by C. C. Mahon
“So exclusive that no one gets in without an invitation,” confirmed the wizard.
“How do you feel?” I asked him. I hadn’t had a chance to talk to him since he’d gotten out of the infirmary.
“Like new,” he said. “My colleagues weren’t happy to see me again, but they nevertheless got me back on my feet. And then out the door.”
“Are you going to go back to England?” I asked.
“Not right away. I find your country…reinvigorating.”
“Oh yeah?” asked King. “How so?”
“Over the course of the past few weeks, I’ve had more brushes with death than the last fifty years in England. I met extraordinary characters. Do you know the young Mona?”
I shook my head, and King did the same.
“You’ll hear about her,” said Britannicus. “She’s…unique.” He wet his lips in the glass that Nate handed him, and he grimaced. “Dear friend, I prefer you at the door than behind the bar.”
“So do I,” grumbled Nate. “But it’s boss’ orders, it would seem.”
Later in the night, Britannicus led me to a quieter corner of the room. “Matteo told me what happened after I lost consciousness.”
“Yeah?”
“How are you feeling?”
“I did what I had to do,” I said. “I’m not proud of it, but at least now we don’t have to worry. I would’ve preferred that the coyotes didn’t eat her afterwards, but…”
He took out a box from inside his jacket and handed it to me. It contained a hairbrush. “Starting today, can you use this brush only?”
“What’s special about it?”
“The handle is made of rosewood and the bristles are made of boar’s hairs. The clerk assured me it was the best of the best.”
“Is it enchanted?”
“Not at all. Nothing magical. I would only like for you to use it starting today and to count the number of hairs you lose everyday.”
“Brit! I know you have a buzzcut, but do you have any idea of the number of hairs someone loses everyday? I’m not gonna sit around counting them.”
“A rough estimation would do. Please.”
I finally gave in to his strange request.
In the early morning hours, I painfully made my way back up to my loft. I placed the brush on a table without realizing how much I would come to hate it.
I fell asleep hugging my sword.
*********************************************************************
Magical Mysteries
Club 66 - Book 2
C. C. Mahon
Translated by Isabelle Comeau
Copyright © 2019 C. C. Mahon
All rights reserved
Cover Design © 2019 Melody Simmons
1
MY NAME IS Erica St. Gilles.
That name is not the one I was given at birth. This life is not the one I had intended to live. Everything had been taken from me the moment I had crossed paths with Callum Carver.
Callum on the one hand was handsome, very rich, funny, and cultured. Callum on the other hand was a sadist manipulator who took pleasure in isolating me from the people who loved me to better be able to torture me, psychologically and physically. Callum, who I’d fled, bringing with me his collection of magical objects—one of which was the sword.
I let my fingers run along its blade and felt the metal quiver.
The sword rested on my knees, and its presence surrounded me like that of a friend.
When I had decided to bring this sword with me as I ran towards my new life, I thought that it was simply an antique. Callum’s collection held many magical artifacts but also simple antiques without any particular powers. I’d believed it, until a Valkyrie showed up on the doorstep of my nightclub to take back what was hers.
I possessed the sword of a Nordic goddess.
Just that was enough for me to revere the object. But there was more.
According to my friend, Britannicus Watson, the sword had chosen me. It had set its sights on me, rather than going back to the arms of its legitimate owner, the Valkyrie.
I closed my fingers around the hilt and brandished the sword in front of me. A simple thought on my part and flames engulfed the blade, like a flamethrower in the middle of my room.
With this sword, I’d fought the Valkyrie. With this sword, I’d won. And with it…
The image of the Valkyrie’s head, rolling on the ground, filled my mind. The flames doubled in intensity then disappeared. I chased away the image like an annoying fly. Between the hell that my ex had put me through for two years and the senseless battles against the Valkyrie, I had more than my fair share of flashbacks. It was a matter of learning to distinguish between post-traumatic stress and reality. Being near the sword still helped me. Exercise didn’t hurt either.
I put the weapon back in its case, above my bed, and left my room. In the middle of the loft, a punching bag hung from a beam. I reached for my boxing gloves abandoned on the dresser when my fingers found the hairbrush sitting next to them. That brush—rosewood and boar’s hair—I had only had it for a week. My friend Britannicus had offered it to me after our victory against the Valkyrie. Not a very warrior-like gift, but why not? I’d attributed this choice to the British wizard’s eccentricity. Along with the strange request that had come with it: that I only use this brush from now on and that I count the hairs that I lost.
I grabbed the brush suddenly and ran it through my brown hair. I brushed over, I brushed under, I brushed in every direction. Then I turned on a desk lamp to examine the boar’s hairs: not a single lost hair. Not one in a week. Either it was the worst brush ever created or there was something unnatural going on. And knowing my luck, I leaned towards the latter.
I put down the brush and picked up my phone.
“Watson Consulting,” announced Britannicus.
Impossible to mistake his distinct British accent.
“Consulting? ” I asked. “Are you going into business?”
“Erica, what a pleasure! What can I do for you?”
