6
An alarm pinged on Clay’s phone, and he rose so fast, he knocked over his chair. “I’m out.”
Hours of research had passed in a blink, and I rubbed my dry eyes clear. “Have fun.”
“I plan to,” he assured me, doing a little shuffle step that made me cringe. “See you kids later.”
Once he shut the door behind him, I reached for the bottle of water Asa had brought me at some point.
“Did you throw up in your mouth a little now, or was that just me?”
“You know what the dancing means?”
“I do.” I shuddered. “Do you?”
“I’m aware.”
When Clay started shaking what his momma—erm, creator?—gave him, I knew he was off to have sex. I wasn’t sure when my understanding of it began, but I felt it was intentional on his part. He wanted a way to clue me in, back when I was younger, that he would be out scratching an itch and not to worry if he didn’t come home until morning.
It was the golem equivalent to hanging a sock on the doorknob to warn away a roommate.
Why it bothered me this time, I wasn’t sure. Unless it was his choice of partners. Faux witches might not have any magic of their own, but the truly devout sourced grimoires and other arcane trinkets to boost their nonexistent power. Mostly nothing came of that either, but there were always exceptions.
This one time a human and twelve of her besties decided to play coven on Halloween. At midnight. Under a full moon. But it turned out their yard sale grimoire was real. They got drunk on boxed wine, ate their weight in white raspberry truffles, and summoned a lesser god from another realm.
He ate them, got tipsy from their high blood alcohol levels, then slurred demands for more cream-filled treats (humans) in exchange for returning to his home without first rampaging ours.
At the time, I found the entire exchange hilarious, but I had grown since then.
Though I did still crack up remembering how the god had humped Clay’s leg until he passed out drunk.
The god, not Clay.
“Let’s hit the streets.” I tugged on Asa’s arm. “We can tour the crime scenes, see if we missed anything.”
“And Clay says you’re not romantic.”
The barb struck home, but I didn’t let it hurt. He hadn’t meant it to, so I shook off the twinge.
“Keep sweet-talking me, and I’ll take you to King Street to watch drunks vomit on the sidewalk.”
Smile in his eyes, he followed me out the door and into what I had mentally dubbed the cursed elevator.
The endless ride down gave me plenty of time to check in with Colby.
>Asa and I are heading out for a few hours.
>>Cool.
>>Paperwork for cleaner database access has been filed.
>Any word on the deckhand?
>>The Vandenburghs cleared him. The crew was combing the boat for a passenger who didn’t disembark at the fort. They had her name on the manifest. She’s a regular chaperone, so the crew recognized her. That’s why the deckhand jumped to the conclusion it was Tracy Amerson.
>Huh. I should have thought of that.
>>The Vandenburghs also said all the rangers on duty were accounted for. Their interviews are logged into the database if you want to skim them. I read them, and they were about what you’d expect.