Salt Shaken

by Winnie Winkle

  “Wow.”

  “You can pour me a drink while I decide the price of your little adventure.”

  A lusty feeler smacked me on the ass, igniting everything. Perfect.

  Chapter 9

  The edges of Ballard’s business card burned against my fingertips. I craved him with zero space between us. Bad.

  Not that I’m getting any help from my nutso life. The full moon was tonight, and Herzog’s beach cleanup tomorrow morning. To his credit, he played the politics like a true pro. Radio and TV coverage blared everywhere with clips of his announcement, and his social media was on point and trending. In The Boogie, patrons sounded excited, conversations swirled about the big party. To cap it, our police event happened the day after and Bike Week started Friday, although I’d see bikers arriving throughout the week.

  My hot, crazy blood wanted options, but that was a nope. Insanity ruled the schedule right now, and if I wasn’t visible, it’d get weird, and fast.

  From my balcony, the faint blatt-blatt of a string of Harleys pulled my attention toward The Boogie. Bikers are their own breed. A group of six rode through my lot and onto my pier, stopping next to the door and parking single file along the railing. Fair enough. The pier was wide enough to accommodate this, but when they came out drunk, and tried turning their bikes around, it put my plastered, sun-baked tourist patrons at risk.

  Staff meeting. The Harleys are here.

  A faint pop announced a witch, and as I turned, Chelsea snatched the card out of my hand and grinned.

  “When did this happen?”

  “He stopped by yesterday morning, under the guise of being the new police liaison for the appreciation event.”

  “That’s kinda thin. And quick. So? Snap happening?”

  “Tons. He asked for a dinner, and I’ll call him after the cleanup.”

  Chelsea passed the card back and pointed to her belly. “Did you eat?”

  “Not yet. Grilled cheese?” I gestured toward the French doors, an invitation to enter.

  “Perfect.”

  Ten minutes later we were butter lipped and munching.

  “Not sure how you make these, but I’m in love.”

  “Dijon mustard. It enhances the sharp cheddar.”

  “To die for. Got a pickle?”

  A quick rummage in the fridge produced a jar of spicy pickles and I snagged two forks from the drawer. Poised over the spice of dill, vinegar, and hot peppers, we took turns stabbing.

  “How’d it go with the mer? Poseidon seemed impressed, unusual for him.”

  “For the initial conversation, it wasn’t terrible. They agreed to help push plastic up onto the shore.”

  “Hmm. Kinda convenient. The Mayor calls for a clean up and wham! Instant trash heap?”

  A tap sounded from the balcony and I crooked a finger at Poseidon, who entered, sniffing. I grinned.

  “Grilled cheese?”

  He nodded, pulling the stool beside Chelsea.

  “The plastic will be there because later today, oddly enough, we’ll have a hellacious sea squall.”

  She nodded, stabbing another pickle as I flipped Poseidon’s sandwiches and pulled a plate from the cupboard. The kitchen filled with the scent of toasty deliciousness. I passed him a fork, and he crunched while the second side cooked.

  The plate landed, and he grinned. “A suitable offering, Keeper.”

  “When is the big wind?”

  “Closer to sunset. The humans have to see the trash, feel the shock.”

  “What’s important is they pick the crap up and own the mess. The mer need to observe both the effort and that I wasn’t yanking their, er, tails.”

  A meaty hand smacked the granite, and he leered. “Give and take, Keeper?”

  “On all sides, Big Red.”

  “Advice you should take for yourself, Cleopatra. My repertoire is extensive.”

  My eye roll went unappreciated.

  Beach Patrol trucks, lights flashing, moved along the sand.

  “Due to lightning and storm conditions, the beach is now closed. Vehicles must exit the beach at this time.”

  The horizon blackened with menace, jagged bolts driving into the ocean as people struggled to fold their wind whipped canopies and umbrellas, dragging chairs, bags, and coolers to their cars and forming a creeping line to the exits.

  BOOM!

  The thunder shook The Boogie, and I watched headlights veering into my parking lot.

  Riding a storm out on the pier is a heady rush, so I don’t blame them. But it’s lots of eyewitnesses to the impending plastic cavalcade.

