Boneyard (The Thaumaturge Series Book 2) (7 page)

And my shop, my comfortable, safe little shop where I sold teas and herbs, grew mint and lavender in colorful pots, scattered old board games for my customers to spend the hours, no longer felt quite so safe or comfortable. Not after watching blood soak into the grain of the hardwood floors.

Not after hiding a corpse in the disused bathroom in the very back corner of the old building.

She was there now, crumpled up beside the toilet, even as I served tea and portioned out little bags of Echinacea and dried mullein. 

Most of my customers gave me a wide berth, casting me startled, wary glances, which I understood when I got a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I hadn't showered, hadn't shaved in weeks, and blood vessels in both of my eyes had burst, spiking the whites with red. I looked crazy. I looked dangerous, and while a part of me was horrified by the image I presented, another nasty part of me was pleased when people shied away.

They should. I was a killer, after all.

I had the body to prove it.

Most of my regular customers wandered in, though my least favorite customer, Misty, never showed. Absently, I wondered where she was; it had been a while since she’d been in. For a few hours, I had a steady flow and lost myself in serving chais and herbals blends, all other thoughts kept at bay. Just before eleven, things quieted, leaving me alone with a friendly Dead Head named Neil. He perched on the stool in front of me, sucking on his strawberry flavored vaporizer and picking the crust off his third slice of pie. My nerves resurfaced, as I gulped down some Ibuprofen while nodding along to whatever Neil was telling me.

The bell over the door chimed ten minutes into a detailed laudation of Burning Man and its life-altering abilities and I turned gratefully towards the sound. I had a high tolerance for hippies, usually, but there was only so much one could take. The smell from his vaporizer made me want to hurl.

“Hey, man,” Scott said from the doorway.

“Hey,” I said softly. I glanced at Neil. “Gotta get back to work.”

“Right on, man,” Neil said, bobbing his head affably and wandering off into the depths of the store.

“Hey. Hi,” I said again as Scott settled onto Neil’s vacated seat.

Scott smiled gently, his lips a thin line in the middle of his thick gray beard. He looked tired, the corners of his eyes seemed more lined than they had been last week. Had I really only met him little more than a week ago?

“I wanted to check in on you,” he said, looking down the aisle. I saw how his eyes fixed on the butcher-block table. “Place looks in good order,” he added.

“Yeah, thanks to you,” I said. “Thanks for sticking around and helping with that.”

He smiled humorlessly. “Did what I could.”

I picked at a callous on my palm. “How’s Cameron doing?”

“He’s all right.” Scott shrugged. “I don’t think he’ll be taking Aubrey to the Coronation dance, though, if you get me.”

“Ah,” I said, a pinch of sadness hurting my heart. Aubrey’s death and resurrection had shaken them both, though apart instead of together. Pity.

“Who knows,” Scott continued. “Next week, they’ll probably be back together. You know how high school relationships work.”

I didn’t, but I nodded anyway. “Can I get you something to drink, Scott?”

He eyed the list of teas written on chalkboard behind me, his bushy eyebrows drawn together. “Shit, man,” he said. “I can’t read half of that. What the hell’s jen-main-cha?”

“Genmaincha,” I corrected. “That’s an acquired taste. You like sweet or bitter?”

“Sweet?” he ventured.

“How’s your cousin?” Scott asked as my back was to him, measuring out some blackberry leaves and dried apricots.

My hands went still for a beat and I straightened my spine, making sure that when I turned around I had a smile on my face.

“Oh, he’s okay, I guess,” I said, pouring hot water into the pot. Fragrant steam billowed up and I watched with satisfaction as Scott’s expression eased, his nostrils flaring. He peeled down the zipper of his heavy Carhartt coat and shrugged it off. He folded it across the stool beside him and pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows. Wordlessly, I set a plate of pie before him.

“To be honest,” I said, looking down at my own hands. “He’s not really talking to me.”

For a moment, we both watched the steam swirl above the teapot. My throat thickened, and I picked more aggressively at my calloused hands. I got one fingernail under the roughened skin and it gave a satisfying rip.

“Well,” Scott said slowly. “Give him time. We all had our world view changed that night.”

“Yeah,” I muttered. Not me. They had just noticed that it was raining and I was already soaked to the bone.

For another long minute, we sat quietly, listening to the wind rattle the sign above the door. On one of the back couches, Neil strummed
Blues for Allah
on his out-of-tune guitar. The tea steeped, the smell of berries and apricots heavy in the aromatic air.

