“We’ll be there in an hour,” I said, glancing at the clock. That would let us cover all but the tail end of the afternoon rush at the store, so I wouldn’t feel too guilty about leaving Maggie to lock up. And we’d still get to the Archive before they closed.
“Thank you. I’ll be waiting.”
I slipped my phone back into my pocket just as Teag wandered into the break room. “Problem?” he asked.
“Sort of,” I replied, frowning as I tried to figure out what Mrs. Morrissey thought we could do about her theft. “Something’s been stolen, and apparently I had told Mrs. Morrissey that it had juice.”
Teag looked puzzled. “If it was malicious, she wouldn’t have had it on display. So why would someone take a piece with good mojo?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. And I’m not sure what she’s thinking we can do. Any evidence we might find probably wouldn’t be something the police would accept. But she did say there was a new exhibit you’d like, so do you want to ride shotgun?”
Fortunately, we were only reasonably busy instead of slammed for the next hour. Even so, we’d sold enough tea sets and trinkets that we’d close out the month with a tidy profit. Sorren not only pays Teag and me well for running the shop, but we earn an additional stipend for the risks of our “extracurricular” Alliance activities. So the shop would stay open even if we didn’t break even. But since Trifles and Folly has been in my family for so long, it’s a point of pride for it to turn a profit.
The time continued to fly, and before I knew it, Maggie was shooing us out the door, promising to close up. We walked, despite my crack about “riding shotgun” because it was a nice night and trying to get parking near the Archive was a real pain. Charleston raises “strolling” to an art form, and on a pleasant evening, tourists and locals rub shoulders on the sidewalks. Walking tours, shoppers, and foodies check out our world-class restaurants and keep the streets busy until all hours. Even in residential areas, tourists stroll through the historic district long after the carriage tours are done for the evening.
So it seemed odd that fewer people than usual were out. “Where is everybody?” I asked, glancing skyward to see if I’d missed out on a warning about rain.
“I don’t know, but something’s up,” Teag replied, and while he tried not to rubberneck, I could see his gaze flitting from person to person as we walked. “People seem a little tense.”
That also seemed strange. Charleston’s lifeblood is tourism, and we’ve aced hospitality. It’s not just good business; it’s Southern manners bred bone-deep. Not that everyone is happy all the time, but even when we aren’t, Charlestonians make a damn fine effort to be friendly and welcoming. It’s the kind of city where people say “excuse me” if they bump someone on the sidewalk, “thank you” if someone holds a door, and might even make eye contact and smile at a total stranger.
Today, good humor was in short supply. Passers-by kept their eyes averted, and they walked like they were all late for work. No smiles, no greetings, and when a few people bumped shoulders, I actually heard a snappish exchange. What the hell was going on?
“Did something happen? Have you seen the news?” I murmured to Teag.
He looked bewildered. “Nothing popped up on my phone. Maybe Mrs. Morrissey will know.”
I could almost feel the tension radiating from the other pedestrians, and it was getting to me. I felt keyed up, and that wouldn’t help if I needed to rely on my touch magic once we got to the Archive. Impressions flow best when I’m relaxed, and although I’ve used my gift under very dangerous and demanding circumstances, I’d prefer not to feel out of sorts. Especially when I had no reason for my mood to suddenly tank.
The Historical Archive occupies a restored old mansion in the ritzy area known as “South of Broad.” Mrs. Morrissey is one of the quiet movers and shakers in Charleston, especially in the non-profit world. Her husband died quite a while ago, leaving her bank account well-endowed. She leveraged the most valuable currency in Charleston—connections—and emerged as a doyenne. Fortunately, she likes Teag and me a lot.
I didn’t see any visitors milling around when Teag and I entered, but since it was nearing the late dinner hour, that didn’t surprise me. We went right back to Mrs. Morrissey’s office, and her administrative assistant waved us on.
Mrs. Morrissey perched behind her expensive antique desk with the rigidly perfect posture instilled from boarding school. Her St. John knit suit skimmed her slender frame, and the understated pearls in her necklace and earrings were real. She looked up and gave us a tired smile. “Cassidy. Teag. I’m so glad you’re here.”