  As I glanced through the wall into The Boogey, Poseidon rolled his eyes and vanished.

  Fine. Second guessing a god never works, so you do you, Speedo King.

  I popped behind the bar, running orders until Charlie got on top of the rush, then eyed the tempest. The whole pier was heaving; this storm was a corker.

  BZZZZZT!

  The bolt landed on the empty beach and burned into the ground in sustained anger as my entire bar erupted in howls. Beachy people love this stuff, and that was an impressive strike.

  Zeus came to this party? I’m on his shit list! To be fair, that was no friendly salvo. Even so, I’d expect him to sit this situation out.

  Another glance toward The Boogey, and I froze.

  HOLY CRAP.

  Burning blue eyes flicked my way, and a big finger beckoned. I swallowed a lump the size of Jax in a dust dry throat, nodded at the god of thunder, and started moving.

  “You got this?” I rasped at Charlie, who grinned, tapping a pair of Beach Hippie IPAs, and I eased past clots of buzzed bikers, trotted to my office, and palmed through to The Boogey.

  “What’s your pleasure?”

  It took everything I had not to piss myself. Zeus emanated serious god mojo, and this was at a distance of twelve feet.

  “A Cygnus. You may join me with whatever annoying dribble you mortals drink.”

  “Thank you.”

  A cocktail with Zeus? Truce? Or the grace before the execution?

  A corner of his mouth lifted. There are no secrets with gods.

  Even Billy, my mentor, couldn’t build a Cygnus, but I could. Maybe my shred of Vapor liked to party more than his. The drink is a bewildering combination of magically enhanced gasses, bits of natural elements, and seawater. I layered the gas by weight, separating each layer with nine grains of sand, then nine crumbs of soil, then the hardest, nine tiny shreds of clay. The clay’s weight must be perfect; it was the piece that blew apart on Billy every time, but I always knew which specks to pick. Today was no different. To finish, a spritz of sea water. The drink grew black, roiled, then shaded to clear liquid. Within it, nine tiny planets revolved. Clep told me the orbs have an incredible honeyed taste when sipped, but only a god can drink a Cygnus. A mere magical would be dead before the second swallow. I doubt a human could breathe the fumes. But me, I’m special. Yay.

  I placed it in front of Zeus, and poured three fingers, one more than my normal, for myself. He nodded and moved to the windows, the storm in full swing across the beach. He pointed to the stool next to him, a command performance.

  I slugged bourbon courage and sat in silence, every nerve on fire.

  How the hell did I survive being this close to him last October?

  “I’ve wondered that myself, and it’s the curiosity that keeps you alive, Keeper. You earned my wrath several times.”

  Several. Perfect.

  “I had no choice but to follow the book.”

  He grunted and jabbed his finger at varied points along the beach, directing bolts of incredible intensity against the sand. Faint whoops floated from the human side of the bar, and the lights flickered but held.

  “It doesn’t serve me to have witnesses to this,” he said. “The light show keeps their feeble minds distracted.”

  I clawed my mind to silence, and he cut eyes at me before unleashing another round of furious bolts into the sand.

&nbs
p; In the crashing waves, Poseidon formed, rising and falling with the seas, as literal tons of garbage washed onto the entire visible stretch of beach. Squinting, I saw faint outlines of the mer, passing plastic to him as he shoved inordinate amounts of trash back toward its original owners.

  “Jeez, it’s so much,” I muttered.

  “A mere fraction,” Zeus replied. “Another, Keeper.”

  I retreated to make the drink; the electricity emanating from him made me nauseous, and I breathed, tapping every trick I knew to keep my sense of self in place. After a minute, I assembled the Cygnus and delivered it to the window seat, then withdrew to top off my bourbon. Despite the heavy pour, it wasn’t registering

  Great. I need this edge off, and soon. He’s swamping me.

  The storm continued to rage; the beach lost under a mound of refuse. Poseidon looked up at The Boogey, nodded, and fell back into the sea, formless. A few tails churned the surface as the mer retreated, and with a nod, Zeus downed his drink.

