The Art of the Brew, Mystic Brews #7 ebook

“At least you’re not forced to wear a stupid tie.” Punkin stretched his neck out, trying to convince me his collar was too tight. I ignored his antics.

“Where is she?” I looked down at my familiar. He was standing on a high stool at one of the small yet tall café tables. The emporium was full of people painting, small round bar tables, and stools, but devoid of my bestie.

“Obviously not here. Unfortunately, the ponderous and prattling Pomeranian is here.” 

“Well, Gemma is here. Her familiar would be too. If you don’t behave, I’ll loan you off to that new café someone is opening next to this gallery.” I leaned over to straighten the little white bow tie on his black silk collar. 

“Bah! Why do I even need a tie?”

“The same reason I need a long black skirt and jacket. It’s a high-class art reception. Io’s friends from the art world are here. And I gave you five chocolate chips as a reward. You’re just lucky the vet says your pwca metabolism is still there. Chocolate isn’t good for cats.”

“Chocolate is no comparison to coffee beans. Anyway, do you know anything about art?” Punkin thrust a paw out towards the two canvases hung on the walls of Arthur’s Artistic Emporium. Drapes covered them, each awaiting their unveiling later this evening.

“I know to ask Io about art.” 

“You could ask me. I was a photographer, you know,” said Jake, my ex-boyfriend’s ghost, phasing in above me. He pulled a ghost chicken off his shoulder and set it on Punkin’s head. I tried to suppress a grin.

Punkin jerked his head to the side. “I know what that smile means. Is that ghostly poltroon here with his dead fowl? I shall have none of his shenanigans tonight.” Punkin leapt to the other open stool, leaving the ghost chicken standing in mid-air.

Jake moved the chicken to again balance on Punkin’s furry black head. He held a finger to his lips, cautioning me to stay silent.

Punkin ducked anyway. “I can follow your eyes. Tell that ex of yours to leave me be.”

I reached over and popped a spark of magic into the offending fowl.

A stern “Thank you” was the best I got from Punkin as he scanned the air overhead looking for invisible ghost fowl he couldn’t see.

Like all fae buildings, this one had an enchantment that allowed the inside to grow larger than the outside of the structure. Tonight’s reception was in an expanded art gallery comprised of both our world and an interdimensional pocket of space and time and pixie dust or some such. Aunt Rose promised I’d learn about them in my second or third decade of studying. Which meant she’d be teaching me, not Io. Speaking of my uncle and mentor, he walked one of the patrons over to me.

“Ebrel, this is Jessica Fairfield, one of my closest art friends from the States,” Io said, touching my elbow. I turned and surveyed the tallish woman with dark hair and brown eyes. “Jess, my niece, Lady Ebrel Dymestl.”

“So glad to meet you,” I said and offered my hand. 

She took it firmly and gave me a smile. “A pleasure. I’ve actually heard of you from the national barista competition but didn’t make the connection until Io filled me in on who his niece was.” Her accent was fairly Midwestern, with a touch of something else.

“Oh? Are you into coffee?”

“I’ve worked a few coffee bars. Paying my way through art school. Of course, I’d much rather be off sketching than making coffee for someone else.”

I nodded. College wasn’t cheap in America. I glanced at Io and raised an eyebrow. “That I can totally understand. Someone I know is always off painting or sketching.”

“Jess will agree. When the light is right for a scene, you have to be there.”

“He is correct. Don’t want to miss the texture the shadows reveal.” She nodded, and a fuzzy head popped out of the oversized bag she had draped over one shoulder. Unlike most of the bags we saw on fae, this one wasn’t a T3, or Thaddeus Trevor Thurburg, design. Fae tended towards the popular designer, who was also fae. 

Instead, Jess’s bag was decorated in what I assumed was a hand-painted, one-of-a-kind design. Similar to Starry Night from Van Gogh. But with more of a watercolour look, and flying witches, wandering trolls, and at least a dozen pixies.

“Bah! It’s another Pierre!” Punkin jerked back, and one of his hind legs slipped off the stool. It and he toppled backwards. I zapped it with a glue spell that Io had recently taught me. That kept Fuzzbutt on the stool with one leg dangling. As the glue spell took hold, the stool bounced back with a slurp to get all the legs on the floor.

“Chill and relax, Brother Fuzzy Dude.” Another Pomeranian, but with a mellow West Coast American accent cocked its head at Punkin. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Bah! Two Pomeranians in one village is two too many.” Punkin sent a small blip of magic into my spell to free his paws and reset himself on the stool.

