The Turning Season by Sharon Shinn Page A

I say before I can stop myself.
    He looks impressed. “Pretty close.”
    â€œI work with animals. I’ve gotten used to guessing weight just by looking. Well, I can do it with live creatures. I can’t look at a
car
and know how much it weighs.”
    â€œWhat kind of work do you do with animals?”
    I glance at Celeste, but she’s deep in conversation with Marcus, and no one has lined up behind us, so there’s no reason to stop talking to the bouncer. “I’m a vet.”
Sort of.
    â€œHere in Quinville? I’ve been looking for a place to take my dog.”
    â€œWell, I’m kind of on the fringes of Quinville. Off W a ways. What kind of dog?”
    â€œBlack lab. Her name’s Jezebel.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with her?”
    â€œMaybe only that she’s ten years old.”
    I nod sympathetically. “Yeah. You know, ten years—that’s a long time for a big dog. So she’s slowing down? Anything else?”
    He nods. The round face looks briefly sad. “She limps a little, like her back leg hurts. Maybe she has arthritis.”
    â€œMaybe. Or a torn ACL.”
    â€œLike football players get?”
    â€œPretty much.”
    â€œWould you be willing to take a look at her?” he asks.
    â€œSure, but there are plenty of places here in town. I mean—where’ve you taken her before? I assume you
have
kept her rabies shots up to date?”
    â€œYeah, but I just moved to Quinville about a year ago, and I didn’t like the first vet we tried. He was kind of—” The bouncer shrugs. “He made me wonder why he wanted to be a vet, to tell you the truth. Didn’t seem to like animals much.”
    â€œYou do wonder sometimes why people choose their professions,” I agree. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Celeste rest a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. It looks like a good-bye gesture, so I assume she’s about concluded her conversation. “I guess you better stamp my hand so I can go in,” I say.
    â€œGotta double-check first,” the bouncer replies, flicking on a little flashlight so he can study my license. “Looks like you’re of legal age— Karadel? That’s your name? Wow, never heard that one before.”
    â€œMy grandmothers were named Karen and Adele, so it’s not quite as exotic as it sounds at first,” I reply.
    â€œI like it. It’s pretty. I’m just Joe.”
    â€œNice to meet you, Joe,” I say, and hold my hand out. He carefully inks the back with a stamp that features a bold A in the center of some swirly vines. “Will this glow in the dark?”
    He grins. “I don’t know. I never bothered trying it on myself.”
    Celeste is beside me, nudging me toward the door. “Enough chatting. Let’s go in and get a drink.”
    Absurdly, I give Joe a little wave as we walk off, and he waves back. Celeste leans close enough to whisper in my ear. “See? That red shirt is magic. He liked your boobs.”
    â€œAnd here I thought it was my sparkling personality.”
    â€œBoobs
always
make a personality more sparkling.”
    The interior of Arabesque is a pretty standard urban bar scene—dark walls, dark flooring, dramatic lighting, but not enough of it, a lot of tables clustered together along the walls and in the middle of the room. There’s a serving bar on one wall and a low stage in back, with a sizable dance floor right in front of it. The band is still setting up, which means we can actually hear ourselves speak, at least for the moment.
    â€œA couple of my friends are meeting us here, I figured that was okay,” Celeste tells me as she pauses to let her eyes adjust so she can look around.
    â€œGee, kind of late to tell me if it
wasn’t
okay.”
    â€œComma, bitch,” she adds.
    I laugh. “But, sure, I don’t mind.
Tus amigos son mis amigos.
”
    That’s not really true. I’ve