Read Online Boneyard (The Thaumaturge Series Book 2) by Cal Matthews - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Cal Matthews
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very clearly telling me that I was being a giant asshole.
“You should just close up early,” Dahlia suggested after I had sent the girls out the door with their environmentally friendly paper cups. They hadn't tipped. I’d only heated the water to about 80 degrees.
I opened my mouth to respond but the bell tinkled over the door and we both looked up as a slim, middle-aged man in a black overcoat ducked inside. He gave me a polite smile, glanced dismissively at Dahlia and then moved deeper into the store. I eyed him for a second, holding my breath when he drifted too close to the Employees Only back door, and then turned back to Dahlia.
“Why am I closing early?”
She raked her eyes over me appraisingly. “Really? You look like you've been hit by a truck. What happened yesterday?”
“I had too much to drink.”
“Yes, I know. I paid your bar tab, by the way, asshole, so you owe me.”
That, at least, made me feel properly chagrined, and I winced. “Sorry.”
Her face softened. “Just close up,” she said, putting one warm hand on my arm. “Come next door. Okay?”
I jerked my head towards my customer. “I can’t right now.”
“Ebron,” she said flatly. “When he’s gone, come over.”
Maybe this was my intervention. “Okay,” I said. And then peevishly, “Yes, Mother.”
She rolled her eyes. “Make me a drink, you asshole. It’s the least you can do after sticking me with your bar bill.”
I grimaced, but she just quirked her lips, shaking her head. Fondly. At least, I hoped fondly.
The guy approached just as I slid the steaming travel cup across the counter to Dahlia. He ignored her and stepped up close, reaching into his coat pocket.
“Can I help you?” I asked politely, assuming he reached for a list or something.
Instead, he withdrew a glossy 8x10 photograph and held it up in front of my face.
My stomach dropped. My blood ran cold. My throat seized. All simultaneously. I blinked, unable to move my leaded limbs.
“Ebron White?” the guy said, clipped and cool. “Have you seen this man?”
I shot a look to Dahlia and saw her staring back, her eyes wide and concerned. The guy frowned and gave the photo a little shake, as though to call my attention back to it. I cleared my throat, buying myself time while desperate panic battled for clarity in my mind. Something Leo had told me once somehow cut through the hysterical fog— tell as much truth as possible . I opened my mouth and said, “I have. Last week.”
I sounded calm. I sounded sure. I sounded fucking nonchalant. Like, somehow I’d split into two people because on the inside I felt like pissing myself and going fetal. And yet on the outside, I casually propped one leg up on the counter and flipped a rag over my shoulder like an old-timey soda jerk. I looked at the guy expectantly.
He nodded, as though I had confirmed something. “Do you know his name?”
I shrugged. “He calls himself Corvin. But his real name’s Isaac.”
“How do you know that?” the guy asked, tilting his head a tiny bit. I saw something flash in his eyes—surprise, maybe—but his expression didn’t change.
My heart slammed into my chest as I spoke. “I knew him in high school,” I said. “He grew up here.”
The guy shot a look at Dahlia and she tried to smile weakly in return. His frown deepened and he turned back to me. I swallowed hard, taking in the crisp collar of the shirt under his overcoat, the gelled waves of his hair. He looked expensive. He smelled expensive.
“Are you a police officer?” I asked as politely as I could, considering my bowels felt all watery and my hands felt ice cold. Yet somehow my face remained neutral, passively interested.
He smirked. “I am not. Can I assume that he came into your store then, Mr. White?”
“Yeah, I saw him a few times last week.” Not a cop. What then? Another witch? I felt nothing from him, no mystical static that pinged my astral antennae. I wished he’d put the photo
“You should just close up early,” Dahlia suggested after I had sent the girls out the door with their environmentally friendly paper cups. They hadn't tipped. I’d only heated the water to about 80 degrees.
I opened my mouth to respond but the bell tinkled over the door and we both looked up as a slim, middle-aged man in a black overcoat ducked inside. He gave me a polite smile, glanced dismissively at Dahlia and then moved deeper into the store. I eyed him for a second, holding my breath when he drifted too close to the Employees Only back door, and then turned back to Dahlia.
“Why am I closing early?”
She raked her eyes over me appraisingly. “Really? You look like you've been hit by a truck. What happened yesterday?”
“I had too much to drink.”
“Yes, I know. I paid your bar tab, by the way, asshole, so you owe me.”
That, at least, made me feel properly chagrined, and I winced. “Sorry.”
Her face softened. “Just close up,” she said, putting one warm hand on my arm. “Come next door. Okay?”
I jerked my head towards my customer. “I can’t right now.”
“Ebron,” she said flatly. “When he’s gone, come over.”
Maybe this was my intervention. “Okay,” I said. And then peevishly, “Yes, Mother.”
She rolled her eyes. “Make me a drink, you asshole. It’s the least you can do after sticking me with your bar bill.”
I grimaced, but she just quirked her lips, shaking her head. Fondly. At least, I hoped fondly.
The guy approached just as I slid the steaming travel cup across the counter to Dahlia. He ignored her and stepped up close, reaching into his coat pocket.
“Can I help you?” I asked politely, assuming he reached for a list or something.
Instead, he withdrew a glossy 8x10 photograph and held it up in front of my face.
My stomach dropped. My blood ran cold. My throat seized. All simultaneously. I blinked, unable to move my leaded limbs.
“Ebron White?” the guy said, clipped and cool. “Have you seen this man?”
I shot a look to Dahlia and saw her staring back, her eyes wide and concerned. The guy frowned and gave the photo a little shake, as though to call my attention back to it. I cleared my throat, buying myself time while desperate panic battled for clarity in my mind. Something Leo had told me once somehow cut through the hysterical fog— tell as much truth as possible . I opened my mouth and said, “I have. Last week.”
I sounded calm. I sounded sure. I sounded fucking nonchalant. Like, somehow I’d split into two people because on the inside I felt like pissing myself and going fetal. And yet on the outside, I casually propped one leg up on the counter and flipped a rag over my shoulder like an old-timey soda jerk. I looked at the guy expectantly.
He nodded, as though I had confirmed something. “Do you know his name?”
I shrugged. “He calls himself Corvin. But his real name’s Isaac.”
“How do you know that?” the guy asked, tilting his head a tiny bit. I saw something flash in his eyes—surprise, maybe—but his expression didn’t change.
My heart slammed into my chest as I spoke. “I knew him in high school,” I said. “He grew up here.”
The guy shot a look at Dahlia and she tried to smile weakly in return. His frown deepened and he turned back to me. I swallowed hard, taking in the crisp collar of the shirt under his overcoat, the gelled waves of his hair. He looked expensive. He smelled expensive.
“Are you a police officer?” I asked as politely as I could, considering my bowels felt all watery and my hands felt ice cold. Yet somehow my face remained neutral, passively interested.
He smirked. “I am not. Can I assume that he came into your store then, Mr. White?”
“Yeah, I saw him a few times last week.” Not a cop. What then? Another witch? I felt nothing from him, no mystical static that pinged my astral antennae. I wished he’d put the photo
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