I had almost skipped bringing her a latte—our usual “bribe” for information, but she looked so weary I was glad I’d gone ahead and gotten one despite the hour.
“Bless you,” she murmured as she accepted the hot drink like an offering. “It’s been quite a day.”
“What’s going on?” I settled into one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“You know what it’s like around here when we’re getting ready for a new installation,” she sighed, raising a bird-like hand to smooth her perfect, silver bobbed hair. “Utter insanity. People coming and going, boxes in and out—hard to keep track of everyone.”
“You thought something had been stolen?” Teag pressed.
Mrs. Morrissey nodded. “The exhibit is on field sports—hunting and fishing. Fox, deer, quail, duck—all the usual things people in these parts like to hunt. We’re focusing on the sporting aspects, and the Museum of the Lowcountry is putting their emphasis on the ‘Rural Gentry’—the families that have been noted for their hunts, horse breeding, field dogs, that sort of thing. That way we don’t duplicate.”
I gave her an encouraging nod and decided that we needed to give Alistair a call at the museum tomorrow and drop by to see.
“One case shows how sporting apparel has changed down through the years—what the well-dressed gentleman wears for a day in the field,” she went on. “Many of the outfits were on loan from the families. And the Nicholson family lent us one of Geoffrey Nicholson’s duck-hunting jackets. With the jacket was a brooch that they’ve lent us before—do you know the one? It’s very Celtic.”
The mention of “Geoffrey Nicholson” sent a chill down my spine, given the events of the night before. But now that I thought about the brooch, I remembered one in particular that she’d shown me from the Archive’s collection, a pretty silver clasp, very old.
“The man’s cloak pin? The family said it dated to the Vikings.”
Mrs. Morrissey nodded. “That’s the one.”
I frowned, trying to remember details. “I didn’t do a reading on it, but from what I could see, they might be right,” I replied. “It held a lot of power, partly from its age, but I didn’t pick up anything dangerous.”
“That’s what I recall,” she replied. Mrs. Morrissey stood. “Come with me. I’ll show you where it happened.”
Museum exhibits are a toss-up for me. As I’ve gotten more control over my psychometry, I’m better able to protect myself from objects with a lot of resonance. I’ve also learned which exhibits to avoid, like those commemorating disasters or tragedies, because of the nature of the stored impressions. If I’ve got no choice about being in the midst of a lot of emotionally fraught objects, at least I can rally my defenses to keep me from being knocked on my ass. Although that still happens, more often than I’d like.
In the past, the Archive hosted some exhibits that accidentally included pieces with strong dark magic. Some of those spawned nightmares that are likely to be on permanent repeat in my brain for the rest of my life. But most of the historic objects, fortunately, have little to no resonance, and some have a very positive, calming vibe. Thank heavens, or I’d never be able to visit again.
“We also have a nice exhibit on quilts,” Mrs. Morrissey said as we passed one of the smaller display rooms. “I thought Teag might like to have a look around.”
“We’ll check it out on the way
down,” he promised, and with the way his eyes lit up, I knew he’d make sure we did.
A mannequin in a traditional fox hunting outfit astride a life-size “horse” welcomed visitors to the gallery. Enclosed in glass cases throughout the large room, I saw a selection of rifles and shotguns, duck calls, hunting horns, traps, and even a tree stand. Taxidermy trophies illustrated the prowess of long-ago hunters, although the glassy-eyed stuffed creatures made me equally sad and uncomfortable.
Along one wall, winners’ cups vied with framed photos to celebrate notable hunting and racing events. That’s when I noticed the jockey uniforms and realized that the exhibit spanned more than hunting, taking in riding and racing as well. Charlestonians like their dogs, their horses, and their fishing boats. Amid the cases with saddles and riding tack, I glimpsed some fishing tackle, old-fashioned rods, and some wooden canoes. Mrs. Morrissey knows how to put on a great exhibit.