“It’s about this hairbrush,” I said.
“Mhmm.”
“Brit, what are you up to?”
“Could you elaborate?”
“Look, I accepted your gift because you promised me there was nothing magical about it. But if you tricked me…”
“No, no, I assure you. I even have the receipt from the boutique in my accounting book. It’s a brush, nothing more normal than that.”
“So in that case, can you tell me why I haven’t lost a single hair since I started using it?”
“Are you sure?”
I couldn’t see Britannicus, but I’d just sensed his mood completely change, like stormy skies. I held back a shiver.
“Positive. Not on the brush or the pillow, and not in the shower either. I mean, I’m not complaining. Your brush makes my hair smooth and shiny, and soon I’m going to rival Matteo when it comes to his luxurious mane. But I would like to understand.”
“It would be best if I explained it to you in person.”
“I’m listening.”
“No, really, we need to talk face to face.”
“Now you’re worrying me.”
“Can I come by before the club opens?”
I checked the time and swore. “Shit, I’m late!”
I thought quickly. I was really eager to hear Britannicus’ explanations, but I had a feeling this discussion would have to take place in private.
“I’m doing interviews for the next two hours,” I said. “Can you stop by after that?”
“What interviews?”
“To replace…”
“Oh. Agatha?”
“Exactly.”
Britannicus remained quiet for a few moments.
Agatha was my old bartender. Until the Valkyrie had killed her. Agatha was also a joyful dryad full of life, a model employee, and if I’d let her, a loyal friend. No one could replace her. But there needed to be someone behind the
bar at my club.
“Good luck,” said Britannicus simply.
I looked at myself in the mirror before going out. I hadn’t lied when I’d told Britannicus that my hair had never looked better. Brown, shiny, it flowed down to my shoulders like a prized mane. My face, on the other hand, didn’t have the same radiance. I had bags under my eyes, and I thought I was too pale. I was almost thirty minutes late, and my first impulse was to rush to the basement to greet the candidates. But I thought better of it: first impressions mattered, especially in a work relationship. I couldn’t just show up with bags under my eyes and my wrinkled t-shirt. I therefore took the time to put on a slightly classier blouse, some make-up, and even a pair of stilettos. Voilà. Like this, I looked like the owner of a nightclub. I just had to make it down the stairs without face-planting.
Three candidates were waiting for me on the first floor, sitting on three folding chairs lined up in the huge hangar. Sitting astride the fourth chair, my bouncer, Nate, observed them in silence. Built like the bear he turned into a few nights a month, with his long blonde hair tied at the base of his neck, he looked like a grumpy Viking deprived of pillaging.
The candidates seemed uncomfortable under Nate’s scrutinizing look. They looked more like defendants waiting for a verdict than candidates waiting for a job interview. It was time to put them out of their misery.
2
THE FIRST CANDIDATE entered the room with a swagger to his step, hands in his pockets. He was wearing a retro suit that conjured images of 1940s jazz clubs: double-breasted jacket with oversized epaulettes reaching the mid-thigh and wide pants with sharp creases, all of it in bright green. The man shot me a brilliant smile and sat down in front of me without waiting to be asked to.
“Hello, my name is Johnny. It would appear you’re hiring.”
“Who recommended you?”
“No one. I heard what happened to your bartender—horrific thing, no? So I figured I might as well go for it. I came by the other night, and your big guy at the door told me to come today.”
So nothing guaranteed that Johnny was one of our own, a member of the supernatural world. I wasn’t going to risk hiring a civilian. I had to learn more about him.
“I see. Have you ever worked in a bar?”
“Absolutely! Twelve years at the Green Mill!”
“In Chicago?”
“Yes, ma’am! They never did complain about me.”
“Do you have a number for someone over there?”
“I would doubt that. It’s been…” He looked towards the ceiling, like a kid doing math in his head. “Seventy years since I’ve set foot there.”
I wouldn’t have thought he was more than thirty.
“Why did you leave the Green Mill?”
“It’s that bitch—excuse my language, miss—who turned me into a bird. Seventy years in an aviary, squawking like an idiot.”
“Transformed into…a bird?”
“Yes, ma’am, like I said. A stupid peacock. Seventy years calling out ‘Leon.’”
“But…why?”
“Why was I calling Leon? No idea. It seemed important at the time.”
“No, I mean…why did this woman transform you into a bird? Did you know her?”
Johnny scratched the back of his head for a few moments. “I don’t recall a lot of the details anymore. I think she was a customer at the bar. Pretty girl. She batted her eyelashes at me, and like an idiot, I jumped right in. A true crazy person, who collected people to transform them into birds.”
“A collector, huh? I know the type. And what made her release you?”
“An awesome chick called Mona, who attacked her. One moment, I was flying around the greenhouse, and the next moment I found myself on my ass among other guys in the same state. After that, it was a little chaotic. That was three weeks ago, and I’m just getting back on my feet.”
I put Johnny behind the bar. He took off his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves in a theatrical gesture. I started testing his skills. The man worked fast and well, but his knowledge of cocktails ended in the early fifties.
