Page 60 of A Shade Too Far
12
I experienceda moment of blindness when I stepped inside after the relentless California summer sunshine, then lights came on with a loud, deep click and I threw up my arm against this new glare, blinking through the disorientation.
There was no sign of any bookstore.
A bouncy theme song with a rocking trumpet line played and Hiram, cane in hand, danced a soft shoe number onto a cheesy game show set that was decorated in bold blues and golds like a 1970s throwback. Next to the host’s podium was a love seat facing a gameboard that took up most of one wall. It was a low-tech wonder lined with blank-faced gold slats. Jeopardy! this wasn’t.
I sighed. Fucking hidden spaces.
“Welcome to The Naked Truth,” Ephraim boomed over a microphone somewhere. “A Wise Brothers Production of facts and quid pro quo.”
“I am not undressing,” Laurent said.
A loud “oooooh” and laughter boomed out of the darkness, as if we were being filmed live in front of a studio audience.
“What. The. Fuck,” I whispered.
Laurent stormed off, but Hiram grabbed his arm and spun him onto the love seat, not even pausing his shuffling dance.
That old man should not have been able to overpower Laurent. Was that another side effect of his suppressed—please be suppressed—powers?
Our host raised his eyebrows at me, and I hurried to sit beside Laurent. An invisible seat belt cinched over my lap.
“Let’s meet this week’s contestants, Hiram.” Ephraim’s disembodied voice seemed to come from everywhere.
I glanced around, trying to spot him, but lights were too hot and strong to see anything beyond the edge of the set. How alone were we? Were there people sitting out there eagerly waiting for the show to start? Was this being broadcast on some magic TV station? I shook my head. No, Tatiana would have known if that was the case and forbidden us from publicly asking questions about anything that could be traced back to her as a weakness.
So, what was their deal?
Hiram raised his hands to curtail the applause from the invisible audience, then removed the microphone from its stand and limped around the front of the podium. He thrust the mic in Laurent’s face. “Tell us a bit about yourself.”
The disparity between the genial host and his reluctant contestant with the torn clothing and bloody gashes was completely ludicrous.
The shifter stared stonily ahead, his arms crossed, and while the hairs on the back of my neck prickled from our situation, I almost hugged him, seeing that grumpy, suspicious look on his face. At least one thing was normal.
I nudged his leg. “Remember, we’re doing this for Tatiana.”
“Your name?” Hiram prompted.
“Laurent,” he ground out.
“Stoic fellow, isn’t he?” Hiram mugged at where the audience would be and received laughter and applause.
I squinted into the darkness but try as I might, failed to see anyone else here with us.
“And you?” Our host swished the black mic cord out of his way as he moved over to me.
I was on edge from the unfinished discussion with Laurent, disoriented by the bright lights, and panicked by whatever this stint was going to cost us.
I word-vomited.
It started okay with my name and hometown, but Hiram just stood there with the damn microphone extended, and worried that this was a test, I kept babbling. I’d offered up my academic background (BA English Lit, Masters of Library and Information Science), favorite books (mysteries), name of my first best friend (Mia Filippelli,) and was trying to remember my blood type when Laurent’s gaping shut me up.
I grabbed the mic and leaned in with a big smile. “Glad to be here.”
That earned me a “what is wrong with you” stare from Laurent, and flustered, I shrugged.
“All right,” Hiram said jovially, replacing the mic in its stand on the podium. “Well, this promises to be interesting.”
