A Touch of Brimstone by McKenzie Hunter

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.

I hissed as he pulled away, my head moving forward with him. He cursed. “Sorry.” He mumbled more apologies, and we attempted to quietly untangle. “I should have asked you to move. I thought there was enough space,” he explained in a hushed voice, trying not to draw attention to us but eliciting another low hiss from me when he tugged too hard.

“No worries,” I said, but I could still feel the sting where several strands of hair were pulled from my head by the strange barbed bracelet around his wrist. It had scraped along my hand, scratching it when I tried to help with easing him away with minimal damage.

“Nice weapon,” I teased, looking at the scratch and specks of blood on my hand.

He looked at the injury, frowned, and then stared at the bracelet, a string of circles with small nubs on them that looked far less dangerous than they were.

“That’s enough of this thing,” he grumbled. “It was a fashion mistake I won’t make again. Here I was trying to do something a little different. Add a little pizzazz to my style.” He attempted to add humor to his voice, but it was heavy with concern.

Pizzazz? Come on, Peter, do better.

“I’m fine. It’s just a scratch,” I told him, “but I’d retire that thing.”

Nodding in agreement, he removed it from his wrist and shoved it in his pocket. He hesitated, looking coy as he gave a side-eye to the book he had been reaching for.

“I need to go clean this,” I said, waving my wounded hand. Leaning in closer, I whispered, “Who doesn’t love a good second-chance romance? Enjoy.”

Emboldened, he stood taller, picked up that book and two more from the shelf, and headed for the register. I made my way to the employee lounge. The scratch didn’t warrant a bandage, but I definitely wanted to clean it and apply some antibiotic ointment.

The combination of pleasant weather, music, the illusion of watching a potential romantic will they won’t they moment, and decent wine at a reduced price made for a busy sales day.

“Luna,” said an unfamiliar voice. A woman had moved in next to me. During a brief break in the stream of customers, I’d used the time to replace books in the coffee shop that had sold in a matter of minutes after the performance ended. I hadn’t noticed the woman’s approach.

The Asian woman’s face brightened when I turned to face her and attempted to place her since she’d addressed me with such familiarity. I couldn’t. Midnight hair pulled back from her face and crescent-shape eyes that held the same spark Madeline’s had. The spark of astute wisdom, but it was beyond the years of the twenty-something-year-old woman in front of me.

“Yes?” I asked.

Flashing me a marking of a broken circle, three vertical lines with the ends curving in three different directions on the inner side of her wrist, she leaned into me. “Thank you. It’s only a matter of time.”

I debated whether to reveal that I had no idea what she was talking about or pretend that I did. Which would yield more information?

“Matter of time?”

“Luna, you released the only people who have a chance against the Conventicle. Get rid of them, and we will be relieved of our restraints. We’ll become the power brokers no longer restricted by their rules and mandates.” She shook her head. “Why should we live in fear of being discovered by humans? They should know of our existence and…” She trailed off.

I guessed she was going to say something along the lines of “bow down to our power,” “quiver in fear of our greatness,” or “revere us like gods.” Whether she said it or not, the portentous intentions were there in the set of her jaw, the chilliness of her eyes, and the raw malice of her words.

“I didn’t do it intentionally,” I blurted, not wanting to stake a claim on the hot mess, even if she did view it favorably.

Based on the reverent way she looked at me, it didn’t matter. I was the initiator. A means to the end of restrictions. Did she not see the hypocrisy in venerating a human, whom she hoped to subjugate with her power and magical ability? Frustrated, I was about to point that out when she took hold of my arm—based on her expression, more aggressively than intended. She relaxed the pressure and I put a little distance between us.

Quickly I scanned the café for Anand, expecting him to show up. Wasn’t this the reason he shadowed me, to prevent situations like this? Or perhaps she’d used magic to elude him. Not being completely sure how things worked in this world just complicated things.

“You can’t align yourself with Dominic,” she told me in a rough whisper. “He’s using you to recapture the prisoners.” She searched my face for some form of feedback. “We can’t let that happen. Change is necessary.” She took a step toward me and I moved back again, keeping distance between us, leery of the desperation on her face.

“I want the same thing as he does,” I told her. She wouldn’t get false hope from me or the idea that I was an ally.

“No, you don’t,” she snapped, closing the distance between us again and taking a firm hold on my arm.

“Look…” I waited for her to give me a name.

“Rei.”

“I know this is a cause you believe in, but can you truly expect me as a human to get involved? I just want my life back.”

Desperation and determination overtook her features. Her unyielding eyes held mine.

“You are being foolish and naïve,” she chastised.

Not winning me over, Rei.

Despite the rise in her voice and her aggressive posturing, we seemed to go unnoticed by the people in the coffee shop. I suspected magic was involved in keeping us unnoticed. The supernaturals’ use of magic against humans didn’t seem to be regulated enough. Or perhaps Rei was an exception, not the norm. I knew that the Awakeners bucked against the rules, pushing the limits and only stopping when caught and punished. Rei might have been a rogue among them, exhibiting no restraint with her magic.

“Whether you’ve misunderstood your role in this or not, you have done something great. I won’t let you withdraw your help.” Her voice had warmed, but it didn’t belie her threat.

“Let me?”

She looked around; I felt the shift in the energy. Was she about to use magic on me or force me to go with her? I eased my hand closer to one of the candles on the shelf, preparing to use it as a weapon if necessary, watching the effort she put into calming herself.

“My apologies.” It didn’t sound like an apology, but a concession. She’d play nice because she had to. “Please allow me a chance to present my side—our side.”

I thought she’d taken my silence as a tacit agreement when she retreated and slipped away. Then I caught sight of Jackson approaching. Great.

I shrugged at Emoni, who had pulled her attention from the woman she was speaking to long enough to shoot furtive death glares at Jackson’s back.

I grinned at her. “I got this,” I mouthed.