Charlaine Harris
Dahlia Lynley-Chivers looked good in black; in fact, she looked great – and normally that was extremely important to her. But tonight she wasn’t thinking about herself or about the picture she made sitting alone at the elaborately laid table in the upscale restaurant. Seeleys’ tablecloths might have been designed to set her looks off; the undercloth was black like her hair, the overcloth was snowy white like her skin.
Dahlia had been dead for a very long time.
Though she was sitting motionless, her back perfectly straight, Dahlia was conscious of the passing of time. The witch was late. Under any other circumstances, she would have left ... read full excerpt from Strange Brew ebook