  “Don’t fuck this up, Keeper. Or do. I’m down for the reckoning.” He shimmered and vanished in a haze of ozone.

  I ran for the Ladies Room and barfed like a teenager at her first house party.

  Chapter 10

  The news van, skirting mounds of plastic, drove along the sand. A cameraman crouched on the roof, trying to capture the scene of miles of trash covering the World’s Most Famous Beach. My pocket vibrated; it was Herzog,

  “Mayor.”

  “That was divine timing. I’m headed your way and plan to run a press conference from your pier, then a second one from Main Street.”

  Not exactly an ask, you pompous douche, but fine.

  “We can assist. The Boogie has power and an excellent view of the beach situation.”

  “See you in ten.”

  I slipped back into the human side and grabbed Charlie’s attention.

  “Daytona’s Mayor is headed here to do a presser for his clean up tomorrow. Talk it up, get people excited. A big party! Let’s pick up junk and catch a buzz. Good times.”

  “On it,” Charlie winked, then raised an eyebrow that caught my innards. I arranged my face into a ‘no’ and eased back toward the front door. A second broadcasting van pulled in and started setting up their equipment as Herzog whipped in behind, jerking into park. As he bounded out of the car, I bumped up my pace to a trot to intercept.

  “Mayor.”

  “How the fuck did you do it? Never mind. This is fantastic! National news level stuff.”

  With two fingers, I slid a paper from my shorts pocket and passed it to him. “These are your talking points; make sure you touch on every one. You can add in your political crap, but you’d better present these, or you’ll wish you had. That message isn’t from me, Mayor. When you consider the might involved in changing your shoreline in a single storm, I’d stick to the script.”

  His eyes ran through the list, mouth opening and closing over one point, but he nodded and spun on his heel, jogging toward the Channel Six crew.

  Boogie patrons wandered outside, gaping at the crap on the beach, and giving Herzog the audience he craved as they circled the interview. Many pointed at the mountains of plastic, discussing the cleanup, and Herzog, known for solid political instincts, picked up and ran with their reactions.

  “Most of you knew about tomorrow’s exciting Daytona Beach Clean Up event. We’d like to extend the offer to our sister communities along the length of our shared shoreline, to help, join in the fun, and dispose of what this storm, in an appearance of divine intercession, gave us to clear and remove.”

  To the sound of clapping, a drunken tourist hollered, “And God said, pick up the trash!”

  “Pick up the trash!” A couple more called back.

  “Pick up the trash!” Herzog yelled, pumping his fist.

  I thought Herzog might gloss over the spiritual element. His choice to lead with it impressed me.

  The presser rolled, with Herzog’s plea to other Mayors and councils to supply dumpsters, water refill stations, and free beach access for pickup trucks, plus a waiver of fees for entering the recycling terminal.

  “Bring refillable bottles to eliminate more garbage. I don’t know what magic conjured a storm the precise day we scheduled a clean up, but what a golden opportunity for us to come together and support our citizens and economy.”

  I fixed an eye on him. His lips tightened, but he stuck the landing.

  “The sheer volume of waste washed up on our famous shores shows me that we, as a community, must be better. I call on the county to help our coastal cities craft legislation to ban plastic from our beach bars, restaurants, marinas, and our beaches.”

  Loud cries interrupted a smattering of grumbling. “No more plastic! No more plastic!”

  I glanced through the crowd; several witches, the leaders of these calls, twinkled back. A couple spells rained, and the entire crowd, boisterous, started yelling with them.

  “No more plastic!”

  “No more plastic!”

  “No more plastic!”

  Herzog, gobsmacked, joined in as the cameras panned.

  My interview, as a bar owner discussing the proposed ban, went well. I showed off the paper straws I had on hand, and plugged my supplier, a local business.

  “If every beach related enterprise goes this route, demand rises and prices fall. This makes good business sense and protects our oceans, the core of our livelihoods here on Boogie Beach. I’d love to see boat friendly product lines, and for everyone to keep supporting small businesses.”

  I made the six o’clock news, my patrons whooping when the broadcast aired. Charlie shot me an unnecessary grin.

  “The camera likes you, Boss.”

