Night's Kiss

A glass-fronted cabinet held many items that were basic to the practice of witchcraft. The first shelf held a variety of pentagrams, some plain, some with colored points. There were a number of pentacles in gold, silver, or copper. The second shelf held a variety of censers, some with feet to keep them from scorching the surface they rested on. The third shelf held a basket of feathers, bundled sticks of incense, several mirrors, bottles of oils, and pots of ink.

An arched doorway hung with beads in all the colors of the rainbow separated the bookstore from the adjoining coffee shop. Glancing through the archway, Brenna saw perhaps a dozen small round tables. Half of them were covered with white cloths, half with black. Green candles burned in the center of each table. A long black counter lined with bar stools ran along the far wall. A pretty young woman with long black hair was waiting on several customers seated at the counter. A woman wearing a long gray dress and a floppy-brimmed black hat sat at one of the tables reading a newspaper.

"May I help you?"

Brenna glanced over her shoulder to see a tall, painfully thin woman with eyes the color of topaz smiling at her. The woman wore an ankle-length black dress and a pair of high-heeled black boots.

"Are you looking for something specific?" the woman asked.

"No." Brenna shook her head. "I was just… just curious."

"Of course," the woman said, smiling. "Many people are curious about the paranormal and the occult these days, some seriously, some just because it's the in thing at the moment. Some are into crystals, others into palm reading or tarot. A few are into voodoo and black magick. There are others who are searching for something to believe in, something to hold on to in these days of unrest and trouble. Some are turning their backs on established religion and seeking new paths to follow."

"Like witchcraft?" Brenna asked hesitantly.

"Wicca," the woman corrected. "It's witchcraft of a sort, but it's also a religion, a way of living and believing."

Brenna nodded. "Is it all right if I just look around?"

"Of course. I'm Myra Kavanaugh. I own the shop. Let me know if you need anything."

"Thank you."

The woman smiled at her again. "Blessed be."

Alone once more, Brenna turned to the bookshelf. Although many of the words in the books were familiar to her, there were others that were unknown, and others that, though familiar, were not spelled the way she knew them. Still, she was able to make sense of most of what she read.

She thumbed through a book about rituals for modern pagans, including the history of the goddess Lilith. Brenna had never heard of Lilith and found the information quite interesting. Lilith was a seductress, tempting men with forbidden pleasures and desires. Strangely, she was also known as a night hag, hardly the description of a seductive maiden. According to the book, modern witches considered Lilith to be the patroness of witches, while others described her as an alluring siren, a seductive vampire, and the ultimate sex goddess.

With a shake of her head, Brenna replaced the book on the shelf and withdrew a book of spells. It was amazing to her that she was standing in a store that made no secret of selling books and charms for witches. How times had changed! In her day, men and women suspected of witchcraft had been hanged. Now they owned coffee shops and mingled with their friends and neighbors without fear.

She glanced at the owner of the shop. Was she a witch? And what of the patrons in the coffee shop? Were they all witches, or merely ordinary people who liked the excitement of mingling with those who believed in the occult?

Turning her attention back to the book in her hand, Brenna read the ingredients for a spell to repel troublesome ghosts. It called for dried rosemary leaves, sea salt, garlic powder, and dried black beans.

Brenna grunted softly as she read the directions. Black beans were, indeed, an ancient charm against ghosts and everyone knew that black was the best color for banishing. Another section dealt with the making of magick wands. She thought regretfully of the wand she had left behind. She had fashioned it herself from a willow branch and painted it in shades of blue and green. The wand was like a conduit, an extension of her will, used to help focus and direct power, cast a magical circle, or stir ingredients in a cauldron. Perhaps it was time to think about making a new one.

She was about to put the book back on the shelf when she heard footsteps coming up behind her.

And then a deep voice asked, "Is this your first time here?"

Turning, Brenna found herself face-to-face with a man a few inches taller than she was. He had short blond hair, pale blue eyes, and a thin mustache. He wore a light blue sweater and a pair of charcoal gray trousers and was, she thought, very nearly as handsome as Roshan, though they were complete opposites. Light and dark, she mused. Sunshine and shadow.

