Page 4 of A Touch of Brimstone

“I’ll check,” I told him. He excused himself with his customary bow and departed to the small table in the corner of the store that he’d claimed as his spot. Be weirder, Peter.

Heading back to the storage area, I wasn’t able to intercept the unsuspecting woman who sauntered over to the table where he’d taken a seat. Enjoy the free lecture—see if you can get college credits for it, I thought.

Peter would always ensnarl some woman. When he removed his large glasses, he revealed expressive brown eyes. His tall, slender build reminded me of a runner, and he gave off a casual air of indifference while engrossed in a book. His studious good looks and quasi look of apathy alluded to a sexy brood that drew many women into being recipients of his informal and interminable lectures.

Usually, if I saw someone heading in that direction or unwittingly involved in his one-sided conversations, I would ask if they’d found the book they were looking for or remind them of our rewards program.

Searching through the boxes in the storage room, hoping to quickly get to Peter’s copy of A People’s History of the United States, my mind kept revisiting the situation in the coffee shop. The ominous way the stranger’s partners looked at me, his scrutiny of me, his questioning me about being a witch, and the certainty of his words. “He’s not a witch.”

Was I missing something? Despite feeling foolish for giving this more than just a passing thought and not dismissing it as the ravings of a person who beliefs bordered on psychosis, I pulled out my phone, texted Reginald, and asked if we could talk during my break. Since he tended to be busier on the weekend, he responded quickly. His weekdays were spent on his phone, reading, and, if needed, bartering his help for a reduction in rent space from the shop owner.

I stumbled on the step and spilled into Reginald’s office. He had a broad build, and his chocolate-brown hair was shorn close, showing a wave pattern. Biracial—Mexican and white—he was the kind of golden brown that people spent hours trying to achieve on a beach or tanning bed.

“Luna,” he greeted me, extending his hand toward the seat on the opposite side of the small table where he sat. He moved his tarot cards out of the way. Immediately he caught sight of The Discovery of Magic and his face brightened.

“Are you enjoying the world of magic?”

“I am, there’s so much wonderful information.” I opened the book. “It’s better than anything I’ve read in fantasy. A real immersive experience. Like the author was speaking from real experience. Witches, people who turn into animals—”

“Shifters,” he offered.

“And vampires.”

He nodded. “Have you got to the part where they all can be linked to one god and the eternal curse that extended to them and their descendants?”

I nodded. “Yes, but…”

I hesitated because when Reginald loaned the book to me, I got the impression that for him it was more than a fun fantasy read. If it was more, then that was just another fun quirk about him. Even when he alluded to the existence of the supernatural, it was a vague and abstract concept that tied in with him being a tarot reader. But discussing it, saying it out loud, brought a validity to it, for which I wasn’t prepared. But the strangers looking at me like that had weirded me out. I wanted this to be fiction. All fiction.

“This is just fun reading for you, right? You don’t think this stuff is real?”

He looked at the closed door and leaned toward me. “Are we speaking in confidence?” he inquired in a low, conspiratorial voice.

No, because depending on what you say, I’m staging an intervention. Is an intervention what I need? Do I call a therapist? A psychiatrist? Your parents?

My heart was pounding in my chest, my fingers becoming increasingly clammy. I’d honor our confidence because for the three years we’d worked next to each other, I’d considered him more than just a business acquaintance. He was my friend. If I swore to it, then that was that. We were in a trust circle. But was I ready for any conversation that would follow us discussing this book?

I nodded, unable to put words to it.

“Of course I believe in this.”

I pointed at the bookmark on the open page. “You believe in witches, shifters, and vampires?” Leaning closer to him, I looked around the empty room. “Do you see them now? In this room?”

He threw his head back with a peal of laughter. “No, they’re not here. But they exist, Luna.”

“Okay, they exist and they came from one source.” I flicked through the book, skimming the pages that discussed them, looking for the source.

“It’s not in there,” he said. “It’s rumored that all magical beings came from one source and how they changed was a result of a curse. Experiment, maybe? But I’m so glad I ended up with the good curse.”

Was there such a thing as a good curse? Wait, what? He’d ended up with the good curse? Silence stretched taut as I debated the incivility of me placing the book on the table, walking out, and never speaking to Reginald again. But curiosity overrode all.

“Good curse?” I finally said.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’m a witch.”

“A witch?” Surprisingly, my skepticism sounded like curiosity.

He nodded, his face alight with pride.

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