It was exactly as I remembered it—with maybe some extra patches where the stucco had fallen off, exposing the stone below it. We’d come here on a rare field trip with the orphanage when I was probably eight or nine. It was one of my few trips outside the Darkmoon District growing up. One of my few glimpses at a different world, a different way of life.
We started across the cobblestones, and I hugged close to Peter’s side. Partly because it was nice being close to him, and partly to stay within his magically protective bubble. Rain pelted all around us, creating bubbles in the fountain, which was overgrown with green algae.
Large banners hung on either side of the tall double doors to the museum, advertising the “Cursed Objects Special Collection Coming Soon!” An eerie mirror glowed blue on the left banner, a creepy painting depicted on the right. Oh, goody.
Peter nodded to the cop stationed outside the doors, and the guy pulled one open for us. Daisy led the way inside and shook as soon as we stood in the lobby. Peter dissolved the protective bubble after she’d sprayed water all over.
I lowered my voice and whined at her. Nice, Daisy. Just what the place was missing—wet dog smell.
The German shepherd bared her teeth and growled at me. Ha! As if your puny human sense of smell could detect much. Do you know what you put me through before you started bathing regularly?
I smirked, then glanced up and caught Peter staring at me wide-eyed. His mouth hung open, a smile tugging at the corner. “You were just speaking to her, weren’t you?”
Erp. Caught and cleaned. I gulped, my face growing hot, and shrugged in reply. It felt weirdly vulnerable to have Peter catch me talking to Daisy. I mean, I’d already told him I could, but I was so used to hiding it around everyone except Will and Heidi that I kind of felt exposed.
He breathed out and gaped at me, awed. “Wow. You’re… incredible. How does it feel to—”
“Flint!”
Peter, Daisy, and I turned toward the woman’s voice. I breathed again, relieved to have a distraction, as a cop I recognized from another case strolled up with a woman in a headscarf beside her.
“Flint, this is the special collection curator. You said you wanted to get her statement personally?” The cop gestured at the woman in the scarf, who ducked her head in greeting. Bags hung under her dark eyes, and a few frizzy locks of hair hung loose from her scarf.
“Thanks, I’ll take it from here.” Peter nodded at the cop, who spun on her heel and strolled back out into the main room of the museum. It was a giant, rectangular room. Flaming torches burned in brackets on the tall marble pillars that spanned the perimeter, supporting the second level balcony that overlooked the glass cases and displays out on the floor.
A black curtain cordoned off the east wing with a big banner that looked like the ones outside. So that was where the cursed objects collection was being staged.
Out on the main floor, a dozen officers moved among the displays, collecting evidence and speaking in small groups. Potion bottles glowed in glass cases, the bones of dragons and monsters were erected in fearsome poses, and marble statues of supposedly famous witches and wizards, most of whom I couldn’t have identified, stood in contemplative poses or with wands leveled midspell.
The place was generally well respected on the island, but even from a distance and in the dim light of the flickering torches, a thick layer of dust clung to every display, and dark marks and dirt marred the white marble floor. I raised my brows. It was almost as neglected as my apartment—and that was saying something.
Peter bowed his head to the curator. “I’m Officer Peter Flint.” He gestured to the dog. “My partner, Daisy.”
The woman’s only tell of surprise at him having a dog for a partner was a slight widening of her eyes.
“And special consultant Jolene Hartgrave.”
I grinned. Ooh. Special consultant, huh? Had I gotten a promotion?
“Could you tell me your name and a little about what you do here?”
A scroll and quill magically appeared next to Peter’s head, poised to take notes.
The woman licked her lips and lowered her eyes. “I’m Kalia Magaro. I’ve worked here for, sands, twenty-three years?”
The feathered quill scratched across the scroll, jotting it all down.
“I’ve worked in many capacities, but currently I’m the curator of the Cursed Objects Special Collection. I’m in charge of the display and care of the collection.”
Peter nodded. “And how did you know the victim?”
“Geoffrey?” Kalia looked up, eyes wide. She shook her head and looked down again. “I can’t believe he’s been killed.”
Daisy, who stood at Peter’s side, cocked her head, watching the curator intently.
Kalia’s throat bobbed. “Geoffrey Ibsen was our PR person for the museum. I worked both under him and under the director.”
Peter nodded. “I understand he was discovered in his office. Did you find him?”
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Our security officer did. But he alerted me after he called the police, and I came right away.”
“You have a security guard?” Peter raised his brows and looked around.
Kalia arched a dark brow. “This may not be the most popular of museums, but we are a museum.”
“Right, sorry.” Peter licked his lips. “The guard was on duty?”
“Yes.” Kalia sighed. “And no, I’m sorry—this has been a stressful night.” She massaged her hand, the one laced with the intricate tattoos of the fire kingdom.
Peter nodded. “I understand and appreciate you answering my questions during this difficult time. So you weren’t here when he was killed.”
She opened her mouth. “I—no, I don’t think so. I went home when the
