“You know that the Charleston plantation class love their sports, almost as much as they do their charity balls,” he added with a chuckle. “There’s quite a legacy in many families, and that makes for interesting stories. So we decided to highlight the most notable triumphs in hunting, fishing, boating, horse racing, even field trials for hunting dogs. Those successes have been celebrated individually of course, but never brought together to show a bigger picture.”
Smart, I thought. The Archive focused on the fashion and decorative angle, while the museum celebrated the big-name families, and plenty of potential donors got their egos stroked, right in time for the next fundraiser.
“And Common Threads?” Teag couldn’t contain his interest.
“Oh, you’ll like it. Very different from the last display with all the rugs and textile art,” Alistair replied with a shudder. One of the pieces from the previous display had led us to a serial killer, although the public was none the wiser. I sincerely hoped nothing about the new exhibit turned out to be nearly that “interesting.”
“How so?” I wanted to keep the conversation going. Just being in a museum raises my stress level. So many of the objects carry a sad or even violent resonance; I have to be very careful not to be overwhelmed. I’ve learned the hard way to steer clear of problematic exhibits, but sometimes the whammy comes from an object as innocent as a serving dish or a piece of jewelry.
The new exhibit hadn’t opened to the public yet, but everything appeared to be in place, and none of the museum staff were in sight. Glass cases filled with photographs, silver trophies, and glistening Winners’ Cups were arranged throughout the room, interspersed with display kiosks with pictures, personal items, and other memorabilia. To my relief, the taxidermied animals appeared to have been sent to the Archive’s storage. I’m always certain that they’re watching me. Sometimes, that’s even true.
We moved through the displays, and I noted the names that appeared over and over again. Charleston’s inner circle has remained much the same for centuries. The true Old Guard is a network of family ties and old business connections. Now and then a line dies off, or a side branch comes to prominence, but it’s not a club that can be bought into, and it’s about blood as much as money.
“Looks like the Nicholson family has made a good showing over the years,” I noted.
Alistair nodded. “Oh yes. Of course, they’re not the only ones, but they’ve been prominent since the early days with all the field sports.”
I made a note of the other family names that came up, jotting them down so I could compare them to the list of newly dug-open graves and see if any of them had come back for another run for the roses.
“Tell us about what’s missing—and what’s up with the ghosts,” I said.
Alistair’s smile faded. “Museums—and theaters—are always haunted. It goes with the territory, I guess. Some of the spirits are part of the ‘permanent collection,’ while others come and go with particularly poignant exhibits. But most of the time, they’re on fairly good behavior. Oh, there are strange cold spots, lights that flicker, odd shadows, and some disembodied voices, but the only times it’s escalated have been when I’ve called you in,” he added with a pointed glance.
Right. Poltergeists, serial killer ghosts, and the restless spirits from natural disasters tended to cause problems. We’d helped Alistair and moved the spooks on their way. I’m not a medium, and neither is Teag. We bring in our friend Alicia Peters for that. She’s got some serious mojo. But sometimes ghosts became attached to an object and followed it around from place to place, lost and confused. They didn’t mean to disrupt anything, and some of them didn’t realize they were dead. We could usually send them into the light with some salt and sage, and if not, Father Anne made house calls.
“Four of my staff saw shadowy forms among the glass cases, but when they turn on the lights, no one’s there,” Alistair admitted. “They swear they aren’t seeing reflections. And I believe them.” He looked down and fingered the keys on his carabiner nervously. “Because I saw Josiah Nicholson, standing in front of his fox hunting trophy, looking like his photo, except that I could see right through him.”
“Did he do or say anything?” Teag pressed, his voice quiet.
Alistair shook his head. “He didn’t say anything that I could hear, although his mouth moved. I had the oddest feeling, like he was trying to warn me about something. But I have no idea what that might be.”
Ghostly hunters, demon dogs in downtown Charleston, zombies, and restless spirits. And it wasn’t even Halloween. “Do you know anything about how Josiah died? Maybe he’s a repeater. Those aren’t really sentient; they’re more like a film clip imprinted on an object or place that plays on an infinite loop. Kell calls them ‘stone tape recordings,’” I said.
“Josiah Nicholson died with his boots on—in his saddle,” Alistair replied. “A stray shot in a large hunting party. No one knew who fired the bullet, or at least, nobody was ever charged. They ruled it an accident, and since no one appeared to benefit, folks didn’t fuss about it.” He stared out over the display floor.
“How common is that? Fatal accidents in these sports?” Teag asked.
Alistair looked up. “Quite common. Tragic, of course, but that doesn’t stop people from doing what they love, even if it kills them.” He walked among the cases, glancing at the trophies and memorabilia.
