Chapter 46
SLOAN
Itrailed my fingertip along the rim of the martini glass. The decadent raspberry colored liquid flashed in the dimly lit Hex & Hearth. The rain lashed at the windows, but seemed a distant worry in the warm, cozy space.
The fire was stoked and most of the patrons gravitated to the seats closest to the flames. The rest of us at the bar were as diverse as the drinks. A beer, a flaming shot, a fancy drink, and of course the short, squat tumblers full of spirits.
A solitary bartender controlled it all with a smooth, dance-like grace. Fill a pint, pour a shot, smile at a patron, discretely take cash or cards—all with a fluidity that told me he was other. I just wasn’t sure what kind of other.
Fae? Possibly, but he didn’t have that slick, untouchable quality of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Cold and alien—as if they were removed from this plane of existence.
They were the ageless race.
This man didn’t give off the same vibration. However, he definitely wasn’t human. That was probably the only certainty I had about him.
I straightened as he came over to me.
“Another Persephone?”
I shook my head. “Not quite yet.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Just signal me if you need anything.”
“Any pub food?”
“Just spirits tonight. The chef called off with a cold. I could probably scrounge you up some soup.”
“Nah, don’t trouble yourself.”
“The Tidal Inn has a decent kitchen.” He leaned on the bar, his forearms flexing deliciously. “I’ve never seen you in here.” His eyes flicked down to my ring on my forefinger. “Daughter of Lilith?”
I worried the ring with my thumb absently and my tattoo peeked out from under the heavy silver.
His eyebrow arched. “Serious practitioner then?”
“Since my thirteenth year.”
“Well, the Hex & Hearth is a safe space,” he said in a low voice. “It often shows you what you need.”
I patted my heavy black bag on my shoulder. “I found what I needed earlier. This is just a bonus.”
“I guess we’ll see.” He rapped his knuckle on the bar three times before sliding away to take care of another patron.
I imagined the weather kept most people at home, but there seemed to be a few regulars stationed along the bar.
A fisherman type, with burly shoulders that stretched against the seams of cotton and flannel, wore a ratty skullcap pulled down low over his brow, and telegraphed keep away vibes.
At the far end was a woman with raven dark hair and vodka flushed cream over berries skin with a harem of men vying for her attention.
At first look, she seemed beautiful, but then her glamour shimmered around improbably sharp cheekbones.
It had been a minute since I’d seen a shapeshifter in the flesh.
Then again, The Hex & Hearth wasn’t your average bar and the mysterious bartender verified that.
Driftwood Pointe seemed to exemplify that from the moment I’d crossed the threshold of the town.
The sigil on my hip still burned. I’d heard of the properties of the bar in my travels.
It catered to magical beings but didn’t discriminate against humans.
A strange mix to be sure. I’d visited plenty of towns where magic made humans feel inherently uncomfortable.
So much so that they usually felt compelled to move away for reasons they could never explain.
This town, not so much.
It remained to be seen if the town protected the magical types or if they just employed a “live and let live” community.
Whatever it was, I was intrigued.
My friend Penny had swung through town because their apothecary was unmatched. The proprietress was a powerful witch with an impressive array of ingredients for every level of spell work and just enough whimsy to welcome the non-magic folk who were forever intrigued with our practices.
I’d spent the summer in Salem learning under a few high priestesses who enjoyed the theater—as well as the money—of Salem in October.
The rest of the year they spent honing their craft and teaching workshops.
There was no doubt about the power of the town, even if the history was founded on unspeakable hate and bigotry.
In the days before the witch trials practitioners were good enough when the townsfolk had need of a potion to ease an ailment, rid themselves of one too many babes in their belly, or a cruel husband.
But when the hysteria hit, they turned on those healers.
And the hate was entrenched in the bones of the earth.
The power of it was even stronger than the originating heinous acts.
I figured my time in this area was done, but word of the Apothecary lured me into Driftwood Pointe. The minute I’d crossed the border something pulled at me even harder than Salem.
Maybe it was this place, maybe it was the churning ocean that roared outside, maybe it was simply the sense of knowing that I couldn’t put my finger on.
Not to mention I was tired of my studies and overthinking.
I’d been steeped in it for months without a break.
I dipped my finger into the Persephone No.
9 drink and licked the tart, gin tinged nectar off the tip of my finger before dunking it again to drag a droplet along the rim.
When a satisfying flash of magic whispered from the contents, I smiled into the lush depths.
The burn of the sigil on my hip faded for the first time since I’d crossed the border.
I took another sip of the drink and the warmth of the spirits heated the glass humming along my fingertips as a blue flame circled the center of the stem of the glass.
I couldn’t look away from it.
Had the bartender added something to the drink?
A man sat beside me and the sharp tang of leather and rain and something else… all spice? Honey?
I frowned. Those things distinctly shouldn’t have been together in the drink. They hadn’t been there in the first sip. The little dried husks of the star-like allspice pods scattered on the bar top along with a yellow flower.
Where had they come from?
The drum of blunt fingers on the scarred wood echoed in my head.
I watched them drum again. Impatience and boredom overlapped.
My gaze drifted over the scars at the side of his hand.
Wait, not a scar. A white tattoo. Intrigued, I followed the ancient runes symbol for protection, for power, and for...
Dagaz. My brain felt fuzzy and the meaning tripped around on the tip of my tongue.
“Awakening,” I mumbled.
“Sometimes.” The male voice interrupted my inner dialogue. “For me, it means clarity.”
“Do you require clarity?” I couldn’t resist touching his skin and the flash happened again.
