Page 8 of A Touch of Brimstone

“Dominic,” he offered when I didn’t respond. “I’m Dominic.”

We were definitely closer. There wasn’t enough room between us to extend my hand to greet him. Shaking his hand: too formal. Was nudging him in the chest to give us space an acceptable greeting?

After several moments of stony silence, I offered my name. “Luna.”

He repeated it in a low voice. Slowly enunciating each syllable. Tasting the word. Seemingly turning it over in his mind, trying to place it.

When he spoke again, he leaned in, right against my ear. Heat radiated from his body, enveloping me. I inhaled his scent of sandalwood, my hand going to his waist, my thumb brushing over the hard muscles of his abs. Damn. My mind wandered to a place it shouldn’t.

“Are you still enjoying the book?” he asked.

There was only one book he was inquiring about. I nodded, trying to read his expression. He’d asked me about being a witch, and I was curious as to how far down the supernatural rabbit hole he was.

“It’s more detailed than I expected. I’ve read my share of fantasy books. But the author presents it in a manner that leads me to believe it’s nonfiction.”

“In what way?”

“The detail. It’s very specific, especially when he writes about shifters and vampires. It’s very reminiscent of Anne Rice’s Interview with the Vampire, a gothic supernatural tale that draws you in so much you feel like you’re reading a biography. The Discovery of Magic reads like I’ve been made privy to someone’s journal about their experience with the supernatural world. Very introspective.”

A dark cast fell over his eyes as they bored into me. Lips set into a tight line. Had I offended him? He believed in magic and witches, so were vampires and shapeshifters a leap? Like Reginald, would he claim to have his own dubious magical ability? “Luna, my magic is making vodka disappear faster than anyone else. When I ease it to my lips, it just disappears.”

“You have no beliefs in the occult?” he asked.

“No.”

His tongue slid across his lips, moistening them as he leaned in. I tried to make out the words he whispered. The air thickened around us, and I sucked in a sharp breath when the heat of our closeness was replaced by wisps of coolness that slithered over my skin and wove around my skin, constricting around me. The tightness then loosened and breezed over me like a brush of wind. His eyes were pools of darkness, submerging me, leaving me unable to look away. The sensation abruptly stopped. I yanked my eyes from his.

“Tenebras Obducit,” he hissed. “Impossible.” He grimaced and was gone.

Scanning the crowd, I looked for him. A glimpse. Nothing.

More people had flooded in. It wasn’t packed. Navigating was difficult but not impossible. It wasn’t crowded enough for him to completely disappear. But he had.

What the fuck was that?

Putting aside the weirdness was difficult and I had to force myself to focus on Emoni’s performance. But my attention kept being pulled to Dominic’s parting words. Was he insulting me? Possibly, based on the sneer. He definitely wasn’t complimenting me. Taking out my phone, I wrote the words out, spelling it phonetically despite not knowing exactly what he said—or called me. I’d search it later.

Night Ravage now got my undivided attention. Emoni did. No matter how many times she performed, like the audience, I was captivated by her powerful and hauntingly elegiac voice and her undeniable stage presence. The audience had succumbed to fluid mesmeric movements, ensnared by her. This was her element. Despite her saying that music gave her life, I believed it was the opposite. She infused vitality into the lyrics like no other.

Night Ravage’s music was a delightful mélange of R&B and Rock, with hints of Tina Bell’s influence in the lyrics. Despite her contributions being overlooked by most, she had an everlasting fan in Emoni.

After the performance, as usual, an hour or so was spent talking to the audience, networking, selling merchandise and music. Once it was over, I helped the band take their equipment to the band’s SUV. Once everything was stored away, we stood outside the vehicle debating if we were going to go for waffles. At this point it was just pro forma. After each show, we debated this and it always ended with us at an all-night diner, eating waffles. Gus, the guitarist, draped an arm around Emoni and pressed his cheek to hers.

“That was madness! They loved us. They really did… well, they loved you.” His face was ruddier than normal, a burnished red, similar to his hair. He gave Emoni another squeeze before releasing her. “You were amazing. I told you that you had the vocal range for that song. I can’t believe you almost didn’t sing it.” He moved toward the driver’s side. “Have we decided? Waffles?”

Of course it was waffles. It was always waffles. Emoni would devour her food and eat his, too. Buzzing from the high of a show, Gus was never hungry, just looking for a reason to spend more time with Emoni.

“You know he likes you, right?” I informed her for the umpteenth time. If she sounded like a foghorn, he’d still compliment her on having the foggiest of horn voices.

She shrugged it off. “It’ll pass. He knows there’s no chance. I mean, seriously, the lead singer hooking up with the guitarist. Why not the drummer and make it even more of a cliché?” She tutted. “You’re one to talk. Tell Jackson to go away in no uncertain terms and be done with him.”

“I’ve tried.”

“You want me to talk to him?” she asked, her eyes glinting.

“No, because I don’t have bail money,” I teased.

Before she got into the SUV with Gus, I gave her an abridged version of the encounter with Dominic, discussing his curiosity about the book and how I thought he believed in witches. I left out the shift of energy between us, the cool air that grabbed me in a bear hug then relaxed into a breeze that flitted across my skin, and the whole weirdness of it. She would have simply dismissed it as a strange version of attraction between two obviously peculiar people. I couldn’t blame her. What other explanation was there?

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