Page 6 of Magic of the Damned

“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?

CHAPTER 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.

I pressed against the side of the building and held my breath, as if that would render me invisible. The only weapon at the ready was the box cutter in my back pants pocket. Slowly, I retrieved it. With the size of the animal, would the cutter be enough to ward it off? It was baring its dagger-sharp teeth that looked capable of ripping apart anything it encountered. I stilled and melted against the building.

Even if it couldn’t track me by scent, my pounding heart would make me easy to find. Coaxing myself to take slow, even breaths, I pressed even harder against the wall. It came closer, sniffed my hand, and licked. With swift and precise movements, it stood. Its heavy paws pressed on my shoulders. I strained to hold its weight. Tilting its head as if to study me, it inched its nose closer. Then it dropped down to all fours and ran in the direction it had come from.

I doubled over with relief. By the time I’d slowed my breath and calmed, there was no sign of the dog or any sign of the illumination in the alley.

Retrieving my phone from my other pocket, I looked up the number for animal control. What would I say? “Hey, be on the lookout for a dog. What type of dog? Imagine one that looks like it would guard the gates of hell in every movie.”

Instead, I called, told them about the dog, and explained that it wasn’t aggressive but might be perceived that way because of its size. After giving them all the requested information, I stayed in the alley, looking out into the emptiness of it as I started to second guess what my eyes had clearly seen. It felt so surreal, I wanted to attribute it to restless nights and long work hours.

I spent the walk time to the store convincing myself that my eyes had deceived me.

Instead of immediately going home after my shift, I made a detour to the alley again, walking the length of it, phone in hand, recording my traipse down it.

Nothing.

No strangers inquiring whether I was a witch, no massive dogs who deserved an appearance in Supernatural. Things spiraled into the bizarre when I sniffed the air, remembering the stranger’s intoxicating scent. It had lingered in the coffee shop long after he’d left, so why not in the alley?

Could the stranger and the dog really be two unrelated events? There was no evidence that they were.

“What are you doing?” Emoni’s voice came from behind me. She must have seen me poke the air where I’d seen the shimmering wall.

I whipped around, embarrassment flushing my face. How do you explain poking the air?

“Nothing,” I said with a strained frown. It wasn’t good enough to fool a stranger, let alone the friend I’d known since undergrad.

Her brows inched together. She grabbed a tuft of her hair and coiled it around her fingers, still watching me. Finally, she blew out a breath. “Luna, I hang around with musicians, writers, photographers, and artists. I can’t have any more weird or”—she air quoted—“eccentric as they prefer to be called, friends. So get it together, girl.” She beamed, her long legs swallowing the distance between us in a few steps. She gave me a quick hug, wrapped her arms around my shoulders, and guided me back to the store. Her demeanor was light and airy but I didn’t miss the glint of concern in her eyes.

“I have exciting news. Guess who’s playing at the Kingmakers tonight!”

Emoni’s news did wonders for chasing away the encounter with the man from the coffee shop and the dog. Joining Emoni and her band’s last-minute booking was exactly what I needed: strong liquor, dancing, and supporting my friend while she played in one of the most successful and swankiest bars in the city.

Her excitement at playing at that bar was contagious. I was buzzing with energy. After only three years, the Kingmakers had become popular and known for showcasing up-and-coming local artists but more notably for when two chart-topping artists, to show the owner gratitude for giving them their first break, made several surprise visits to perform. As I looked around the crowd of people, my cynicism got the best of me, suspecting most of the patrons visited the club on the off chance they’d see a major artist for the cost of a watered-down rum and coke.

Emoni’s band, Night Ravage, was humming with excitement that I could sense from my seat at the bar as I sipped a Negroni.

“This is a surprise.” Jackson, a whiskey in hand, slid onto the stool next to me. My eye roll followed. It wasn’t a surprise that he was here, and he had to know I wasn’t naïve enough to think otherwise. He followed the band on social media and knew the chances were high that I’d be anywhere Emoni was playing. As usual, I’d arrived with the band and helped with setup as needed.

“Really?” I asked with a sigh of exasperation. “It seems like it’s about time for your bi-weekly request for us to work things out. Tell me, how does one work through you apparently accidentally falling into Ava’s cooter?”

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