I gave him a curt nod, then spun on my heel and stalked to the double doors. Everyone parted, making way for me. I heaved the massive door open and marched out. I barely noticed my surroundings as I shoved my way past other shifters and back into the wet sewer tunnels.
Splashes sounded behind me, and my shoulders tensed.
“Jolene! Wait up.”
Viktor’s nervous giggling echoed off the round stone walls, and Sacha grunted, “You okay?”
No. No I was not okay.
I whirled and pointed a trembling finger at Neo. “You spied on me. You overhead me tell Peter that I’d lost my powers and you just couldn’t wait to scurry underground and tattle, could you?!”
My furious voice bounced off the walls.
Neo and the boys stopped short. Neo blinked at me, his mouth open. “I—I saw you, the other night, but I didn’t hear what you said.”
I snorted.
“I didn’t! I had no idea, Jolene, until just now back there.” He threw an arm behind him. “I didn’t tell Ludolf!”
I scoffed. “I’m just supposed to take your word for it? Then how’d he find out, huh?” I spun and stalked off, and this time they didn’t follow me. I was ready to collapse into bed and pray this had all been a bad dream. Worst night ever.
12
PROTESTS
The next night I trudged alongside Peter and Daisy up through the cobblestoned streets of Bijou Mer back to the Magical Artifacts Museum. As much as I wanted to lie in bed and soothe my sorrows with a bowl of ice cream and my new cassette tape, I figured working would do a better job of keeping my mind off my horrible experience with Ludolf the night before.
Plus, Peter had brought me coffee.
I sipped some from my paper cup and savored the earthy, grounding flavor. I glanced up and found Peter studying me.
“You okay?” He frowned. “You seem distracted.”
I shook my head. “I—didn’t sleep well.”
He quirked his lips to the side. “Sorry to hear that.” He winced. “I hope I didn’t keep you up too late.”
I shot him a small grin, all I could manage at the moment. He could keep me up all night anytime. I shook myself—goddess, I hoped I hadn’t said that out loud.
“No. It wasn’t your fault. I just—” I waved it away. I couldn’t think of a way to explain it to him without lying. And even if the canine lie detector hadn’t been walking along his other side, ready to call me out, I was tired of lying to Peter. I’d rather be honest about not being able to talk about it than make something up.
“You know, I don’t feel like talking about it right now. Sorry. Let’s talk about the case?”
Concern flashed across Peter’s eyes, but he pressed his lips tight together and nodded. “Sure. Of course. As I was saying, the autopsy results came back. Geoffrey died of blunt force trauma to the head.” He raised his thick brows. “Which means someone had to hit him pretty hard with one of those figurines to kill him.”
I nodded, sniffing my coffee as we rounded a corner. “So that means it didn’t just fall off a shelf… and it had to be someone strong.”
He nodded. “Or someone who used magic to throw it.”
We entered the dark, arched tunnel. The square ahead was filled with light, and chanting voices echoed off the walls. Peter and I exchanged surprised looks, and he drew his wand.
“Stay close,” he muttered before stepping in front of me.
I lifted a brow. I mean, it was true I didn’t have magic, but this hardly seemed like a situation that required this much caution. Whatever. I let him and Daisy lead the way across the square toward the fountain in the middle and the large crowd gathered in front of it.
Picket signs bounced above people’s heads reading “Curses are Occult” and “Down with Dark Magic.” Others had a symbol on them, something that looked like a Y with an extra line in the middle—a tiny pitchfork. I frowned. What was this? People raised fists in the air and shouted.
We skirted around the edge of the angry mob and climbed the stone steps to the museum. Maverick, the security guard, stood there, wand drawn, shouting back at the crowd.
“Ah, go home! Don’t ya have better things to do?”
Peter slid up to him. “What’s going on?”
Maverick straightened and saluted Peter. “Good evening, Officer.” He shot a stink-eye at the raucous crowd. “Protestors from the Temple of Purity.”
Peter heaved a sigh and looked out over the crowd. “Technically they have a right to be here; this is public property.” He shook his head. “Any idea why they’re so upset this time?”
“They’re protesting the Cursed Objects Special Collection.” Maverick rolled his eyes. “Convinced its black magic, the work of demons and such.”
I rose on my toes and grabbed Peter’s shoulder. “Sorry—who are these people?”
He dipped his head and spoke close to my ear to be heard. It sent happy shivers down my spine. “See that symbol—it’s for the Temple of Purity, this religious group of—” He looked off, as if searching for the right word. “—of people with strong beliefs and opinions.”
Maverick barked out a laugh. “They’re a bunch of bigots.”
I raised my brows at Peter, and he tipped his head side to side, capitulating. “They tend to use their ‘beliefs’ to target marginalized groups. They’re anti-shifter”—I froze. Did that mean Peter didn’t agree with their beliefs?—“afraid of pretty much all hexes, curses and possessions, and anti human influence—they’ve tried to get human tourists banned from coming here, even in the daytime, and have tried to drive shifters off the island numerous times. In some cases, there’s even been attacks against tourists and shifters attributed to the Temple, though no one ever officially takes credit for inciting such things.”
I scoffed. “You going to arrest them all?”
He eyed them, then shook his head. “Like I said, they’re not doing anything illegal—yet.” He clapped a
