Read Boneyard (The Thaumaturge Series Book 2) Online
Authors: Cal Matthews
Boneyard (The Thaumaturge Series Book 2)
Table of Contents
Boneyard
Cal Matthews
Copyright © 2016 Cal Matthews
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons and places, except those that exist in the public domain, are unintentional and entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author.
Edited by Annetta Ribken. You can find her at www.wordwebbing.com
Cover Art by Natasha Snow © 2016
Dedication
For Matt
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the incomparable Annetta Ribken, for your support, encouragement and for being an all-around wonderful person.
Thank you to Natasha Snow, for the beautiful book cover and various promotional materials.
Thank you to TJ Moore of DK Kulture for meticulously combing this manuscript for bloopers. Any additional typos are entirely my fault!
Thank you to Skyla Dawn Cameron, for all formatting done on this ebook.
Thank you to my incredible and crazy writers’ group, for the cheerleading and much needed kicks in the ass.
Thank you to my husband, for always, always encouraging me.
‘Till the wheels fall off, babe.
Chapter 1
I wasn’t often drunk, so maybe that was why I found it all so funny. Normally, hearing about dead bodies didn’t tickle my funny bone, but after the fifth shot of whiskey, I just couldn't stop laughing.
“Ebron, stop!” Dahlia admonished, her eyes flickering first up to the TV, then to our fellow patrons dining around us. The happy hour crowd had swelled into the early dinner rush—such as it was—but no one paid us the least bit of attention. I picked up the empty shot glass and licked around the rim. The ghost fumes from the whiskey burned the hairs inside my nose and a wave of light-headedness washed over me. Pleasant, numbing, light-headedness though. I didn't want to think.
The waitress drifted towards us and I smiled wobbily at her, but Dahlia barked out a quick “we're good” before I could order another drink.
“Dahlia,” I said sternly, trying to bring her into focus. Behind her on the TV, the news reporter interviewed the sheriff, who described the recent murder and subsequent disappearance of the still unknown girl’s corpse as “baffling”. The reporter nodded, her concerned frown plastered on, unwavering.
“No leads yet,” the sheriff said. “We’re exploring all angles.”
Ugh. Barf. My teeth clenched. My stomach rolled with nerves and liquor. I waited, staring at the TV until the report returned to the newscasters in the studio. They launched into a discussion of the local high school's upcoming Coronation dance and only then did my shoulders loosen a bit. I gave another thin bray of laughter and looked back to Dahlia, meeting her concerned gaze. I couldn't remember what it was that I was going to tell her.
“We need to get you home,” Dahlia decided and began digging in her coat, pulling out her phone, her wallet, Chapstick and a whole bunch of other shit that scattered across the damp tabletop. I picked up her phone and looked at the main screen picture, a shameless selfie of her and her two daughters, duck-facing with their cheeks pressed together. She sorted through the pile and excavated her keys.
“I really don't want to go home yet,” I said and she looked up at me, her forehead wrinkling cutely.
“Is Leo there?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I glared at the row of empty shot glasses in front of me.
“Want to tell me what you two are fighting about?”
“We're not fighting,” I mumbled and looked back at the TV. I preferred the zippy furniture store commercial jingle to her concerned gaze.
“O-
kay
,” she said, and mopped her soggy French fries through a puddle of gravy. “You're not fighting.”
“We're not,” I insisted, and then laughed a little again, watching as she paused with a limp fry dangling before her open mouth. I thought of how the news report had described the disappearance of the girl’s body as a possible case of “grave robbing, something straight out of a horror movie” and the investigation as “ongoing”. Then I thought about how the grave robber himself was probably sacked out on my couch, marathoning Netflix. My chest pulled tight and hot and the laughter dried out in my mouth. I stretched my arms out on the tabletop and rested my cheek against the damp wood.
“Ebron, pull it together,” Dahlia hissed, grabbing my shoulder and shaking me.
“M'fine,” I said, closing my eyes. Another wave of light-headedness washed over me, all swoopy and loose.
“The fuck you are. Come on.” She shook my shoulder again, harder this time. “You can come over to my house, just please get up. People are
looking
.”
“I don't care.”
“Ebron, you have to at least—
Ebron,
that cop is coming over here!”
I jerked my head off the table, much too quickly for my current state, and my vision went a little wonky around the edges.
“Uh,” I moaned, belching a yeasty, beer and whiskey flavored burp. Dahlia wrinkled her nose at me.
“Are you in trouble?” she said softly, right before a hand slapped me hard on the back.
“Hey guys.”
I tilted my head back to meet the steady gaze of Chad Metz, the aggressively friendly police officer that I had become buddies with almost against my will. He’d been present when I’d resurrected his niece—a little toddler that had drowned at her family’s riverside barbecue—and he hadn’t left me alone since, always up in my business. Calling me. Asking questions. Maybe it was one of those keep your enemies closer things. Right now, he leaned in real close, right up against my back and spoke directly into my ear.