I lifted my gaze to the man. His dark eyes met mine and something fired there as well. The blue flame from my glass echoed in his nearly black depths. The color was such a midnight blue, it reminded me of the ocean at night. Where it sucked all the light down into its depths.
His dark brows snapped down over his fascinating eyes. Lashes, thick and tipped in cinnamon, made something heat in my belly. Something akin to the blue flame. A knowing in the center of me with a dangerous heat.
The drumming on the bar top stopped as he curled his fingers into his palm.
The veins of his hands popped and pulsed, the tracks of them wound up to the slice of forearm that showed under the leather of his jacket. Leather ties wrapped around his wrist with more runes and silver charms.
Musician?
I’d been with more than one of them who owned a different sort of magic. The bard, the storyteller, and even the energy vampires who fed off the crowd.
No.
He wasn’t of music. He was... something older. Not just age. The leather and silver created a forcefield around him. Creating a hard shell that blocked me from seeing what he was.
Intrigued, I wanted to trace that vein and see just how far it went up his arm. Did it flex and coast up his forearm like a topical map.
What the hell was wrong with me?
A one-night stand wasn’t out of the realm for me. I was a woman with no home and took my pleasures when and where I found them. This was different. This was a pulling from somewhere deep inside of me and seemed to echo inside of him.
I wasn’t sure why I knew that.
“Did you spell me, witch?” He looked down at me. His jaw bristly with a well-kept beard in a darker version of the cinnamon of his lashes. A red so deep it was mahogany.
I touched the white ink again, unable to stop myself. “I don’t use my magic like that.”
His hand trembled lightly as if he was trying to pull away from me, but instead he slid closer, into my touch. His jaw flexed as he closed his eyes. “Why can’t I move then?”
My fingertips snuck over the top of his hand to trace the edges of the braided leather strap. “Do you want to?”
“I prefer a choice, witch.”
“Stop using it as a slur when we both know very well you are the same as me,” I said in a voice that was too much like a purr. The knowing of what he was slipped inside my lungs like oxygen.
His nostrils flared. “I’m leagues above what you are.”
“Is that right?” I parted the strands of—was that horse hair?—wound in the tangle of charms and leather. “Are you a big, bad warlock?” I pitched my voice low to make sure no one else could hear us. “You know that’s just a word for men who can’t bear to be an equal to a woman of the craft.”
“No, I’m ancient compared to you.” His voice held the song of Ireland and Old English melded together.
I wrapped my other hand around the stem of the glass, compelled to take another drink of the tart drink. It just made me thirstier. A drop slid down my lip to my chin and I wiped it away with my thumb.
He grabbed my hand and drew it close to his mouth.
My eyes widened as he licked the bit of pomegranate juice and gin from my finger. Those dark eyes unflinching as his tongue rasped over my skin, watching my reaction.
I pushed the glass away and couldn’t stop myself from cupping his jaw with my free hand.
I turned my body toward him, letting my sweater part to show off what the goddess had blessed me with.
His eyes never left mine. “Why so angry? Surely you’ve had a moment with someone at a bar in all those ancient years... ”
“What’s in the glass?” He growled.
“Pomegranate, cinnamon, allspice,” I leaned in just a little closer because I couldn’t help myself.
I licked my lips. “Bitters,” I said with a grin.
“Something citrussy and gin,” I said a millimeter from his lips.
I dragged my thumb through the hair of his beard, following the hollow of his cheeks.
It was surprisingly soft. “What would this feel like between my thighs?”
He groaned. “God’s teeth.”
I laughed. “You’re older but you’re not seventy.”
“Three hundred fifty-four actually.” His eyes widened as he tried to shake his head. His eyelids heavy with awareness.
“Are you a handsome stranger from another time? Is there a special circle of stones that let you through?” I said with a laugh. “Do you come with a Scottish accent?”
“Outlander garbage,” he spat out.
“Don’t knock it. Every woman wants a Jamie who will love them through every single century and vow to find her in every one.”
His fingers slipped into my hair to tighten at the nape of my neck. “Is that what you want?”
The nip of pain made whatever was swirling around me draw tighter. “Yes.”
I frowned. Why had I said that? I’d never needed anyone in this life or any other I would be exploring in the hereafter.
His gaze drifted down to my mouth, then to my breasts, which prickled with heat. “Is that why you spelled the drink? You think you can trap a man with your assets?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t.” I tried to fight against the syrupy haze that wouldn’t let me step away from him. I’d made plenty of bad decisions in my nearly forty years, but none like this.
Like I didn’t have control of my tongue or my brain. As if my baser instincts wanted to be closer to this strange man. If he was to be believed, one who had walked this earth longer than any ancestor I’d traced in my limited knowledge of my line.
“If you didn’t, then who?”
“You couldn’t just want this?” I flicked the ties open of the crimson sweater I wore to show off the pretty lace I wore under the wool.
Lace that I hadn’t shown off to anyone in too many months to count.
I’d been too intent on my studies over the summer to bother looking for company.
Before that I’d been on a year-long break from men or women, to be honest. The reset button had been necessary, but now it felt like I was just denying myself whatever this was.
Could I have had this feeling all along?
“There’s no denying I want what’s under that snug claret sweater, witch.”
“You keep saying that word like I should be offended.” I pushed on his shoulder until he straightened off the bar and, dear goddess, he was a tall one.
Built like a warrior from an age long ago.
Not like the fisherman across the bar, something different.
I’d never had the gift of sight, but I could see him on a horse.
His powerful thighs and the slabs of muscle along his belly and chest made my fingers itch to touch.
“I should be walking away,” he muttered just as he lowered his head.