Page 26 of Witches and Wine
“Pfft,” Bruce guffawed, flicking one horn. “I don’t need no fancy gloves.”
“Suit yourself,” Thor replied, snapping his fingers and making the golden hammer with Nordic scrolling carved into the metal appear, its hilt a thin, short wooden rod wrapped in leather binding. It made a wall-shatteringboomwhen it landed just shy of Bruce’s hooves.
Bruce rubbed his hands together and lifted, only managing to move it an inch, but it didn’t stop him from repeatedly trying. We’d be hearing cursing, grunts, and growls from him for the next several minutes.
“Why’d you come to the Cove, Thor? Why not Midgard, as you call it?” I asked, popping open the cash register to ensure there was adequate change.
All forms of gods may have had different terminology for it, but a place for humanity always existed no matter how they spun the stories.
“I’ve been to Midgard plenty of times, but somehow, this place slipped through my celestial fingers. And when I saw the name Bacchus, well, it didn’t take the wisdom of Frigg to figure out who owned this place.” Letting out a deep chuckle, Thor displayed his hands at the surrounding club, swiveling his hips.
“Yeah? What do you think of it?” Smirking, I tapped the touchscreen credit card device, ensuring it was in working order.
“It’s very you, Dion. Very you,” Thor replied, eyeing Bruce still fiddling with his hammer.
Bruce licked his hands, slapped them together, and did several quick exhales. He squatted on his haunches and attempted to lift with his legs, falling backward when the hammer won yet another battle.
“And don’t think you’re getting out of this female business, the Speedster briefly brought up,” Thor added, pointing at me.
Hermes flashed me a devious grin as he faced the bar again. “Yeah. Thinks she might be hismate.”
“For the umpteenth time, Herm, if she were, you’d think the Fates would’ve given me some kind of sign.” A snarl wrapped my words in a tightly annoyed package.
Thor patted Bruce’s head before pressing a finger to his hammer, making it disappear in a swirl of embers and orange sparks. Bruce’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not entirely sure if your Fates work like our Norns, but their ‘signs,’ as you called them, can be about as subtle as a sudden chilled breeze on a hot summer’s day.”
Hermes stuck his bottom lip out, contemplating this. “That sounds about right for our conniving thread weavers as well.”
“You do all realize your help is about as useful as spectacles for a cyclops, right?” I blinked at them, irritation wringing my spine like a drenched sponge.
Music began to blare from the overhead speakers, the multi-color lights spilling over the bar and dancefloor. Maenads circled through the scattered tables, resting newly filled napkin dispensers and Bacchus coasters on each. The night’s bartenders, a male demon with dark blue stubbed horns and a light pink pixie with her translucent wings flapping through her white shirt, joined me behind the bar, surprise at my presence evident on their faces.
“You said she’s coming tonight, right, boss?” Bruce asked, rubbing his biceps from the strain of attempting to pick up the hammer.
“Yeah,” I replied, my voice distant. My gaze was glued to the entrance as patrons began flooding into the club, all smiles and excitement to get their night of debauchery started. A peculiar bout of nerves fluttered through my stomach, making my chest tighten. As each person entered, the nerves multiplied when I’d yet to spother.
Thor cracked his knuckles, spotting something he liked across the room, but I was too fixated on the entrance to glance away. He jostled me. “I’ll meet up with you later, Dion. Going to make the most of my night here in the Cove.”
“Have fun,” I mumbled.
The planet somehow slowed on its axis, the pounding bass of the music timing with my ethereal heartbeat as I lay eyes on Chelsea enteringmyclub. She wore a gold, sequined dress that cut off at mid-thigh. The front had a plunging neckline that went just above her belly button, giving a prime view of those ample tits I had in my mouth and hands the night before. Her hair was fiery and voluminous in tight waves over her shoulders. To my relief, she was alone and her gaze flitted around her, searching for me. She turned away, revealing an entirely backless dress stopping above her ass and showing those two dimples there. When she spun around, our gazes instantly locked through the crowd. A surge I’d never experienced sparked in my tailbone, zipped up my spine and cemented itself in my skull. There was no denying it now.
Chelsea Stewart was my mate. She wasmine.
I’d stoodoutside the club pacing a square on the sidewalk with my clutch tucked under my arm for the better part of ten minutes after they officially opened. Was I absurd for pursuing this? Granted, I’d already dug myself pretty damn deep by jumping Dion’s bones this morning. What was to say it wouldn’t be more than a fling? Would that be a bad thing? Did he want more? Did I want more?
My power sizzled in my palm and zapped my middle finger. Yelping, I shook my hand and stared at my skin. Was that some form of magical defense mechanism when I got in my own head? Growling in frustration, I marched to the line now wrapped around the building and waited. Dion said Bacchus attracted all walks of ethereal life, but no one seemed out of the ordinary at first glance. That was, of course, if you ignored the variety of insect-like, feathered, and taloned wings sprouting from guests in the queue.
When I reached the bouncer, I fumbled with my clutch, ready to produce my ID, but he waved me in, grumbling and motioning for those behind me to move forward. One step over the threshold from outside the blazing, booming atmosphere of the club had my arm hairs standing on end. I was no stranger to the club scene, but it had been years since I set foot in one and never a place like this. Bacchus was like stepping into something from a storybook, with rows of marble columns lining both floors and sputters of glowing, glittering magic from dancing patrons at every corner.
Scanning the main floor, I saw no signs of Dion and felt compelled to pull the hem of the sultry dress I’d brazenly chosen. It didn’t budge more than half an inch, but the chilled breeze wafting against my exposed chest and back from overhead industrial-sized vents made me acutely aware of how scandalous my attire was. I’d be lying to myself if I said I decided on it because I wanted people to stare because I wantedhiseyes on me—I wanted to have him spellbound.
A hulking form passing jolted me from my daydream. He was easily several feet taller than me, with veined bat-like wings the height of his body. His haunches were clawed, hooved, and massive, matching his equally large hands with three wide fingers, talons curling from each. He’d paused to look down at me, dipping his squared chin, the corners coming to jagged points, and when he offered a half-smile, similar sharpened canines to Dion’s glinted from the strobe lights.
“Beg your pardon,” he said, his voice deeper than the Titans trapped underground, and I fought the urge to stare at the massive, curved, swirling horns protruding from his forehead. He wore a leather kilt and a simple vest over his bulbous arms and chest.
“Um, hello?” A male voice said from the opposite side of the room, the tone lighter than the average. “I thought gargoyleswere supposed to be protective? Care to do your job, you big oaf?” The man, dressed in stark white pants, loafers, and a bright red shirt exposing his chest and golden chains, nudged several of the people surrounding him, who were all cackling.
Grumbling, the gargoyle moved past me and to the awaiting male, his forked tail swaying behind him. “I’ve got to find new clients.”