I thanked him, took his number, and promised to let him know my decision.
The second candidate arrived with her head covered by a silk scarf, her face hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, like an incognito celebrity. She was a gorgon. The masse of snakes that took the place of her hair was not an issue—with those, she would command respect from the worst drunks. But her glasses didn’t lend well to working in the dark and subdued atmosphere of the club.
“Barbie warned me that it might be an issue,” acknowledged the gorgon. “But if I take them off, I petrify the audience. And anyways, I’m used to wearing them day and night…”
“Have you known Barbie long?”
“Our families migrated at the same time, at a time when the Greek community was still tight knit.”
“What led you to apply today?”
She let out an infuriated sigh. “My husband left me. Just took off, as if…” She waved her hand in the air before continuing, “In short, I need to find a job.”
“Have you ever worked in a bar?”
“Never. But I’ve drank enough cocktails to know how they’re made.”
Despite her display of confidence, the gorgon clearly didn’t meet my expectations.
“I can’t hire you as a bartender,” I said, “but I’ll hold on to your information in case something else comes up.”
She let out another sigh, pursed her lips, then shrugged, as if she’d already chased away her frustration.
“It was worth a shot,” she concluded.
The young lady who came in next hit me with the impression of fragility she gave off. She wasn’t particularly small, but she was stick thin with long black hair that went down to her waist. She was wearing a straight midnight blue dress that stopped just above the knee, and her light make-up highlighted her high cheekbones, coppery skin, and doe eyes. She shot me a professional smile when I invited her to sit down in front of me.
“My name is Enola,” she said. “Nate told me you were looking for a bartender.”
I nodded and prompted her to keep going, trying to hide my surprise. Since I had known him, Nate had never mentioned a friend, or even an acquaintance. He was the most solitary bear you could imagine.
Enola smiled at me. “We’re the same, him and I.”
“ Oh, you’re a…”
She shook her head, and her hair waved like silk. “‘Bear?’ No. But I am solitary. Such is the fate of people like me.”
I didn’t say anything to give her the chance to continue if she wished to, but she kept quiet.
In my club, I only hired people from this “world,” meaning they were supernaturals. My bouncer was a metamorph, my cook was a vampire, and my waitresses were a harpy and a troll. I was the only human of the bunch, thrust into the magical world by the knowledge I’d gained from my ex. Callum had been obsessed with magic and the supernatural. Once you entered this world, you couldn’t exactly forget it.
But one of my rules was to never ask the person I was talking to what they were. You simply didn’t do that.
“Have you ever worked in a bar?”
“Never.”
“Where have you worked before now?”
“I’ve never worked. It’s the first time I’m looking for a job.”
“Why the change?”
“I didn’t feel safe at home anymore. I’m looking for somewhere safer. That’s why I contacted Nate, and he’s the one who suggested your club.”
“You think Las Vegas will be safer than where you were?”
She shrugged, and her eyes became guarded. “The future can take many different paths. It’s not clear yet.”
“So you don’t have any work experience, not in a bar or anywhere else. What can you do?”
“I’ve memorized the cocktail encyclopedia.”
“Do you know how to pour a beer?”
“Nate explained it to me.”
> I had to hold back from bursting out laughing. I had put Nate behind the bar one night. He was the worst bartender you could possibly imagine. I hoped that his friend would fare better.
I showed her to the counter. “We’re going to test that right now.”
She stood up and came around the table. That’s when I noticed that what I had assumed were platform pumps were actually a pair of hooves: Enola didn’t only have the eyes of a doe, she also had its feet.
I’d seen worse, and I didn’t let myself get tripped up. “Start by pouring me a beer on tap.”
She got to it, first with hesitant movements that I quietly corrected. Little by little, she gained confidence. I moved on to the cocktail menu: from the classics—Martini, Manhattan, Bloody Mary—to rarer ones, like the Green Ghost, one of the club’s specialties. Each order that I gave her was followed by a moment during which she closed her eyes and, I assumed, recalled the recipe. Then she started by picking the right glass, gathering the ingredients, measuring and mixing. Her movements were slow and deliberate, and she paid special attention to the presentation of the drinks. But I had trouble picturing her serving during peak hours.
“Have you practiced a lot?”
“It’s the first time. I don’t normally have access to a bar.”
I wet my lips in the Green Ghost. The smell of lime invaded my nostrils.
“Is there something I should know about you?” I asked. “Any particular limitation due to your nature? Obviously you can get around during the day…”
“I always tell the truth.”
My glass froze halfway between my lips and the bar.
“Your weakness is honesty? That seems acceptable.”
“In theory, maybe. In practice…” A veil of sadness troubled her doe eyes. “Do you know what ‘Enola’ means?” she asked.
I admitted my ignorance.
“In our language, it means ‘solitary.’ When I was born, my mother knew that I was a seer, and she understood what fate awaited me—solitude.”
I thought about it for a few moments before asking, choosing my words carefully, “Does that mean that you must tell the truth, without being able to stop yourself?”