Page 125 of Throwing Shade
“Doesn’t matter. Shut up.”
“You’re ruining me making amends on my deathbed.”
“How about I get a dybbuk out of you instead and you buy me brunch next time?”
Jude sat up straight.
The gray kitten gave an irritated yowl and stalked off.
“If you can do that,” my friend said, “then anything on the menu is on me. An entire tray of mimosas for you.”
“Or,” I said, a shadow flowing up my left arm to morph into a scythe, “we’ll go dry during the Danger Zone from now on.”
“Heh. Yeah. You shouldn’t drink then either.” She jumped to her feet, rattling the chains. “Brunch on Sundays instead?”
“Hell, yes.” I shook out my shoulders. “Brace yourself. This might hurt.”
“Wait. Whaaaa—” Her question ended in screech as I slammed the scythe down and severed her shadow from her body.
The tip of the curved weapon whacked into the iron floor, sending painful reverberations up my arms. “Fuuuuck!”
The dybbuk flew out of it and attacked me in a whir of crimson fury.
“That’s not good,” Emmett said from behind me.
“Mut!” I yelled. The letters appeared on the blade.
“Jude!” Emmett cried.
She’d collapsed, unconscious.
The dybbuk swarmed me, buzzing and stinging. I swung at it, but it veered away.
“Her shadow’s disappeared.” Emmett dropped to his knee, tossed his cane aside, and pressed his fingers to her throat.
My inattention cost me. I’d taken my eyes off the dybbuk and when I turned back, it was whizzing through the main room, making a break for the open side door.
“Get back here this instant!” I ran after it, my scythe aloft.
“She doesn’t have a pulse,” Emmett called out.
The dybbuk was too fast for me. It was going to escape.
Everything geared down into slow motion.
“Nooooooo,” I cried in a distorted voice, and flung the shadow weapon.
It tumbled end over end across the room and clattered to the ground a good five feet short of its mark.
The dybbuk paused, hovering in place for a second like it couldn’t believe it was going to get away with this, then the seething mass rushed the door.
Right as Laurent returned.
It dive bombed him, blowing him toward the wall with cannon-like force. He collided with a grunt, his leg buckling as his ankle twisted.
The dybbuk snapped Laurent’s head back with some kind of invisible punch and his skull cracked against the wall.
I raced for the scythe, Laurent now doubled over and brought to his knees under the pummelling. Sharp cuts rent his clothing, his blood welling up in thin lines.