I poked his nose. “Behave. None of your grumps about dogs tonight.”

“BK loves to catch folks unaware,” Jess added, scruffing his head.

“Oh no,” Io said, shaking his head. “Gemma has been cornered by Teo Madison. He’s been insufferable ever since he started getting drunk a year ago. I need to go save her, or she’ll never talk to me again. Watch over Jess for me, Ebrel. She’s one of my best friends.”

Jess and I watched Io thread his way through the patrons. I cocked an eyebrow and glanced her way.

“Is Teo Madison really that bad? I mean, Gemma is a de Umple and an attorney.”

Jess bit her lower lip and nodded. “I believe Io is going more to save Teo than to protect Gemma.”

“Oh?”

BK shook his head, watching Teo. “That dude is most unwilling to accept the boundaries of personal space.”

“Meaning?” I looked at Jess for the translation.

“He’s handsy with women. Pity. He’s so nice when he’s not drinking.” She pointed towards Gemma and the tall, thin man with black hair and a pencil-thin moustache. “Yep. Hand on her arm. He must have already touched her shoulder. Next up is to take her hand.”

“And raise it to his lips?” I thought of Elain’s brother, Neirin. Although he feigned being smitten with every woman to make his acquaintance, and often turned an offer of a handshake into the raising the hand to his lips, he was ever a gentleman with women.

“Dude is slimy like algae on the side of a wooden pier,” BK added.

“Oh.” I gave a slow nod as Gemma thrust his hand off her forearm and tried to step past him. Io was there blocking him from pursuing her.

I waved a hand towards Io and the other artist. “I’m surprised he’s gotten away with that for so long.”

Jess rolled her eyes. “His family is the highest fae rank in Spain. His father is like Lord de Umple in rank in Her Grace’s court.”

“Hardly, my dear,” Gemma said, and flashed me a slight smile. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation.” 

Pierre popped his head out of Gemma’s T3 Limited bag. The two Pomeranians eyed each other, Pierre’s eyes narrowed in comparison to the innocent look on BK’s face.

“Sacré! It cannot be?”

Punkin chortled. “What? You’ve never seen another Pomeranian before?” 

“No, house elf, this is the BK. I did not believe I’d ever have the opportunity to meet him.”

“The BK? Am I supposed to know who that is? Talk sense, you bewildered puffball.”

“Quiet!” I poked a finger in Punkin’s side. “No insults, remember?”

“BK?” Gemma shrugged, then held her hand out. “Gemma de Umple Yardley.”

I winced, trying to remember the rules of introducing members of fae nobility Io kept trying to remind me of. “Sorry. I’m not up on my nobility and proper form of introductions. This is Jessica Fairfield?” I let the last syllable trail off in a question, trying to remember her surname.

“Jess, please.” She took Gemma’s hand. “And BK is Big Kahuna.”

Gemma’s eyes grew wide.

I glanced between them. “Someone want to fill me in?”

“He was my gram’s familiar before I got him,” Jess said with a knowing smile.

“And he was the key power link in shutting off the flow of demonic energy when Mauna Loa erupted.” Pierre’s eyes went wide, staring at the other Pom.

BK gave a doggie shrug. “Dude did what a dude does. Just helping my witch.” 

“Your gram was the witch that helped close the portal?” Gemma’s eyes matched Pierre’s. “Well done. Please give her my regards.” 

“Well….” Jess let the syllable hang. That silence filled in the blank.

“Of course, my apologies.” Gemma glanced at me and cocked an eyebrow.

I shook my head but looked around anyway. Jake and his chicken were the only spirits I noticed in the area.

Jess sucked in a quick breath. “Oh, I had forgotten your talent. Please let me know if you notice Gram.”

“I will. But not all spirits stay around.” I gave her a sympathetic smile. Playing spirit counselor was, unfortunately, becoming one of my routines.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to be an imposition. I mean… it’s not everyone who has your talent.”

“Well, my skills are more with coffee than painting. I leave that stuff to Io. What was your gram like? How will I know it’s her?”

“She was Dude,” BK said in his Zen-like surfer tone. “She could shred the waves with the best. Longboard or shortboard. Earned much respect from all the dudes on every beach.”

“Your grandmother was a surfer?” I grinned. “Girl power! I can’t see my grandmother ever getting on a board. Mrs David Storm II was far too proper to ever hang ten or whatever surfers do.”

