Page 53 of Throwing Shade
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“You.”The old woman poked the bird shifter, who wiped themself off with a stack of napkins. “Pick up your cards and move it along, you little pisher.”
“I’m calling Vikram,” the shifter said.
My shoulders tensed up around my ears, my heart sped up, and I darted a glance to the doors that the wolves had been dragged through. “Do it,” I fronted. “Since our only witness caught you forcibly restraining me.”
The elderly artist sloshed gin into a martini glass. “She’s got you there, Poe. You do get a bit overwrought with your game playing. Vikram would be very upset to hear that you’d injured some poor patron.”
Poe’s hands morphed into talons. Their gaze clashed with the woman’s for a loaded moment. The elderly artist looked like she could easily be snapped in half, and Poe had some damn sharp body parts.
I looked around for help, because this was about to go sideways fast.
Poe broke first. They shifted back, and inclined their head.
My eyebrows shot up. Who was this woman?
“Not so fast,” I said to Poe. “You said you could give me answers.” I showed them a photo of Jude. “Do you know her?”
Poe glanced at the artist, who motioned for them to pick up their deck faster.
“Hey,” I protested, wiping up the spill on the bar and placing the larger shards of glass in a pile. “Birdie and I had a deal.”
“Calm your tits,” the elderly woman said. “I’m doing you a favor. Don’t play games with Poe.”
The shifter cawed. “You overstep, Tatiana.”
“Pshaw.” She added some vermouth and a couple of olives to her drink.
Having collected their cards, Poe left without answering my questions.
I shivered against the sensation of a single feather being trailed down my spine, but I quickly brushed it off, grabbing another bunch of napkins and wiping down the bar top. “Thanks for the intervention.”
The woman added a couple of olives and took a sip, nodding in satisfaction. “Laurent doesn’t bring friends around. I’d hate for him to lose one of the few he has.”
I tensed. “We’re not friends.”
“Really?” She tapped the sleeve of Laurent’s leather jacket that I was still wearing. “In my day, boys gave us letter sweaters.” She slid an olive into her mouth with a smirk. In that lime-green mini and those crazy glasses, she was five feet eight inches of giving zero fucks.
I decided then and there she was my new role model.
She was also an artist, which teased out a thought. “You’re Tatiana Cassin. The world-renowned painter. I saw your Barbie in the Big Bad World exhibit a few years ago. The juxtaposition of this all-American female gaze in those traditionally masculine spaces was jarring and brilliantly cheeky.”
“You grasped my intention. Good girl. I like the sharp ones.” Tatiana made me another soda and cranberry.
“Do you use magic in your art?”
“That would be cheating. I get far more pleasure from using my talent and years of hard work in developing my craft. I only used it today because I was tired of that mumser Adrien going on about his brilliant sculptures. He’s so derivative.” She waved a dismissive hand. “And sculpture isn’t my genre.”
“You still kicked his ass.”
She handed me the glass. “This old dog still has some tricks up her sleeve.”
“How do you know Laurent?” I grabbed a lemon wedge from a bowl on the bar and squeezed it into my drink.
“My late husband and I lived in Paris for decades and the boy’s grandparents were our dear friends. I’ve known him since he was born. Consider me his aunt.” She scooped up her martini. “Ten minutes on those stools and I get a pain in the tuchus like you wouldn’t believe. Get us a table.”
I grabbed my drink. “They’re all full.”
