Page 32 of Throwing Shade
“The dybbuk-possessed? I thought they weren’t human anymore,” I said.
“They still look human,” she said. “And he’s executing them on the regular. What kind of person would willingly choose to do that?”
I didn’t know much about dybbuks, but it seemed to me that Laurent was dealing with the shit no one else wanted to handle, and all for the greater good. Still, I wasn’t about to get into it with Ava, so I kept my opinions to myself.
“Thanks for your concern,” I said, “but I only want to hire him to help me find Jude.”
“Well,” she opened the door for me, “you could do worse than scoping out that eye candy on the regular.”
“True,” I said. “In short dosages anyway.”
A car horn blared at another vehicle taking forever to parallel park and a cyclist whizzed by, no one taking notice of a door that had opened out of nowhere.
I waved at my new friend and stepped outside.
The address that she’d given me took me to Railtown, which had been the epicenter of Japanese-Canadian culture in Vancouver before the population was forced into Internment Camps after the attack on Pearl Harbor. The old warehouses and factories in this tiny neighborhood wedged between Gastown and Chinatown were slowly being converted into edgy microbreweries and office spaces for creative professionals.
I parked across the street from a small three-story hotel, its sleek sharp edges tempered by rusted wrought-iron balcony railings and a faded chevron pattern in black running horizontally between each floor. Dirt streaked the stone exterior and there were bars over the frosted windows on the ground level.
Over top of the boarded-up front entrance was a sign with flaked-off letters reading “Hotel Terminus.” Had Ava played me or was this dump really where the shifter lived? I wrinkled my nose, questioning the wisdom of aligning myself with someone who chose to live in a place like this.
A man squatted down in front of the hotel with his back to me, but I couldn’t tell if it was Laurent, because he had a slouchy black knit cap covering his hair. The build was right, as was the tight denim-covered ass, so I eased out of the car, my purse slung across my chest.
He held out his hand, making kissing noises at a tiny gray kitten crouched in the grass. “Minou, minou,” he crooned.
Aw. I leaned against my car, watching them.
“I’m planning on eating it,” Laurent said, without turning around.
The kitten warily sidled closer.
“Please,” I said. “That’s not even an appetizer size for you. It’s not worth skinning.” I beeped my fob to lock the car. “How did you know it was me?”
“I smelled you.” With his French accent, his lyrical cadence when he spoke turned his words into poetry. Everything sounded charming. How irritating.
I crossed the street, checking my pits, but only smelled deodorant.
As soon as the kitten sniffed his fingers, Laurent scooped up the tiny ball of fluff and cradled the animal against his chest. After he admonished it in French, it was my turn. “You here to insult me again?” he said.
“Depends.” I stepped onto the sidewalk. “Care to comment on my advanced age once more?”
“Fait chier. I didn’t say you were old. I said you were too old to not know about dybbuks.” He winced and unhooked the kitten’s claw from his green T-shirt.
I twisted my hair up and, not finding the elastic that I was positive was in my purse, speared the ’do with a pen to secure it. Time to see if the old adage “you can catch more flies with honey” applied to cranky wolves. I pasted on a bright smile.
“We got off on the wrong foot. I’m Miriam. My friends call me Miri.” I stuck out my hand to shake.
He scratched the cat’s ear. “And?”
I dropped my hand, only the joyous memory of punching him in the face allowing me to keep my smile. “I’d like to hire you to help me find my friend.”
“Not interested.” He walked around the corner.
I followed him. Okay, time for bluntness and the truth. “Look, I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t desperate. You’re the only person I can turn—”
A short bald man who resembled a boiled egg in owlish glasses appeared out of nowhere.
I jumped back, clutching my heart. “Holy fuck.”
