Page 11 of Throwing Shade
I tossed the ice pack next to the jigsaw puzzle. The ideal solution would be to report Alex to an Ohrist on the force, but how would I find one? Most if not all of the cops were Sapiens, because Sapiens made up most of humanity.
Breaking the global population down by size, Ohrists, those whose magic involved light and life energy, would be a tennis ball to Sapiens’ basketball, with Banim Shovavim a marble in the dusty corner of the gym.
There was no handy way for me to differentiate the three types. People were people and unless they busted out their magic, I couldn’t categorize them further.
Shoving a pillow under my head, I stretched out and stared up at the ceiling. Would it be better to open Eli’s eyes to the existence of magic? Had I inadvertently denied him an important tool that could keep him safe or would the truth be too unbelievable, explained away as Sapiens always did? And when was the last time I’d dusted my overhead light?
Even if I was successful, would Eli see me as an abomination? I scrubbed my hand over my face, none the wiser as to what I should do, and wishing there weren’t gaps in my magic knowledge. My parents hadn’t taught me much beyond the basics, my childhood had been spent in a remote part of northern British Columbia with very few Ohrists, and once I’d moved to Vancouver, I’d kept my distance from all that for my own safety.
When it came to magic crimes, Ohrists policed themselves. These Lonestars followed a Wild West mentality, taking the law into their own hands, where their prime directive wasn’t justice, but ensuring that magic remained hidden. I laughed bitterly. Serve and protect only applied to their own interests.
Could I find the Lonestars here in town and anonymously report Alex? I’d have to poke around at least briefly in the hidden magic places around the city, but Vancouver had a large enough Ohrist population that it wasn’t as if everyone was on familiar terms.
That was one of the reasons I’d felt safe moving here to live with my mom’s Sapien cousin, Goldie Feldman, as a teen.
I made a new to-do list in my head, my anal retentive heart happy to have actionable bullet points: find a magic establishment, get the contact information for the Lonestars, turn them on to Alex, and then close the door once more on all magic. Any interaction with the Lonestars would be anonymous and limited.
I evaluated all the risks, then nodded. This was a smart and sensible plan.
A weight settled in the middle of my chest and I hugged a cushion, finding my errant shade crouching in the corner of the ceiling. When animated, she had a very limited sentience, fueled and controlled by our psychic bond.
The nausea of the double vision slowly subsiding, I hooked Delilah’s fingers over the picture rail, hanging off like a rock climber before dropping her to the ground. She turned insubstantial, her re-engagement a soft purr against my back, and I closed my eyes, committing the sensation to a cherished memory.
Tonight would forever be memorialized as my magic re-awakening. Magic re-deflowering? It was a lot more memorable than the five-minute wonder of my sexual deflowering, where I’d stared at the guy’s digital alarm clock for the entire thing, while Marvin the Martian’s voice in my head insisted that there was supposed to be an earth-shattering ka-boom.
I wasn’t going to use my powers in the long term, but until I’d dealt with the Alex problem, it was good to have all the available tools in my toolbox—and know how to use them, since a lot of details about my magic use were fuzzy.
After I put on pj’s, I bundled under my covers, at ease for the first time tonight. My bedroom was the one place I’d allowed myself to indulge in whimsy—the closest I came to magic. A mural of wildflowers covered one wall, courtesy of one of Jude’s artist friends, while the other three were kissed with a lilac blush. My cream tufted headboard edged in silver complemented the cream curtains and matching tufted bench at the foot of the bed.
I readjusted the duvet cover with its dizzying lush blue and purple swirls and reached for my phone off the bedside table. Damn, I’d missed an earlier message from Jude, saying she’d been held up but was still coming.
Me: You up?
She didn’t respond. Oh well. I’d see her at brunch tomorrow.
I reached out to turn off the light, then froze when a garbage can clattered to the pavement in the back lane. All at once, the old chill crept up my spine. Had they come at last for me?
Don’t be stupid. I breathed in and out, calming myself down, then peered out between a crack in the curtains. Nothing was amiss.
“Argh!” Punching my pillow flat, I tried to sleep. When that proved elusive, I opened our latest book club pick, a Work of Great Literary Importance that was so far up its own ass, no less than three old white male reviewers had called it “transcendental.”
I would have rather read a good mystery but that was far too low-brow for the women in my club. I’d have to resort to my normal M.O. before the meeting this Thursday: google the most obscure academic article vaguely related to the book’s theme, and drop it in during our discussion while I rage drank shitty rosé because I kept going back and acting like I had something to prove.
It was one thing to behave responsibly, but did it have to extend to investing emotional energy in this type of a situation? I wasn’t even friends anymore with the person who’d first invited me, because she’d moved and we’d drifted apart. So what if my fellow book clubbers were unhappy with my decision? I’d never see them again and I didn’t have to be Miss Congeniality for everyone. I tossed the book onto the bedside table.
If one positive thing came out of tonight’s shit show, it was my resolve to quit book club and be rid of the totalitarian regime of Military Marsha, the de facto head of the group. Maybe it wasn’t the ultimate in empowerment, but baby steps were still steps.
At some point I crashed, but when I woke up my brain felt like sludge and I lay there wondering how soon I could go back to sleep. Groaning, I kicked off the covers and dragged my butt into the bathroom, slathering on the concealer and foundation to hide the bags under my eyes.
My neck still looked like it had gotten in a fight with a meat tenderizer and lost, so I basted it in arnica cream and gingerly slid on a soft mock turtleneck T-shirt in a deep blue, gritting my teeth against the stiff burn in my shoulders. A vise gripped my chest, the memories of the attack sucking all the air from the room, and I gripped the bathroom sink, breathing slowly and reminding myself that I wasn’t a victim. I’d survived Alex and I’d survive letting my magic loose. Once he was off the streets, my powers would be right back where they belonged, safely behind closed doors again.
I gave a confidence boosting chin nod at my reflection in the mirror. “How you doin’, you supernatural siren?” Ew. I flung my hair back with a sultry pout. “Meet the Queen of the Night.” I wrinkled my nose. Ah. I jumped into a crouch, fingers extended like they were a gun. “Magic motherfuckahhhhh!”
Wow, no, that was… I blew my bangs out of my eyes, glancing around to make sure Sadie hadn’t caught me.
With that out of my system, I pulled out a pair of capris, narrowing my eyes at my closet. Before I could overthink it, I stepped in and shut the door. Due to the lack of light, I didn’t cast a shadow and I couldn’t do shit. I’d been curious if that had changed, but I still required a point source of light to animate Delilah.
Still, this experiment had a better outcome than the last time I shut myself in a closet. I shuddered at the memory of the wet kiss I’d gotten from Dan Simon’s fish lips when I was twelve. Seven Minutes in Heaven had been a disappointing lesson in false advertising.
