Page 36 of Throwing Shade
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Laurent pressedhis hand against a rebar X that was propping up a sagging side entrance, with a sheet of plywood instead of a door. It disappeared, revealing an intact frosted glass door.
“Neat trick,” I said.
He shifted Rupert into a one-handed hold, and grabbed the handle. “I traded a demon his life for this illusion on my place.”
“Who got the better end of the deal?” I winced as the door clipped my shoulder.
“I did.” He shot me a very wolfish grin, his white teeth flashing against his olive skin. “He got the business end of my claws after he finished the enchantment. You came here to talk about your friend, so talk.”
We stepped into the former lobby and I came to a halt, shamelessly rubbernecking.
Above the polished expanse of checkerboard parquet was a gently arched ceiling painted a pale yellow with warm lighting that made the deep red walls glow. There was no television in sight, but a 1940’s radio softly playing Dean Martin sat on the mahogany dining room hutch next to the enormous sofa in the seating area by the fireplace. On the other side of the room, an old upright piano hugged up next to a couple of black floor lamps that reminded me of the classic London streetlights.
You wily wolf, using that ramshackle exterior to make people underestimate you and keep them at bay. His thinking was calculated, ruthless, and designed to give him the advantage—exactly who I wanted in my corner.
The kitten jumped off Laurent’s shoulder and scampered away.
I whistled softly. The piano wall was lined with framed prints of vintage alcohol ads, but bookshelves ran the length of the opposite one, from the fireplace to a curved staircase that led to a boarded-off second floor. Every shelf was packed with neatly organized titles and I longed to trail my fingers over the spines and smell the pages, letting the choice of books reveal the man.
“Is this another illusion?” I picked up Rupert’s legs again, whispering a silent apology to the man for the indignity of hauling him around this way.
“No. I restored this place. This floor anyway.”
For all of Eli’s many good qualities, handyman was not among them. Our first home, a fixer-upper, had tradesmen traipsing in and out for years. My brand-new townhouse had been a relief, but being in this hidden gem, each bookshelf hand-finished, carefully polished and sealed, the floors stable and not-creaky—had me close my eyes for a moment and inhale the smell of wood stain, this sanctuary working its spell on me.
This was someone deeply loving a place enough to sweat over it and callus their fingers trying to save it from oblivion. It was a home restored by someone who would never call in professionals, because that person savored every second and last ounce of energy poured into its bones. No one else would see the dream of being stretched out languid on that sofa with a good book on a cloudy day in this room, and how lovely that could be.
I forced myself out of my reverie, because I was here on business.
“I’m impressed,” I said in a mostly steady voice. “Which way? Rupert’s heavy.”
As we continued across the floor, I told Laurent all about Jude, from my initial suspicions about Alex to the break-in at her studio and missing brunch, to the golem—minus the domino stuff—and Blood Alley.
We stopped in front of a large elevator with old-fashioned copper doors carved with diamonds and swirls, which was situated to the right of the staircase. There was a matching pattern on the plate with the call button.
“Put him down,” Laurent said, fishing a key out of his pocket.
I dropped Rupert’s legs a bit harder than I intended. “Whoops.”
He groggily raised his head. “Wha—”
Laurent cold-cocked him and the other man’s eyes rolled back into his head.
“Look, I really need your help. I think my friend was involved with the head vampire and—”
“You want, what? To rescue her from his draconian undead clutches?” Laurent sniffed and his fingers drifted to his left side, where that nasty scar I’d seen before lay. “Then I suggest getting yourself a flamethrower and a small tank.”
I counted to ten. We all had baggage, but I also had a ticking clock here. “Will you help me or not?”
Laurent flicked on a light switch next to the call button panel and unlocked the elevator door, revealing a cage gate across it. “Depends.” He named a fee that made me wince.
“What happened to”—I dropped my voice into a blustery imitation of his from the other night—“I’ll do whatever the fuck is necessary?”
“Did I say I’d do it for free?” Laurent pushed the gate open. On the large side for an elevator, the space had been renovated into a bunker-like room lined in iron.
I ran a finger over the wall. “Does the dungeon suite come with turndown service?”
