Page 4 of Magic of the Damned

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.

“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.

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