Page 70 of A Shade Too Far
Specks of clay flew, and still the golem kept going, its skull barely dented.
The door creaked open, an icy wind gusting out and covering my skin in goosebumps. I threw my hands over my face as the golem heaved me into that void and the door slammed shut.
I landed in a dumpy office with cheap furniture and a lone poster of a cat dangling from a branch with the words “hang in there” written under the animal. One corner had come loose. A Muzak version of that “Between the Moon and New York City” song played, while the cold air was nothing more than an air conditioner with poor temperature control.
“Hello?” I sat down uncertainly in a dingy plastic chair next to a drooping potted plant.
Stacks of paper were piled high on the desk and along the wall. A small plaque reading “Customer Service” in brass letters was displayed on the desk.
The black leather chair behind the desk swiveled around so its occupant faced me.
Pyotr looked more miserable than usual, his wings crammed into the seat. He held a pencil whose tip had been ground down to a dull nub, his middle finger bearing an enormous callus. “Customer service. How I help you?” he said morosely.
“Pyotr!” Relieved to see him, I rose out of my chair, but he tapped the plaque and I sat back down. “I want my travel privileges back to get home.”
The gargoyle laboriously took a stapled packet off a large pile, leafed through to the third page, inked up his stamp, and stamped it. “No.”
I calculated how much time this punishment would cost me in terms of our three-day deadline and finding this Banim Shovavim. “How long is this ban going to last?”
He heaved a sigh and turned the chair around. There was a creaking sound and a groan, then he dumped a huge, fat, dog-eared book on the desk. Muttering in Russian under his breath, he thumbed through the pages. “Two weeks.”
“No problem. Return me home now, please, and I won’t cause any trouble.”
“Must go back to start.”
“Los Angeles? Oh, come on.” I placed a hand on his stone arm. “I’m sure you can deposit me at my place.”
“This your fault.” He slammed his hand on a stack of paperwork. “Report. About you.” Then he grabbed a thick file and shook it at me. “Paperwork required to change exit.”
He held up his middle finger and I raised an eyebrow, but he was showing me his callus. “Hard like stone,” he said.
“To be fair, all of you is—”
He snapped the nubby pencil in half, and I backpedaled. Hard. “There’s a new Fast and Furious movie coming out.”
His lip trembled for a moment. “No.”
“Plus, there are all the Jason Statham action movies you haven’t seen.” I threw him an encouraging smile.
He clapped his hands over his ears, whimpering “No.” The pencil halves bounced to the floor.
I went around the desk and pried one chunky finger off his ear, allowing me to whisper, “The Transporter franchise.”
He banged his head on the desk. “You are horrible person.”
“Deal?”
He sighed and opened a drawer. “Give me wrist.”
“Why?”
“Part of deal. No coming back until ban over.” When I didn’t comply, he grabbed my arm, but not hard, and slapped something against it.
There was a quick sting and then the skin became warm. He’d stuck one of those kids’ tattoos on me depicting the neon sign doing its sad face.
“Is this a joke?” I scratched at it, but Pyotr brushed my hand away.
“No coming back until this disappears.” He crossed his arms.
