Page 5 of A Touch of Brimstone

“Casting spells type of witch?”

“You saw in the book that there are different types. Witches born of witches are stronger. And we all have different magical abilities.”

“Yes.” I flipped through the parts of the book where I’d stuck Post-its. Reading the book as fiction, they were just interesting passages I wanted to revisit, not study the way I would nonfiction. “Elementals, necromancers, and spell casters, who are said to be the strongest and able to perform spells and manipulate the world.” The book focused so much on them because they were the strongest and the most abundant.

“My magical ability isn’t listed because so little is known of it. I suspect because it’s so fluid,” he admitted.

“What’s your magic?”

“I’m an influencer,” he said cryptically, his smile growing wider.

That’s an Instagram job.

Committed to not closing my mind to any possibilities, I kept my opinion to myself and from my expression.

“It’s very nuanced,” he added.

Also sounds very made up.

“I make things work in my favor. I guess it would be considered… probability magic. If the odds are close, I cast a spell to move things in my favor.”

My mouth dropped open. He took it as intrigue.

“That’s amazing,” I said. “Do you ever feel like you’re cheating? Making yourself so lucky?”

“I try not to use it. We all have laws we must abide by, and one is remaining hidden from humans.” He leaned forward, taking my hands in his. “You must keep this between us.”

Believe me, buddy, you do not have to worry about that. If I tell anyone about your fake-ass witch power and this world you believe in, I’m going to get some looks. I glanced at the clock on the wall.

“I have to go, but you have my word. Thank you so much for this and for trusting me with your secret.”

He was so full of crap, but still a nice guy. I’d give him that. Mr. Not-a-Witch had to see the absurdity in what he just told me. If he could change the odds in his favor, why not go to Vegas and make a killing, or at least make enough to just tarot read and not have to work a second job? Reading, which he seemed to really enjoy, could be his full-time job.

Before I opened the door, I turned. “The tarot reading, is that linked to your magic?”

He gave me a coy look. I had no idea what it meant.

“No, that’s taught, but I do believe my magical gifts help me be more skilled with it. And perhaps occasionally I cast a spell to ensure the accuracy of my reading.” He was a talented tarot reader, but I suspected it had nothing to do with his alleged magical ability.

“Thank you,” I said again. There was a small part of me that wanted to live vicariously through him and his belief in magical worlds of spell-casting witches, people who shifted into animals, and eternal beings of the night.

But realism and pragmatism reared their heads and I was back to regarding tales of witches, shifters, and vampires as nothing more than fiction and the stranger in the coffee shop as one of the peculiar people who populated this section of the city.

Our unconventional area seemed to be the catchall for the weird, nontraditional, and self-identified outcasts. There were the night owls, who’d created a small club named the People of the Night. Despite it being in reference to people who performed better at night, some of the members took it to the extreme, usually sporting midnight-black or platinum-white hair and dressing in dark colors, the scent of weed or patchouli oil wafting off them announcing their presence from some distance. It was quite obvious they were going for the noir of the modern vampires from television and movies.

Other than Reginald’s recent revelation to me of being a witch, we had people who identified as Wiccan. With Wicca becoming more mainstream in our area, where eccentric was a sport and everyone was going for gold, these people decided to be a little extra. If someone was dressed as if they were on their way to a Steampunk or Renaissance festival, they were most definitely our Broad Street Wiccan.

In need of a breath of fresh air, instead of using the doors that connected the stores, I took the longer route outside. Just before I reached the bookstore’s entrance, I thought I caught a glimpse of the stranger. Hugging the book to me, I stopped to take another look. There were pedestrians walking, but not him.

Get it together, I scolded myself. Had it been that long since I’d been with someone that I couldn’t get this particular handsome stranger out of my head? Or was the Broad Street weird just getting a little too weird?

3

It had been three days since my encounter with the man in the coffee shop and Reginald’s confession, and despite my best efforts, the information still consumed my thoughts. I was fixated on it. Work had become the distraction I desperately needed to get my mind off the supernatural world. I hadn’t returned the book to Reginald, but I was too reluctant to read more.

Work. I focused ardently on it: cleaning, stocking, making sure there wasn’t a single book unshelved. Two more hours before I was scheduled to leave, I grabbed several boxes I’d broken down and headed for the dumpster, saving the cleaning crew the trouble of having to take them at night.

Snorting and chuffing made my head snap up, and my breath catch at the sight of the shimmering diaphanous wall behind the dog that stalked in my direction. The dog had the face and body of a Xoloitzcuintli Quetzal, but its height wasn’t anything like the small dog I knew about. My attention moved between the shimmering illumination behind the creature and its approach. Tall enough that its head would meet my waist. A shiny gray coat covered its long, sleek, muscled frame. It was built for speed and agility, so me running away would be a terrible idea. It moved with an off-putting determined fluidity, its head swiveling back and forth surveying the alley. A humanlike intelligence lurked behind the dark eyes as they fixed on me.

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