When I create the golem the paint chips that were on my wrist speckle his face like tiny blue stars.
“Your name is Gretor,” I tell him.
“Gre-tor.” His words are slow, round, like he’s speaking through a mouthful of butter.
I pause. “I need you to kill someone, Gretor.”
A bead of clay rolls down his chin and plinks to the floor. Gretor frowns. “But… Gretor ar-tist…”
“For the love of—” I crush Gretor under my hands and tweeze out the paint chips. I’ve made a baker, a painter, and a veterinarian. Reliable hitmen are hard to come by lately.