Free The Dead (The Thaumaturge Series Book 1) by Cal Matthews Page A

did my hair and makeup.”
    “Look’s great,” I said and squeezed her arm again.
    I held the door open for her when we got to the diner, and we settled into a booth by the window. Weak sunlight filtered through the dusty blinds, and I absently brushed some scattered salt off the table and onto the floor. Behind Dahlia’s head, an old painting of a forest fire hung crooked on one nail. I took the menu out from behind the napkin dispenser and the cracked laminate flaked in my hands.
    I liked Hot Shots better than the Dinner Bell, the other diner in town, but my opinion didn’t seem to be a popular one. Even in the middle of the lunch hour, Hot Shots was nearly empty, with only a few other patrons lined up at the counter and filling the booths. Across from me, Dahlia gazed distractedly out the window, her hands laced primly together on the table in front of her.
    “So what’s new?” she asked me, turning to face me with a little sigh.
    I shrugged. “Nothing much. You?”
    She gave an answering shrug, and then we sat in silence until the waiter came over to take our order.
    “Is Leo still in town?” Dahlia asked when we were left alone with our tepid lemon waters.
    I immediately felt a cautious prickle in my stomach, just a reflexive tensing when my private life was openly mentioned. There was no good reason to hide, to keep my whole life a secret. Maybe it was habit. Maybe it made me feel like a snail ripped out of its shell.
    “Yeah, he’s still here,” I said without enthusiasm.
    “Do I get to meet him this time?”
    “Uh, I don’t know.” I gave her an apologetic smile and she shook her head good -naturedly.
    “You and your secret love affair,” she teased.
    “It’s not like that.”
    “Is he famous?”
    “No.”
    “Is he in witness protection?”
    “No.”
    “Married. He’s married.”
    “No.”
    She humphed. We’d played this a dozen times, the guess-Leo’s-secret-identity game. Dahlia liked it a lot more than I did.
    “Misty stayed for like an hour today,” I told her just to change the subject.
    Dahlia snorted. “Oh, I know. I did her hair last week. Lady likes to talk.”
    “About her son. Did you know that he personally saved a premature baby by getting some hospital’s computers back online?”
    “Ah,” Dahlia said. “Don’t be mean. She’s proud of him.”
    “I’m sure she is.”
    “You know he attempted suicide when he was in high school.”
    “No, I did not,” I said peevishly. “But I still don’t want to fucking hear about it.”
    “She’s lonely.”
    “Aren’t we all, Dahlia,” I said, a little too tightly to be taken as a joke. Her mouth twisted into an S. She put one of her fine-boned hands on top of mine and gave them a squeeze.
    “Do you need to get drunk tonight?” she asked.
    “No, I can’t. I have dinner with Mom.”
    “Afterward, then? You’ll need something after having to interact with Lloyd.”
    “Ugh,” I said obligingly and she smiled.
    “But I can’t,” I added. “I’m going hunting tomorrow and I need to get up early.”
    She nodded, but there was a definite droop to her shoulders.
    “Why?” I asked. “Do you need to get drunk tonight?”
    Dahlia looked up and met my eyes. Her eyeliner made a perfect black wing, her red lips a perfect bow. But her eyes were a little too shiny, the corners of them wrinkling as she clenched her jaw.
    “Oh, babe,” I said softly, and this time I squeezed her fingers. “Sorry, Dahl. Things bad?”
    She looked up and did that little face shimmy thing women do when they are trying not to cry. “I’m fine,” she told me, giving me a brave smile that showed her teeth. She swiped one finger under her eyelashes and dabbed at her lips. I felt a helpless burst of affection for her.
    “I know you are,” I said, letting go of her hand. “But let’s plan on a drink next week, okay?”
    “That would be really great,” she admitted.
    “You can call me, you know,” I said hesitatingly, hoping that she