“This is where it happened,” she said, leading us to a long glass case. Inside were faceless display dummies wearing hunting outfits that dated from the 1700s through the early 1900s, showing the shifts in both style and materials. “The brooch was pinned on the red jacket in the middle,” Mrs. Morrissey said. “And when we came in this morning, it was gone. I don’t know what I’m going to tell the Nicholson family.”
“You’ve reported it to the police?” Teag asked.
“Of course. And to the insurance company. But since Cassidy had picked up on some of its…resonance…I was hoping maybe she’d notice something the investigators didn’t,” Mrs. Morrissey added.
She sounded hopeful, and I didn’t want to disappoint her, but my magic wasn’t like a supernatural security camera that could back up and see footage of the crime. On TV, ghosts speak in complete sentences, visions provide clear images, and fortune tellers give detailed warnings. In real life, ghosts often can’t speak or are just “stone tape” recordings—a few seconds of strong emotion trapped in an infinite loop. Visions are usually jumbled and muddy, and even fortune tellers with real clairvoyance rarely get a complete picture. Part of having a psychic gift is learning how to fill in the blanks without blindly rushing to conclusions. But for Mrs. Morrissey, I’d give it a try.
I moved closer to the case and held a hand out so that my palm hovered as close to the glass as possible without touching. Faint images bound up in the collective memory of the objects inside buzzed like background noise in my mind, and I concentrated, trying to tune the signal to pick out new impressions. I bet on the fact that whoever stole the brooch had touched the case, and any residue left behind from that contact mattered more to me than the blurry memories of long-ago hunts.
When I found it, the impression confused me. I must have frowned or tilted my head because Teag stepped closer.
“What did you find?”
More often than not, the resonance I pick up communicates in feelings or pictures, and sometimes I struggle to put it into words.
“The thief has magic,” I murmured, parsing out information from the tangle of sensations. “Female…I think. And the intent seems all wrong. Not greed.” I surprised myself as I listened to my own words. “Anger. Desperation. And…loyalty. Or love. I can’t tell, but it’s fierce and frightened.” I opened my eyes and pulled my hand back. “I sure hope the cops got fingerprints because what I could pick up isn’t going to help find your thief.”
“Well, it was worth a try,” Mrs. Morrissey replied. “Thank you for making the effort. I know that sometimes our displays have given you a rather disconcerting impressions.”
I’d picked up glimpses of long-dead serial killers, hanging judges, and scary-as-hell Nephilim from prior exhibits, which went way beyond “disconcerting,” but Mrs. Morrissey didn’t need to know that.
A call over the intercom sent Mrs. Morrissey hurrying downstairs, but as she left, she thanked us again and insisted we take time to walk through the quilt display, even though we were already past closing time.
The “Under Wraps: Quilts and Community” exhibit exuded a happy, peaceful vibe, and I relaxed as if I’d snuggled into a warm blanket. Quilts of all sizes, patterns, and colors hung in glass cases, but they were close enough that I could get a look at the tiny, intricate stitching.
“They’re beautiful,” I said. I’ve always been in awe of the time and attention to detail it takes to create a quilt, as well as the exquisiteness of the colorful designs.
“And powerful,” Teag added. I looked over at him, startled. He grinned. “Can’t you feel it?”
Now that he mentioned it, when I paid attention with my touch magic, that tranquil vibe definitely was due to more than the calm music playing over the speakers. “Does Weaver magic work for quilts?” I asked.
He nodded. “It’s really about all aspects of making or working with fabric. Magic can be part of making the thread or yarn, weaving the cloth, or stitch work.” He pointed to a white-on-white quilt where the very small stitches created a pattern. “That kind of detail requires a lot of will and intent. Whether the quilter knows it or not, focus like that marks the cloth. If the person doesn’t have magic, then it’s more like the kind of thing you pick up—the dominant emotions the crafter felt when he or she made the quilt. But for someone with Weaver magic, it’s basically like tracing sigils and runes with thread.”
I thought about that for a moment, remembering the quilts my mother had on all our beds when I was growing up, and how they always made me feel happy and safe. “I’m impressed,” I said, and I didn’t only mean by the beautiful handiwork. We made a slow circuit of the room, admiring the original designs and craftsmanship, and when Teag headed for the door, I paused for a moment to soak up a little more of the serenity radiated by the quilts.
