous violet eyes that bored into me. She had a medium build and was an inch or two taller than me, and she wore a simple black slip dress that wasn’t appropriate for the cool weather. She stared with the same ferocity of the stranger. Canting her head, she frowned.

Abruptly, she whipped around to join the men, who hadn’t made it very far. She said something and they all looked back at me. Feeling like a deer caught in headlights, I watched them watch me, unable to look away from the intriguing trio.

Finally pulling my attention from them, I shuddered, pressed the book to me, and headed to work.

2

Cameron was all smiles, as expected. Small crinkles had formed around her eyes that I suspected were from the toothy, wide smile she handed out freely like candy on Halloween.

Her wiry thick curls were pulled into a low ponytail. A few escaped curls framed her face. In her midfifties, she had a lively personality and contagious smile.

“New releases tomorrow.”

For five years we’d had new releases weekly, and her face still lit up each time as if it were the first time. Her honey-colored eyes reflected a liveliness that would excite even the most apathetic person. Even if the books were releases I wasn’t expecting, she stirred the anticipation and excitement that often led me to buy a few.

“And the shipment of Morrison’s Beloved is in, too,” she informed me. An influencer recently mentioned it as a book that “broke” her. As a result, we couldn’t keep adequate stock of a book published over thirty years ago. Seeing classics revitalized and award-winning books reach the hands of new-to-them readers made me appreciative of the double-edged sword of social media and influencers.

A year ago, a coffee enthusiast, who had more followers than a person should, whose favorite coffee preparation was basically just creamer and sugar, recommended our coffee shop; it became overrun with new customers. We were overjoyed for the business, but with new customers requesting sugary specialty drinks, I was convinced the next post about us would be about our snarky barista. It was also during that time that Emoni revisited her suggestion about pelting people with coffee beans.

To our complete surprise, it didn’t run people off. It actually became the draw: Come get your coffee from the surly, quick-witted barista. Instead of a biscotti, you’ll get a thinly veiled insult and a lovely smile. It convinced me once again that pretty people get away with far too much.

“Frankenstein, Ender’s Game, and Lolita should be in the shipment as well,” Cameron informed me. Another surprising uptick in sales, but we didn’t know the source of their renewed popularity.

We quieted when a tall body slid in next to us, his studious good looks belied by the off-putting set of his rigid frown. Pushing his wide-rimmed glasses up his nose seemed to have been done for theatrics.

“Pardon me, purveyors. Has my copy of Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States come in?”

Purveyors? Seriously, Peter?

Cameron said that Peter was an eccentric old soul. Emoni and I were convinced that he also enjoyed being a know-it-all. Or perhaps it was a combination of the two. In his early thirties, Peter had the airiness of an aristocrat, but his tattered jeans that hung low off his waist, his shirt that played homage to Q*bert, and his disheveled flaxen-colored hair was diametrically opposed to his patrician demeanor.

Spending most of his days in the store, Peter divided his time between his work as a day trader, roaming the aisles of the bookstore, and sitting in the corner with a cup of coffee. Typically, he was unobtrusive unless he was accosting some unsuspecting customer with his unabridged version of history. His wealth of knowledge was simultaneously impressive and off-putting. I admired his dogmatic refusal to tell history for the side of the “victor,” but I believed unfiltered history needed to be administered in small doses. Something he had no interest in doing.

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