  Great.

  “Keeper, go home.” Poseidon’s voice boomed through The Boogey, rocking and jam-packed because of the full moon. Earlier, hundreds of mer waded ashore, joining packs of shifters, a couple covens from Orlando, and what appeared to be the entirety of the fae population from the Ocala National Forest, many who were swinging from my hanging lanterns and giggling.

  “But, it’s the full,” I stammered. “This place is a madhouse.”

  Bushy blond eyebrows leveled, and the temperature dropped ten degrees. “Perhaps you misunderstood me?”

  Shit. Way to go, idiot. Like you have spare time to recover from a smiting.

  “Chelsea, will you cover?”

  A shrug, and I slipped out the door, grateful I wasn’t a public lesson. Chelsea ran The Boogey for the rest of the full, with the resultant free alchemy and unpaid tabs. On the upside, sleep is a commodity I lacked, so I jumped in my Beetle and zipped home, ate a peanut butter and blueberry sandwich, and passed out. The thought of calling Ballard crossed my mind. Well, more of a stampede, but a sense of reticence held my fingers from tapping the remembered number.

  It’s a beginning. How many of those do we get? I should savor this. The connection is brand new for him and stretching out each lusty encounter builds the heat.

  Resigned, I tucked the card back into my dresser.

  I rose with the sun, poured coffee and padded to the balcony. Two sips in, a pop announced Chelsea’s arrival.

  “Hey,” I greeted her, liking the green bikini. “Love the suit.”

  “No Ballard? I’m impressed, but I owe Glenna gold.”

  “The hell? What kind of friend always bets against me?”

  “What? I bet on the logical outcome. Besides, it’s not as though I usually lose.”

  I stuck my tongue out at her and lifted my cup. Black eyes, followed by an entire frog, emerged from the coffee and leapt from the mug, squelching onto my cheek before springing to the chaise. It eyed me, annoyed.

  “What the hell? Dammit, Chelsea!”

  To her cackles, I marched into the kitchen, dumped the frog slimed java down the drain and poured fresh into a clean cup, eyeing the liquid for tadpoles.

  “You need thicker skin,” I announced.

  “And you need manner
s.”

  “Why are you here?” I made a point of not inviting her to join me. Petty, yet satisfying.

  “To clean up your mess, Keeper. My coven will work the beach, cast a few motivational spells, maybe snag a few hotties. We’re making a day of it.”

  “Cool!” Relenting, I crooked a finger. “The swimsuit makes sense, now. Come on in, I’ll change. I’m supposed to meet Herzog at 8 o’clock.”

  I grabbed my favorite, a striped cheeky bikini with strategically angled stripes, along with a semi modest coverup for the meeting with Herzog, and headed for the bathroom.

  “There are croissants from Publix in the box on the counter,” I called back and threw on some 24 hour lipstick, waterproof mascara and liner, and pinned my hair up in a messy beach bun.

  Not bad. Good enough for television.

  “Cute,” Chelsea approved. “If Ballard sees that bikini, you’re going to win the lover lottery.”

  “Goals.”

  “Ready?”

  I yanked my cover up over my head, added a petite crossover bag to hold my vertigo potion, eased on my sunglasses, and nodded. Chelsea grabbed my hand and snapped. We landed in The Boogey; I swallowed a slug of potion and grinned.

  I’m getting better at this.

  Heavy steps announced Poseidon, blue eyes scanning the beach as he settled his junk in the red speedo. “You have your work cut out for you, Keeper. Asclepius saw Gaia in the forest and learned she’ll allow Guru to assist you. This is your show, now. We’re watching.” With a measured look, he shimmered and vanished.

  “Hmm,” Chelsea murmured. “An interesting tidbit.”

  “A showdown? Guess I get one shot with Gaia.”

  “That’s my read. We’re here to help, Patra, but I’m not sure which result Gaia wants.”

  “Well, I know a way to find out. Come with me.” I headed for my office, Chelsea trailing behind and grabbing the teak folding chair.

  I palmed the cupboard and opened the book.

  “In the record, there are entries for Keepers alone. Show me the language of the Vapors.”