Page 3 of Magic of the Damned

With twenty minutes to spare before work, I divided my attention chatting with Emoni between customers and reading my book.

I was reaching for my coffee when Emoni took notice of the ring that spiraled midway over my finger, missing the joint to allow free movement. The ridges, waves, and intricate patterns made me think of the scales of a dragon. Where a head should have been on the body was a flattened triangle with a more elaborate design of markings.

“This is interesting,” she said, turning my hand over to get a better look at it. After she released my hand, I admired the ring with the same appreciation I had when I found it near the dumpster in the alley two weeks ago. It was a striking ring; the owner had to be looking for it. I figured that if I wore it daily, its owner would certainly recognize it, but no one had claimed it yet.

“I can’t believe I found it. It’s unfortunate I won’t be able to keep it if someone claims it,” I admitted.

She gave it another quick look. “I’m sure you can have someone replicate it or make something similar,” she said.

I hoped that wouldn’t be the case. I planned to give it one more week before considering the ring mine.

I glanced at the clock, hopped off the stool, and gave Emoni a motionless wave before hugging the book to me and heading to the adjoining bookstore where I worked.

“Ristretto, please,” requested a deep, distinctively accented voice as a man sidled close, startling me. I dropped my cup and book. Before I could save the book from being damaged by the spreading coffee, it was scooped up. Grabbing some napkins, I cleaned up the mess. Someone behind the counter came out with a mop and wet floor sign. When I stood, my eyes trailed up the man holding the book. He towered over my five-two frame by a little over a foot.

Too many beats of time passed as I tried to pull my gaze from his smoldering amber eyes with flecks of gold and the striking intensity of banked fire. Veiled by long midnight lashes, they revealed more than his indecipherable expression.

His eyes traced over the lines of my face, which Emoni affectionately described as a “Valentine” face opposed to the traditionally accepted heart shape. I shoved my hand through my loose auburn waves and became self-conscious of the light-blue ribbon I’d woven into the lone braid because I was bored.

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.

CHAPTER 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.”

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