Page 23 of A Shade Too Far
“Nope. You were good.”
“I never imagined you’d let a dybbuk live,” he said snarkily, “but then again, you did give BatKian those gloves, so perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that your loyalties are different than presumed.”
My hip now bruised, I made it to the landing, resting while I worked through arguments in my head so that I’d counter his sarcasm with a logic that ground him to dust. When nothing suitable came to mind, I went with the tried and true. “Fuck you.”
Then I hung up, flinging my phone into my bedroom as I hobbled into the bathroom to assess the damage. It was “take a shower, maximum stain remover” levels of not pretty.
Between Sadie, my period, and that big dummy, I still hadn’t gotten any concrete details about the curse, so I steeled myself to go over to Tatiana’s place. By the time I’d gotten dressed and stuffed a pad the size of a saddle in my underwear, I’d ignored three more calls from Tatiana’s number and four from Laurent’s. Sadie, however, had ignored two calls and a text from me so I wasn’t certain if I was winning or losing the pissed-off phone Olympics.
The people in my life sucked, big-time. Wound up to the point of almost shaking—though that may have been my lack of food—I got into my car, craving a fight even more than the double mocha and muffin I bought along the way. Given my restless leg and constantly darting eyes, that second double shot might have been a mistake. On the other hand, my jitters would need to be unleashed on someone. Brace yourself, Laurent, because it was on.
I screeched to a stop at Tatiana’s curb and pounded on the door of her old-money monstrosity with my fist. Neither the neighborhood nor the house suited my boss. The artist was color and joie de vivre. This place was everything but that. Quaint gables and a brown and cream decorative façade made me want to put on a snooty British accent and address myself in the third person as Lady Snivelton. No, wait. Countess Kickhim-Intheballs. Heh.
Tatiana threw open the door, her vintage chiffon dressing gown and the hem of her silk men’s pajamas swirling around her kitten-heeled slippers, and plucked the mostly empty takeout cup out of my hands. “Don’t eat in the car, bubeleh. You’ll get terrible indigestion. Food, like sex, should be savored.”
I sighed. “Sometimes I just want a quick Triple O.”
“The burger or the…” She made a pounding motion with her fist.
“Either. Mostly the latter.” Triple. Big talk, Feldman. I’d take one solid single O at this point.
“Good for you. Aim high.” She pushed her oversize red glasses back up her nose.
I slipped off my shoes, examining her for any signs of anxiety or fear, because her silver pixie cut was all spiky, as if she’d been raking her fingers through it, but her overall vibe was relaxed. The woman was eighty, and as much as I wanted to murder Laurent, I didn’t want Tatiana harmed. “Is this for real? Why are you so calm about this death curse thing?”
“It’s called the Pulsa diNura.”
“It has a name?”
Tatiana locked the front door. “Fah. Old Aramaic word for ‘lashes of fire.’”
“That’s doesn’t make it better.” I shook my head. “Maybe a random unspecified death curse is nothing to get worked up about, but one with branding and stationery? We need to get you somewhere safe.”
“I have wards. Come.” She led me down a hallway that smelled like pancakes, her kitten heels slapping lightly against the floor in an even rhythm.
“You’re sure that will protect you?”
Her footsteps faltered for a second and she rubbed a finger over the inside of her wrist. “Of course,” she blithely tossed out. “Like I said, it’s happened before and I’m still here, aren’t I?”
Keeping any reply to myself, I followed her into her kitchen and blinked in surprise, because it was like I’d stepped into a snapshot from the 1950s. There was a bold checkerboard floor, mint-green cabinets and appliances, cherry-red furniture, and a retro glossy refrigerator. Standing at the stainless-steel double oven in a frilly yellow apron was Laurent, terrorizing pancakes with a spatula and a ferocious scowl.
I made a big show of pulling a notebook and pen out of my purse, turned to a clean page, and clicked the pen. “Laurent Amar’s list of prejudices.” I spoke as I wrote. “Pancakes and Banim Shovavim. Not necessarily in that order.”
Laurent’s back muscles tensed, then he flipped the food. “Don’t forget demon artifacts and Zev BatKian. I know your fondness for complete lists.”
I’ll give you a list. It started with “rat bastard” and went downhill from there. But man, was it written in record time.
Tatiana tore off a piece of cooked pancake and popped it in her mouth. “Miriam did the right thing. Zev was our paying client.”
“That doesn’t make anything right, and you know it.” Laurent gripped the plastic spatula so hard I waited to hear it crack. “I expect this from Tatiana, but not you. I thought you were better than that.”
“Oy,” Tatiana muttered, pouring water into a kettle.
I threw my pen at Laurent’s head. Sadly, I missed. “And I thought you were better than judging a person before you had all the facts. Zev gave me another shot at warding up my house against magical bad guys.”
“Yeah, everyone except him,” Laurent said darkly.
“Which is why I took him up on his offer.” I held up a fist. “Protected house and no follow-up visit to Zev’s dungeon for the win.”
