Page 14 of Throwing Shade
On the other hand, how would she find out? One peek and I’d go. If she was inside lying in a coma, then I’d lie about how I found her and be grateful that I’d gotten to her in time.
Situational ethics were a necessary evil.
Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, I let Delilah slip free to slide through the crack.
The bottom of the door scraped against my actual back as the shadow wriggled under. I laughed, incredulous, and as if punishing me for my a second of doubt, the shadow got stuck like Winnie the Pooh in Rabbit’s doorway. Oh, bother. I willed her to move, but nothing happened. Scowling, I sucked my hips and butt in, feeling Delilah tighten in response.
She popped out on the other side and I gasped.
The studio had been trashed.
Tools spilled off metal shelving, sealed containers holding glazes were dumped on their sides in half-congealed puddles, plastic-wrapped packages of clay had been torn open, and Jude’s electric kiln was knocked off its base onto the floor. All of it was clearly viewed through that green night vision, but there was no sign of my friend.
Delilah trailed her fingers over the long table running the length of the long narrow room, anchored at one end by an industrial sink. Nestled amongst broken pieces of unglazed pottery was a crudely-made featureless head and a few misshapen arms.
The window at the far end was intact and the door was locked. This wasn’t Jude having a tantrum and destroying her art, someone had broken in and targeted her. It felt like a message, but from who, and what did they want?
I ran back to my car, cutting through downtown to get across town to Jude’s townhouse in Kitsilano. Years ago, this west side neighborhood had been hippie central, but you’d never know it from all the boutiques and restaurants lining Fourth Avenue now. Jude and I spent a lot of time here, but right now every passing block amped the sharp edge of fear inside me.
I tried every key on my keyring, growing more frantic until I found the one for her front door and let myself in to her dim foyer. “Jude? You home?”
A quick search proved that she wasn’t. I didn’t see the purse she’d had yesterday, her keys or her phone, nor did I find the clothes she’d been wearing. I flicked off the light, throwing her unmade bed and explosion of laundry spilling out from the hamper onto the floor into darkness. This wasn’t another attack, just the way her bedroom always looked.
Spinning around, I sprinted into her tiny office, smiling wistfully at the three colorful ceramic mugs stained with tea dregs sitting on her desk. Judith was meticulous in crafting her pottery, but equally as insistent that the pieces then be well-used and loved. I grabbed the laptop shelved with her books, its gray “spine” barely noticeable, which she always hid there when she left the house. Unfortunately, the computer was password protected and the calendar on the back of the office door was a bust.
Photos of Jude with various family and friends crowded the bookcases. I traced a finger over the one of her with Sadie and me on the ferry to Ellis Island last year, then stilled. What if she hadn’t gotten my message, so she’d shown up at the bar and run into Alex? If he was preying on women of a certain age, she’d have been an attractive target. I slammed my hand against the shelf. I should have phoned her last night and made sure she had gotten home.
Distracted and unsure of what to do next, I left the office and collided with a body coming out of the guest bedroom.
A five-foot-ten male with an Elvis pompadour and a stocky torso stood there, his leopard-print robe open revealing tighty-whities. Talk about chiseled features. His skin was smooth as silk, the unnatural color of a red cartoon heart and free from any pores or blemishes.
I blinked in disbelief. No way. He could not be made of clay. And yet, that’s exactly what he was.
He brandished a bottle of bourbon menacingly. “Who are you?”
“You’re a golem.” The ground felt like quicksand under my feet and I wasn’t sure it would ever be solid again. Jude had magic?
“What gave it away, Sherlock?” He snapped chunky fingers at me. “Name, toots.”
“Miri,” I replied, too stunned not to. “And you?”
“Emmett.” He studied me with a lascivious look from over the rim of the bottle. “You’re Jude’s friend. The oldie with the not-bad rack.”
I covered my girls. Ew. And fuck him, my youthful rack was top notch.
I’d trained myself to ignore magic to the point that I no longer reacted if I saw small examples of it in the street, but even I couldn’t have ignored a golem at my friend’s house if I’d seen one before. “Where’s Jude?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.”
“Someone destroyed her studio,” I said. “What’s going on? Is she in danger?”
“I don’t know.” Emmett took a swig from a bottle of bourbon.
“Is she your…” I swallowed. “Lover?”
He spat out what I could only assume to be Jude’s most expensive alcohol. “What is wrong with you?”
Well, that was a relief. “Mother?” I tried.