He smiled at her, displaying even white teeth and a dimple in his left cheek. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." He held out a slender hand. "I'm Anthony Loken."

She hesitated a moment before placing her hand, briefly, in his. "Brenna Flanagan." Turning away to hide her nervousness, she replaced the book on the shelf and then, taking a deep breath, she turned to meet the stranger's gaze once more.

"May I buy you a cup of coffee?" he asked politely.

"No, thank you."

"Please, change your mind." He smiled disarmingly and then, apparently sensing her uneasiness, he said, "You're perfectly safe here. It's a public place, after all."

Myra smiled at the two of them as she passed by. "Tony's harmless," she told Brenna with a wink. "Just don't believe anything he says."

"You'd better be nice to me, Myra," Loken said with a wry grin, "or I'll take my business elsewhere."

Myra waved a dismissive hand in the air. "No, you won't. Try the Almond Amaretto, you two. Darlene just put up a fresh pot."

Loken turned to Brenna. "So, what do you say?"

"All right."

He smiled at her, then stepped back so she could precede him into the coffee shop. Brenna chose a table near the window. Loken held her chair for her, ordered two cups of Almond Amaretto from the waitress, and then leaned back in his chair.

"I take it you're interested in magick and the like," he remarked, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yes," she replied cautiously. "Since you are also in here, I gather you are, too."

"Oh, definitely."

Brenna bit down on her lower lip, wondering if she dared ask him if he was a witch. He solved the problem for her.

"This is a well-known meeting place for those who dabble in magick. Of course, we get outsiders from time to time, but most of Myra 's customers are serious practitioners." He leaned forward. "Are you by chance a witch?"

She shook her head, unable to voice the lie.

He settled back in his chair again. "Were you looking for anything in particular?" he asked. "Or are you just curious?"

"Just curious," she said. Although Anthony Loken seemed gentlemanly enough, she was reluctant to trust him, though she couldn't say why. She certainly had no intention of telling him that she was interested in finding a cure for vampirism. She wasn't even sure why she was looking for one. Roshan had never said anything about wanting to be mortal again.

"Thanks, Darlene," Loken said, smiling at the pretty serving girl who brought their order.

Darlene smiled back, a blush rising in her cheeks. "Would you like a cinnamon roll or a tart?" she asked. "Nicole just made some fresh."

"Nothing for me," Loken replied. "Miss Flanagan, would you care for anything?"

"No, thank you."

With a last adoring look at Anthony Loken, the waitress left the table.

"So," Loken said, stirring a bit of cream into his coffee, "are you new in the city?"

Brenna nodded. Picking up her cup, she sipped it slowly.

"I didn't think I'd seen you in here before," Loken remarked. "I must say, I hope you're here to stay. We can always use another pretty face."

"That is very kind of you to say," Brenna replied politely. "But you should not pay me such compliments."

He studied her for several moments. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No."

"And not very talkative." He lifted his cup and took a drink. "I can tell you're wondering if I'm a practitioner. Well, I am. I specialize in channeling and cartomancy."

"You don't care that people know you're a"— she lowered her voice— "warlock."

He shrugged. "Why should I care? This isn't seventeenth-century Salem. No one cares about witchcraft anymore. There are too many other scary things going on in the world for people to worry about witches and warlocks, even if they believed in them."

Though he spoke openly of being a warlock, she couldn't bring herself to tell him that she was a witch. She had spent too many years hiding what she was to share such personal information with a man she had just met. Back home, the villagers had thought of her as a healer, or so she had foolishly believed, until the night her neighbors came to accuse and condemn her.

"Yon are not into the dark arts, are you?" Brenna asked. Black magick was used to bring harm to others and reeked of negative energy. White magick, intended for doing good to one's self or others, was always positive. If there was one thing Granny O'Connell had instilled in Brenna, it was the law of threefold return. Any witch who used her power for evil could expect to reap three times the amount of whatever harm she caused another.

"No," Loken said. "We only practice white magick here. Healing, finding lost objects, things like that." He leaned forward again. "Do you need help with something, lessons in witchcraft, perhaps? I'd be happy to instruct you."

"No, I was just taking a walk through the city, finding my way around, as it were."

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