“Oh. Gram was far from proper.” Jess laughed. “She was out in Hawaii in 1984, I think it was, when the volcano started erupting. The Hawaiian elders recognised the signs of a demonic portal opening and thought they could handle it if she helped.”

Gemma nodded. “I remember that one. They were lucky your grandmother was there. And that she had such a powerful familiar.”

BK made a shushing noise. “A dude is no stronger than the witch we are paired to.” Another doggie shrug, then he pointed his nose at Punkin. “I hear this dude helped close a portal just as large.”

Punkin sat up straighter, his kitty lips curling up into a grin. “Well, I…”

I held up a warning finger. “Don’t give him a big head. I had the wobblies back then, and it was a surge from that.”

“Oh, not really,” Angie Cudyll said, sliding in next to me. “We were fortunate to have a Dymestl that night. Wobblies may surge, but they can’t take you past your limits.”

I made quick introductions of Angie, one of our local dryad sisters. Here among fae, her true nature showed. Dryads were green-skinned orc women. Their beauty seemed to be a counterpoint to the rugged, thick, and tusky appearance of the orc males. Gemma was one of the few normal fae women in our village with the beauty to rival a dryad like Angie or her sisters. And Gemma had privately admitted she used several spells to keep her appearance up.

Tone chimes sounded as G’Neville, the gnomish proprietor of the Artistic Emporium, stood at the end of the hall, tapping chimes with a small mallet.

The gnome stepped onto a wooden box, painted stark white, then tapped it with his wand to start the growth spell. The box slowly pushed him up and widened to make a small stage. Another box rose even higher in front of him to make a podium. “Thank you all for attending our midsummer reception.” He turned and waved a woman forward. 

She was as tall as most of the men in the room, with long straight blonde hair. Her sleek black dress with a plunging neckline left little to the imagination.

“Spells,” Gemma whispered next to me. “She’s enhancing with spells. I’d wager she’s in at least her fifth century and is trying to look as young as you.”

I chuckled. Leave it to Gemma to think she had to annotate appearances.

Gemma’s cheeks flushed. “I mean… well… I…”

The start of G’Neville’s welcome speech cut off her stammering reply. A spell sent his voice throughout the gallery, so he didn’t need to shout. 

“Tonight we’ll be unveiling two pieces from fae artists featured in our autumn auction. Of course, the paintings will be on display here through that time. And both artists have consented to donate the proceeds from these pieces to charity. Miss Lis Heddwyn has selected…?”

“The Academy of the Sisters of Faerock,” the artist said. She stood behind G’Neville’s mini stage next to one of the shrouded paintings. “The sisters care for those touched by faerock in their academies and orphanages around the world.”

“An excellent choice,” G’Neville said and rapped the podium to quiet the murmurs around the room. Judging by the nodding of heads, the charity was well known and liked. “Miss Heddwyn, if you please?”

At the art dealer’s wave, she pulled the shroud off the canvas. The canvas, probably two feet across by four wide, featured an idyllic park setting with many people out enjoying their day. I guessed that at least a hundred or more picnickers, children playing, pixies dancing in flight, and more were in the scene.

“A wonderful piece. Miss Heddwyn is known for her landscapes, and this is one of the rare pieces she’s painted with more than a single humanoid figure. Her colour palette and use of fine detail is sure to be noticed by art lovers.”

A smattering of applause rippled through the room.

“Our second painting is from Fritz Rasher.” G’Neville gestured towards the man waiting by the second draped piece. He was a thicker man, with a greying goatee, and salt-and-pepper hair, stood in a well-tailored suit. His bow tie would have rivalled Punkin’s tie if my familiar hadn’t kept tugging it. I reached down and twisted the collar to get his little tie back under his chin. That earned me a fierce cat glare.

“I have chosen the Atlantis Merfolk Historical Preservation Society,” Rasher said and stepped behind the easel. He gripped each of the top two corners of the white cloth between thumb and forefinger, waiting on the nod from the art dealer. G’Neville waited on the reactions of appreciation for the charity to fade before nodding.

Rasher pulled the drape up and over the canvas. A collective gasp erupted through the room.

The canvas was blank. Not a drop of paint, not even white applied with a roller, stained the canvas. He folded the drape in his hands, then looked at the crowd. Confusion rippled across his face at the stunned reaction. He stepped around and peered at the framed piece, then shoved the white cloth into his jacket pocket and turned, a snarl growing on his reddening face.

“Sacré!” Pierre’s exclamation broke the silence.

“Dude!” BK said right after Pierre’s exclamation. “Someone stole your painting.”