The hairs rose on my arms, and a glowing red ball of light formed. It shot at me, and goose bumps rose all over my skin as a wave of tingly warmth washed over me. I closed my eyes as my stomach relaxed, my head stopped throbbing, and the aches left my muscles. I let out a happy sigh and opened my eyes.
Peter grinned down at me. “Better?”
I nodded. “Where were you and this spell a decade ago? I could’ve used that back in my wild college days.”
He chuckled as I locked the door behind me and we started up the cobblestone street. “It’s a spell they taught us in the academy. We use it to sober up suspects and witnesses if they’re too far gone.”
“Nice.” I nodded as we walked along at a clipped pace that I wouldn’t have been capable of minutes ago. “I got the extra-strength spell.”
He chuckled. “You could say that.”
I nudged him with my elbow. “So what’s this intel?”
Daisy trotted in front of us, head whipping back and forth, black nose twitching as she sniffed at the drunken group of men we passed and the fish mongers and their carts.
“I did some follow-up and reached out to the board of directors. They just got back to me. Turns out, last week our victim, Geoffrey Ibsen, had recommended they let the director, Dr. Pendergast, go.”
I raised my brows. “Really? The new guy? Bold move.”
Peter nodded. “One that paid off for him—at least initially. Geoffrey claimed the director was hampering his efforts to modernize and promote the museum and that Oscar Pendergast was going senile.”
I tipped my head to the side. “So they were butting heads? Seems to jive with what Kalia told us, and even what we saw from the director himself.”
Peter grabbed my elbow as he made a left turn at a crossroads and drew me close to his side as we threaded our way down a crowded lane of food stalls and craft carts. It was packed with shoppers carrying bags of groceries and couples strolling hand in hand.
I glanced down at Peter’s hand on my arm and bit back a grin. Maybe one day we’d be hand in hand, but I wasn’t about to be complaining about arm in arm.
Peter, eyes raised to look over the heads of the dense crowd, helped guide me through the throng. “Apparently the board agreed with Geoffrey’s recommendation and sent Dr. Pendergast notice that he’d be terminated at the end of the month.”
I thought it over. “That was probably what that scroll from the board contained—notice of his dismissal.”
“Which he hid from us.” Peter let go of my arm as we left the market lane, and zigzagged through a series of dark, narrow alleys. “The curator told us he’d been having mood swings, angry episodes, and having a new employee go behind your back to get you fired would make anyone angry.”
I lifted a brow. “Angry enough to kill?” I quirked my lips as I remembered how blithely pleased the director had seemed that Geoffrey was out of the way. “Yeah, I could see it.”
Peter nodded. “Me, too. Of course, Daisy couldn’t get a clear read on him, but that could be the memory loss. He might genuinely not remember clearly what happened.”
I waggled my brows at him. “Ooh. So we’re on our way to make an arrest on opening night?”
Peter gave a short nod.
“How dramatic.”
He chuckled and we turned up the street, headed through the curved tunnel that led to the museum’s courtyard, and then passed the fountain. A decent crowd milled about outside.
Maverick stood on the steps, keeping what appeared to be a mixed crowd of protestors and the press at bay. There were the Temple of Purity fanatics with their chanting and signs, surrounding a bunch of journalists. Their cameras’ flash bulbs were going off and scrolls and quills hovered beside their heads as they shouted out questions at the security guard.
I spotted someone I knew, Madeline L’Orange, among the journalists. Her eyes widened and she shot an arm out at me. “I’m with her!” She started to slide through the crowd and work up the steps, but Maverick looked to Peter who shook his head.
The older man ushered her back, arms stretched out. “No, miss, no media allowed.”
She winked at me before returning to her place with the other members of the press. “Had to try.”
Maverick waved us on, and we followed the bounding Daisy up the stone steps. The doors to the museum stood open, golden light spilling out. We entered the lobby and found the place buzzing.
23
CURSES!
An elegant crowd milled about as waiters with magically hovering trays dispensed champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres. My mouth watered as I eyed a cheese plate, but I grinned as I realized I didn’t need to eat.
Just a couple months ago I would’ve been sneaking off to stuff my face as a matter of survival. It felt good to know I could just stuff my face as a matter of pleasure now.
Men in tuxes and women in gowns milled about the regular displays in the center of the museum—glass cases of potions and wands and magically moving bones of long-dead monsters. I glanced down at my tee and jeans and suddenly felt underdressed. Most of the crowd hovered near the black curtain that hid the Cursed Objects Special Collection from sight.
Kalia Magaro, the curator, stood in front of it, arms raised, her wand in one hand. She wore a lovely scarf around her head and a matching velvet floor-length gown with long sleeves. “May I have your attention, please.”
Her magically amplified voice cut through the murmur of the crowd, and even the echoes that bounced off the marble floors and pillars died down. The crowd—there were probably several hundred people here for opening night—gathered in front of her. Peter, Daisy, and I skirted the perimeter and moved slowly closer to