“I really need to talk to you.” His breath tickled my neck and I rolled my shoulder back, clumsy but enough to give him the hint. He slid into the chair next to Dahlia, across from me. He seemed to consider scavenging from the congealed pile of gravy fries, but then his eyes swept over the line of shot glasses. He looked back up at me and leaned forward.
“What, man?” I asked after a beat, uncomfortable under both their scrutinizing gazes. I gave an ill-timed hiccup and a line appeared between Chad's small eyes.
“Are you drunk?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said confidently.
“It's Wednesday night,” he said, because in Chad-world people didn't suffer major existential crises during the work week.
“Hump day!” I offered and Dahlia snorted.
“I really need to get him home,” she said, scooping up her stuff and shoving it all back into her coat pockets. She jangled her keys for emphasis.
“I'll take him,” Chad said. “I need to talk to him anyway.”
“Oh, thanks, but—”
“No, ma’am, I insist.”
They must teach that voice at the police academy. Dahlia shut up right away, her spine snapping straight. She looked at me and shrugged. No one seemed interested in my opinion.
“It's fine,” I said, getting to my feet. I swayed for a second, and both Chad and Dahlia reached out to steady me. Chad actually took my elbow, like I was his elderly grandmother. That got me snorting again and I grinned at Chad. He just looked confused, and I figured it was probably the first time he had ever seen anything other than a scowl on my face.
My feet felt curiously disconnected from my body and I gazed down at them while Chad shepherded me across the restaurant. I floated, a hundred feet up from the floor, my head spinning. Chad’s big, meaty shoulder pressed into mine, and I wanted to lean against him and just zone out, let him handle things. He seemed like he would be a good guy for that kind of stuff. He seemed, you know, trustworthy. Dependable. Like an Eagle Scout. Or a Mormon. Was he Mormon? He stopped me at the glass door to the restaurant and I looked at him expectantly, not sure why we’d stopped.
“Here's your coat.”
Dahlia appeared at my elbow, trying to tuck my arms into my sleeves. Her pretty face twisted in concern, her big brown eyes searching mine as she bundled me up.
“Thanks, Dahl,” I said sincerely and gave her a kiss on the forehead.
“I'll see you tomorrow,” she said, and squeezed my hand. She gave Chad a brisk nod, and then hurried out, crossing the parking lot in long strides to her car.
“You need to puke?”
I shook my head, then wished I hadn't. The world didn’t spin around quite so much if I kept my head still. I tried balancing my head directly over my neck but leaned back too far. Chad didn’t look convinced as he straightened me.
“Don't puke in my car.” He put his hand on my back and guided me over to the police cruiser parked right by the entrance. I paused, staring at it.
“Do I have to ride in the back?” I asked.
He frowned. “No. Here.” He leaned past me and opened the front passenger's door. I ducked in and he reached out to help, just barely holding himself back from putting his hand on my head and shoving me like a criminal.
He walked around the car to the driver's side, and I pressed my face against the cold window. Light flakes of snow floated from the gray sky. White swirls danced over the parking lot pavement, and I watched, my mind drifting. Thanksgiving was coming up. I needed to call my mom and check her plans for Thanksgiving. I thought she and fucking Lloyd were probably going to his daughter's house in Idaho, and I was going to be alone during the holidays. Again. I would miss out on the whole turkey dinner thing—
again
—which sucked, but there was really no point in attempting a whole Thanksgiving feast just for myself. I could just get a box of stuffing and some packaged gravy and it would be almost as good, eating it with fake mashed potatoes. Especially if I just got in my sweats and chilled on the couch, and watched the new season of
Vikings
.
“Ebron.”
I turned my head towards Chad and blinked at him. He had that pale guy blotchiness, a flush up his neck and his ample cheeks. His police uniform pulled across his shoulders, and I thought that he was really a pretty big guy. Like, I would have zero chance against him in a bar fight, unless I went right for the eyes. He didn't even have much hair to pull.
“Yeah?” I said belatedly, and Chad gave me a look that was partially amused and partially annoyed.
“What's with the binge-drinking?” he asked, all casual as though we were buddies who knew each other's drinking habits. I knew he liked beer; he had asked me several times to go with him to the tasting room at the local brewery. I liked beer too, but I’d avoided going with him because I was a man with secrets and drinking with the nosy cop seemed like a poor life decision. I was trying to avoid those.
“No reason,” I replied and he snorted.
“What's with the ride home?” I countered. “I don't usually get treated to a police escort.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Okay. Talk.”
He gave me a sidelong look, and tapped the gas a little too hard, making us both lurch forward. All the beer and liquor sloshed around in my stomach and I grimaced.
“Ebron,” he tried again. “Is something wrong?”