“I saw the newspaper,” Scott said finally. I poured the tea into a porcelain mug and carefully slid it across the counter top. It bumped against the uneven grain, sloshing a few small drops of tea over the side. Scott wrapped his long, knobby, fingers around the mug, lifting it to his face and inhaling deeply.

“Smells good,” he offered and I smiled for a second. 

“I’m taking care of it,” I said, watching his face. He just nodded serenely, sipped at his tea and made an approving noise.

“It’s the girl then?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “The other... witch?”

“Yes,” I said, surprised. “How did you know that?”

He shrugged. “I have a police scanner. The description seemed familiar.”

“Oh,” I said and he eyed me speculatively.

“I thought that you decided to let her go. When I left that night, those other folks were getting her ready to go to the hospital.”

“It’s complicated.” I paused, searching for a way to explain without mentioning Leo. “She was dangerous,” I finished lamely, but he seemed to accept it.

“I heard there was a cop at your trailer,” Scott said, bringing the cup back up to his mouth. “Do we need to worry?”

I shook my head. “No. No, Chad’s a friend of mine.”

“Metz?” Scott asked. “Chad Metz?”

“Yeah, you know him?”

He gave me a little shrug, one that meant that in such a small town, it was impossible not to at least recognize a name.

“I know his dad,” Scott added. “How’d you know him?”

“I... “ No reason to lie, but some things are more than habit. They’re instinct. “I helped him out. You know.”

Scott nodded. He took another sip of his tea.

“I’m going to take care of it,” I repeated. Behind me, Neil started up with something that sounded vaguely like the Allman Brothers.

“You have her, then?” Scott asked, pitching his voice low.

I looked out the window and into the dreary parking lot. My truck looked small compared to Scott’s shiny two ton. A few stray pieces of trash tumbled across the asphalt, swirling around with the dead leaves and wisps of snow.

I gave a tiny nod. “It’s being handled,” I said finally.

Scott pursed his lips. He set his cup down on the counter top and reached over to touch my hand.

“I know you’re doing the best you can, son,” he said.

I startled. My eyes snapped up to his. My throat tightened painfully and I had to swallow a few times. I blinked rapidly to quell the sudden threat of tears. I drew my hand back and gave him a grateful smile.

“Thanks,” I said quietly.

Scott took a deep breath in and then let it out. He picked up his tea, threw it back like it was a shot, and stood up.

“So you call me, you hear?” he said. He slid his arms back into his coat.

I looked at him, my eyebrows coming together.

“For whatever you help you might need,” he clarified.

“Maybe that’s not... “ I started but he shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “There’s no way in hell I’m sitting this out, Ebron. Do you understand?
You call me
.”

“Yes, sir,” I said reflexively and he grinned.

“Good boy. Take care of yourself, son. Thanks for the tea, that was tasty.”

I smiled back weakly and gave him a little wave as he headed out the door.

Dahlia showed up next, clomping in mid-afternoon, glowering at me and completely ignoring the warning look I gave her. Vaguely I wondered if she and Scott had planned it.

“No,” she said, pointing a finger at me. “You're gonna talk to me.”

I hadn't brought her tea this morning, ignoring both her calls and all her texts. Plus Cody hadn't gotten back to me yet and in general I felt like I needed someone to stage an intervention and save me from myself.

“Just give me a second,” I growled at her, which made her set her jaw and plant her ass more firmly in the chair. I sighed and looked back at the pair of high school girls who couldn't decide if they wanted oolong or rooibos. They’d been poking around the shop for nearly half an hour already, cracking open jars to sniff the herbs and giggling over the bulk mistletoe.

“You don't have lattes?” one of them asked.

“Nope,” I deadpanned. She gave me a wary once over and crossed her arms.

“Do you have hot chocolate?” the other asked.

I did, but I shook my head no anyway. My left eye inexplicably twitched and the girl grimaced.

“Have the white pear,” Dahlia told them, the hard line of her mouth 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 away. I didn’t want to look at Corvin’s smiling, toothy, face, at the fedora perched on his head. Someone was in the photo with him, but only their shoulder and arm remained, tucked under Corvin’s. I wondered who had been with him, where the photo had been taken.

“And when was the last time you saw him?”

I thought hard, hoping that I looked like I was trying to remember and not like I creating an alibi. “Friday, I guess?”

“Was he with anyone else?”

“Yes,” I said, uncertainty making my voice waver. How much more was safe to say? “His coven. Two women, another man. If you’re not a cop, why are you looking for him?”

The guy stopped and looked straight at me. I’d never seen eyes so cold, so calculating. I shifted uncomfortably under those eyes and he tracked the movements like a fucking snake, his pupils moving in tiny little darts.