“Hurry. The barrier spell only lets up for about twenty seconds.”
I scurried through behind Peter and Daisy. The curtain swung closed behind me, and a shimmering forcefield rippled over the fabric, once again sealing the east wing off from others.
“We just had an interesting conversation with the director.” Peter walked beside Kalia, Daisy beside him as we moved through the new collection.
Kalia shot Peter a wary look. “Oh?”
I hung back, eyeing the displays. A few full-sized cedar trees magically sprouted from the marble floor and towered above us. Strange straw dolls with red eyes and mouths seemed to watch me as I passed, their bodies nailed to the trunks. A small plaque on the closest tree explained that these dolls were used to curse romantic rivals.
I sniffed. I should tell Eve about these. I mean, she’d already successfully cursed me and gotten with my ex-fiancé, but maybe she needed some more tools in her chest.
I shook myself and reminded myself to think positively. Eve and I had resolved our differences recently and let the tide go out between us. No point ruminating on the past.
“You say you’ve known the director for a long time. Have you noticed any changes in his personality or behavior?” Peter’s tone was gentle.
Kalia let out a heavy sigh. “It’s been hard to watch. He’s always had such a sharp mind, still does, but he’s had bouts of anger lately and periods of confusion. I believe he’s starting to show signs of dementia.”
“Bouts of anger?” Peter looked at the curator. “Can you give me an example? Has he become violent?”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Well… okay, for example, he received a letter from the board last week.”
Peter looked back at me. I felt confident he was also thinking of that scroll on the desk the director had been eager to hide from us. “Did you read it?”
She shook her head. “No. I just know it upset him. He called Geoffrey into his office right after and they had a big fight—” She caught herself. “Argument. I heard raised voices but… he’s such a kind old man. I know he didn’t kill Geoffrey—despite his dislike of the young man, he wouldn’t have done such a terrible thing.”
I cleared my throat. “Except you said he hasn’t exactly been himself lately.”
Kalia’s shoulders slumped. “It’s true. But I know him, at his core. He didn’t do it.”
Peter glanced over his shoulder at me, and I arched a brow. Doubtful.
“Of course he didn’t do it!”
I jumped and glanced to my left. Quentin, the young archivist we’d met last night, hovered next to a horrifying painting.
It depicted a pile of bodies, all painted in shades of red, on a canvas that looked nearly the size of my bed. The archivist, wearing white gloves, carefully arranged a handwritten letter in a glass case beside it. He set it on a pedestal, then closed the door to the case and stepped forward.
He caught me eyeing the painting and gestured at it. “The artist mixed his own blood with the paint.”
I curled my lip. “Gross.”
“Beside it we’re displaying handwritten accounts from previous owners of the painting. Terrible troubles befell everyone who displayed it in their home.”
I scoffed. “I think anyone who’d display that already had some issues.”
Peter stepped forward. “Mr. Richards, we met last night?”
The archivist nodded in greeting.
“What did you mean when you said of course the director didn’t kill Geoffrey Ibsen?”
He wrung his gloved hands. “It was the curse, I tell you… or some dark magic.”
Daisy wagged her tail. Truth.
Quentin glanced around him at the dozens of creepy objects. The room was dark except for pools of light cast around the displays. I suspected a spell did the trick, but the rest of the museum seemed to disappear—the walls, the ceiling, the floor. It was like moving through a black cloud, the displays emerging from the shadows.
A wall of mirrors showed our shadowy reflections—except for the largest mirror in the center, shrouded in a black cloth. Faint, creepy laughter sounded from somewhere nearby, and a slight breeze tickled the hairs on the back of my neck.
I shivered. “The collection’s certainly… creepy.”
Kalia sighed. “This was all Geoffrey’s design.”
I glanced around, cursed objects gradually emerging from the magical black mist—a wedding dress, a dark painting of children, and a chair that hovered a few feet above the ground.
I looked back at the cringing archivist. The guy said he mostly worked down in the basement. I’d bet the creep factor of handling all these things for months was just getting to him. I found it hard to believe that a curse had smashed Geoffrey in the head with a figurine from the gift shop—even if Quentin genuinely thought so.
Daisy looked at Peter and whined. What are all these things?
He looked down at her, then at me, puzzled. I waved the dog over as Peter continued to speak with Kalia and Quentin. I crouched down beside her and quietly woofed and barked. They’re a bunch of cursed objects—supposedly.
She cocked her head. Cursed?
I woofed. Yeah, like if you look into that mirror, for example, it’s rumored to steal your soul. That kind of thing. Lots of doom and gloom.
Daisy looked around, her dark eyes wide. Then she turned back to me and her black lips parted in a panting grin. Your hair is messed up. You should look in the mirror and fix it.
I rolled my eyes and huffed. Nice try, flea bag. But keep going. Evil spirits just love being taunted.
She backed up a couple of steps, looking left and right. Curses don’t work on dogs.
I jerked my head toward a display with a red barn door and a taxidermied cow and horse. A sign over the slightly off-looking witch next to them read “Stable Hag.” Well, apparently it works on horses and cows so I wouldn’t be so sure….
The dog looked around, whining and panting. She paced behind Peter and nudged his hand.
I rolled my eyes and disguised a woof by