Which made me think of something. “Did anything strike you as odd on the walk over?” I asked as we headed down the stairs. By this time, almost all of the Archive staff had gone. We waved goodbye to Mrs. Morrissey, and let ourselves out, making sure the door locked behind us.
“You mean how everyone was in a lousy mood?” Teag answered my question. “Yeah, I noticed. If looks could kill…” He frowned. “Why? You think it’s important?”
I wasn’t quite sure how to wrap words around the gut feeling that wouldn’t leave me alone. “Yeah. Maybe. Strange that it was everyone, don’t you think? Did you start to feel out of sorts?”
Teag considered for a moment. “No…did you?”
I shook my head. “And I didn’t notice anything wrong once we got to the Archive. So maybe it’s a fluke.”
The look in Teag’s eyes suggested he didn’t agree. He glanced at the agate and silver necklace I wear most of the time, and the silver and onyx bracelets. They’re not just pretty, the metal and gemstones protect against evil. Teag wears an agimat charm and a hamsa on cords around his neck. “Maybe we were protected against whatever’s causing the mood shifts.”
“Could be. Assuming there’s something supernatural afoot, more than a collectively lousy day.”
I could tell that Teag kept turning the idea over in his mind as we headed back to the shop, where both our cars were parked.
“What would someone—or something—get out of making people cranky?” he mused. “Where’s the benefit for spending that kind of power?”
“Maybe it’s a side-effect of something else, not the main goal,” I suggested.
“So why didn’t people at the Archive seem to be affected?”
I thought about it. “If our amulets protected us, then maybe the benign heirlooms at the Archive create some kind of protective field,” I speculated. “The way the quilt exhibit made us feel peaceful. White light. Or static that drowns out the bad mojo.”
“Speaking of mojo,” Teag said, “do you think what Mrs. Teller said might be related? About people being afraid, having bad dreams, and wanting gris-gris bags?”
“Could be,” I admitted. “But what would bad dreams have to do with people being in unusually foul moods while they’re awake? How about the gh
osts at the Nicholson mansion being stronger than usual—how’s that connected? Or the missing brooch from the Archive?”
Teag opened his mouth to answer when we heard a low growl from the alley we passed. We exchanged a glance and reached for the weapons we never left home without. I pulled my spoon-athame from my purse, and let the dog collar jangle down around my wrist. Bo’s ghost shimmered and fell into step beside me, giving me a big doggy grin.
“Maybe it’s a stray dog,” I posed, although both of us knew better. Teag loosened two of the knotted cords tied to the belt loops of his jeans. The knots stored magic, helping him charge up his power quickly. He reached into the backpack he always carries and withdrew a thin metal coil. The silver whip played havoc with ghosts and supernatural creatures, although I hated to think what a cop would make of it if we got stopped.
The street seemed unusually deserted. No one in sight for blocks—a rarity for Charleston so early in the evening. That meant trouble.
The growl came again, closer this time. I felt my hackles rise. The air around us grew cold. A dog howled, and then another and another. A whole damn pack of dogs, in the middle of a city with strict leash laws. Something was definitely wrong.
“Run or fight?” Teag asked in a low voice.
“How about a little of both?” I wasn’t about to turn my back on whatever headed for us from the alley. I’d much rather stand my ground and face a threat head-on than be run down by wild dogs. If something supernatural did lurk down that dark street, we couldn’t walk away and leave the next jogger to pay the price.
I glanced around once more, but the streets were empty and the houses around us dark. “All right. Let’s see what’s going on.”
We approached the entrance to the alley warily, weapons ready. The wooden spoon in my hand once belonged to my grandmother, and it held a lifetime of strong positive memories imprinted in its grain. Bo padded along beside me, and while most people think of Golden Retrievers as happy-go-lucky, they’re also fiercely protective of their people, and ninety pounds of solid muscle with sharp teeth is nothing to sneeze at.
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