Page 49 of Magic of the Damned

I got this. Pricking my finger, I put the small knife into my pocket and closed my hand around the crystal-like prism object. The electric surge of magic from it pulsed through me, my heart pounded, and my breath caught before I was plunged into darkness. Books and Brew alleyway. Books and Brew alleyway. Books and Brew alleyway. My focus was sharp on it because I didn’t want to end up in the actual store.

Instead of the alleyway of Books and Brew, I ended up in my kitchen. I wasn’t sure when that thought had gone through my mind. Obviously, my thoughts had given in to the hunger pangs.

Dominic’s insistent knock came just seconds later. I knew it was him without looking through the peephole. A determined and firm knock that was wholly him.

“I knew you wouldn’t end up in the alleyway,” he chastised with a smirk. “Despite you saying it over and over.”

Oh, you heard that? But this wasn’t just about him checking on the success of my travel; it was him demonstrating he could find me.

“Thanks for checking on me,” I provided, putting my speculation in my words.

“Of course. I needed to make sure you ended up where you needed to be.”

We settled into the discord that existed between us. His air of smugness made it difficult not to close the door in his face.

“See you tomorrow, Luna.” He turned on his heels and left.

Despite his arrogance, my elation couldn’t be dampened. This could be over tomorrow. It wouldn’t solve everything that was occurring in the supernatural world, but at least I wouldn’t be entwined in it. The conflicting interests would eventually lead to a civil war—I was almost sure of that. I had no idea whether humans would be affected. I couldn’t fixate on what-ifs, but I could address the current problem.

CHAPTER 15

Anand allowed me glimpses of him. I’d been naïve to think he wouldn’t be around. Dominic said the illusion of choice was comforting. He was wrong; it was patronizing. Between checking out customers, shelving books, and helping set up for Wine-Down, I played Where’s Anand and wondered about the father who abandoned him, the imprisoned mother in the Perils, and Anand’s bizarre choice to remain in the Underworld as an adult.

After approaching him with “peekaboo, I see you,” one too many times—something he made apparent he didn’t find humorous—finding him became virtually impossible. He slipped away and skulked somewhere, unassuming and invisible. We were back to playing hide and seek.

Making light of his ability was easier than acknowledging how scary it was. But it was more than an ability to be unobtrusive. His ability to slip in and out of view was a feat of magic. It took a lot to bring my focus back to my job and tasks at hand. My optimism was a glutton for punishment.

Books and Brew didn’t have a stage, just a small section in the coffee shop’s corner where Gus could sit with his guitar and Emoni could sing. It wasn’t small enough for her to be heard without a mic, but having one seemed a little unnecessary. The apothecary store kept its doors open, as it usually did on Thursday. The music was soothing enough to appeal to their customers, and usually they benefitted from the increase in customer traffic.

Cameron stood next to me just outside the door that divided the coffee shop from the bookstore. Emoni’s first selection was an original, written by her and Gus, his low raspy alto voice complementing the highs of hers. Concern clouded Cameron’s bright smile as she watched the crowd’s reception. With any other audience, it would have been well received, but our group had come to hear the covers of songs they loved, which was confirmed when they perked up at the next song: a rendition of “Brown-Eyed Girl.”

It was surprising to find Peter seated at the back of the coffee shop. He gave me his small wayward smile and raised the coffee cup in his hand as if to ask me to join him. I assumed the request was to satisfy the raincheck I’d given him before. I mouthed that I was working, which was probably hard to believe since, like the rest of the employees, I had paused what I was doing to listen to the entertainment. If he’d been watching, he would have seen me indulge in a few sips of wine as well.

It seemed like Peter’s request was merely polite, since he quickly returned his attention to Emoni and Gus. Maybe he didn’t enjoy sitting alone. It was odd that he was. The coffee shop wasn’t crowded and there were seats available in the bookstore. He seemed to be a magnet for visitors when in the bookstore, but not so much in the coffee shop. Maybe people wanted to enjoy the music uninterrupted.

Emoni’s enjoyment was apparent, reminding me of her excitement during practice. The crowd wasn’t their typical fans, and she could play the classics and experiment with the vocals. Watching Cameron was the most amusing part of the night. She studied the audience like it was an equation she was determined to figure out. Her eyes traveled over everyone, taking in their responses to the songs, determining which books she’d display near the register of the coffee shop, the shelf where we sold coffee beans, cups, and Books and Brew merchandise, and which books she’d put on the circular wood display that greeted customers as they entered the store.

I suddenly wondered if Cameron was just incredibly attuned to the nuances of human behavior. Could it be magic? If there were seers, what about empaths? I shrugged off the thought. Magic had spilled into my life too much. I couldn’t let it tarnish this.

As Emoni and Gus transitioned into their final song, “Shallow” by Lady Gaga, Cameron beamed. Emoni loved doing the cover, not for the emotional charge but for the difficulty. She once speculated that audiences were drawn to people doing the cover in the same manner as they would be drawn to a gymnast performing a triple double or a dismount off a balance beam. They are all waiting in anticipation of an epic success or dramatic failure. Could the singer pull off the vocals starts on the C5 range where it hovers throughout, only dropping off occasionally to maintain the emotion and grittiness of the song?

I hadn’t realized the stamina required to perform it, nor had I expected Emoni’s faux umbrage at me pointing out that her recognizing that observation in others probably meant she did it, too. For shame.

Emoni loved the challenge and, based on the way the audience leaned forward in their seats, watching Emoni and Gus’s emotionally charged performance, so did they. Emoni seemed to be anchored to Gus, their faces close to each other during the challenging parts, making the audience willing voyeurs to their exchange. Emoni knew how to play to a crowd. I wasn’t sure if Gus was aware she was doing it or was drawn to her like a siren and the song like a sonnet. But part of me, that little romantic Pollyanna that dwells in us all, thought it was more than her playing to the crowd. She and Gus had a very intimate relationship, even if it only existed in the confines of music.

Cameron flashed a miscreant smile. “We are about to sell a lot of books,” she said, dipping into the store with me in tow. She grabbed several Rockstar romances and grinned. It didn’t hurt that the man on the cover had some similarities to Gus: soulful brown eyes, aquiline nose, intense jawline that lent to a striking profile. His hair was unruly to the point I assumed he didn’t own a comb.

“A thousand lives,” she reminded me, when I gave her a disapproving look. “Readers live a thousand lives,” she reminded us every Thursday. She busied herself with collecting more books for easy access.

“Luna,” Cameron called, handing me several more—a few fantasies, interracial romance—and told me to put them on the shelf near the coffee. It surprised me when she chose shifter romance. My brows rose in doubt.

“It’ll sell,” she assured me. I glanced back at Gus, trying to look for similarities in the shifters I’d seen. There weren’t any. Gus had a cool gentleness to him. Shifters were raw primality. He was what people who hadn’t been on the death lunge end of a shifter probably thought they’d look like.

Picking up one of the second-chance romances from the top shelf of the display tower, I cut my eye at her. “You know they were never a couple. They’re just bandmates.”

“I know that, you know that, but they don’t.” She waved her hand at the people engrossed in the exchange between the two bandmates that definitely gave off conflicting hints of burgeoning romance and longing of one to be rekindled. Were people really this suggestible? If they weren’t, marketing psychologists wouldn’t have a job.

The biggest shock of the night was when Peter neared the display tower where I was standing and reached for the second-chance romance, snagging a string of my hair on his bracelet.

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