“Getting thrown from a horse or drowning in a boating accident are two of the most common causes of death.” He pointed to photographs beside trophies as he spoke, indicating those who had met untimely ends. “Of course, being rolled on by a horse that steps into a hole happens more than you’d think, and catching a stray shot like Josiah isn’t unheard of. Untreated tick bites, getting attacked by the wild animal they meant to shoot, stepping on a copperhead, those are all pretty much par for the course.”
As he moved around the room, Alistair continued to point to the people whose memorabilia were displayed, and I started to wonder if they had all died from their sport. “And then there are the oddities,” Alistair continued. “Getting appendicitis or having a heart attack when you’re miles from nowhere before cell phones and helicopters. Drinking bad water, or cooking up the wrong sort of mushrooms.”
“That really happened?” I asked. “The mushrooms?”
Alistair nodded, indicating a smiling man in the middle of a picture of cheery hunters. “Their camp cook decided to get creative, and ‘harvested’ some wild mushrooms. Two of the party died, two others went into kidney failure, and the others were sick as dogs. I understand the cook shot himself.”
“Yikes,” I replied.
“Indeed.”
“Seems like a lot of trouble for a shiny cup you can’t even use for a fancy vase,” Teag noted.
Alistair shrugged. “I’m not sure you or I can really understand how deep these sports run in the blood of these families. It’s their identity—in their own eyes, and among their social circle. Winning and their standing in the rankings matters as much as any business deal or how much is in their bank account. It’s who they are.”
That didn’t sound particularly healthy to me, but then again, I didn’t come from Charleston blue blood. Maybe Anthony would understand; his family’s been prominent for generations, with a house on The Battery and one of the oldest law firms in the Holy City.
I tried to clue into my gift. Even without handling an object, I can often pick up a vibe if the piece is “transmitting” a powerful resonance. Hell, I’ve picked up impressions through the soles of my shoes in a location where something really bad happened. The impression I received from the exhibit was difficult to pin down. The energy felt restless, unsettled. Worried, like something bad might be about to happen. As I slowly passed the cases, fixing my attention on silver medals and red ribbons, big two-handled cups, and engraved platters, I sensed pride, satisfaction, competitiveness, and a hunger to be remembered. All very normal, and what I’d have expected if there hadn’t
been a problem. Yet underneath all that, I felt tension.
Then it struck me. The ghosts weren’t dangerous. They were scared.
“You said Josiah seemed to be warning you,” I mused. “Is there an anniversary coming up—his death, or some other tragedy?” Ghosts tend to get hung up on things like that, and finding a connection might help us understand what was really behind it all. Because it seemed unlikely a sudden spike in ghostly activity was unrelated to all the other strange goings-on throughout the city.
“Not his own death; I checked,” Alistair said. “We’re not quite sure who the other ghosts are, but the staffers who saw them also said they had the feeling they were being warned. They didn’t think the ghosts meant to harm them.”
“What are ghosts afraid of?” Teag wondered aloud. But we both could supply plenty of answers, each one worse than the next.
“What about the object that was stolen?” I looked around, but none of the cases appeared to be damaged, no smashed glass or broken locks.
“A hunting dagger, very old,” Alistair replied. “Belonged to Josiah Nicholson, and it’s been passed down through the family for generations. They call it their ‘lucky dagger’ and claim the first Nicholson brought it over from Scotland, that it was ancient, even then.”
“Do you believe the story?” I asked. “Was there anything special about it, other than its age?”
Alistair considered the question for a moment. “It was a beautiful piece, even with all the wear. Celtic design on the handle, and what might have been Norse runes carved onto the blade.”
“Was it valuable?” Teag and I handle a lot of heirlooms in the store, but true relics are the province of historians.
“Probably more to the family for sentimental reasons than to collectors,” Alistair replied. “Although pieces that old do have value. But it was a dagger meant to be used, not a ceremonial piece set with gems or precious metals. Nice workmanship, but no provenance of being part of a famous battle, for example, or belonging to a king. So it’s an odd piece to be the only thing the thief stole.”
“How is the family taking the loss?” I shivered and realized that the temperature in the room had grown colder as we talked. I couldn’t see any ghosts, but I had the feeling that they were listening, and very interested in our conversation.
Alistair shook his head. “Not well, as you can imagine. Yes, the piece is insured. And the museum has insurance. But it’s not the sort of thing that can be replaced. And the theft makes no sense since nothing else was touched. Of course, that leads to difficult questions. The police have to consider the possibility of an inside job.”
“Do you think that’s likely?” Teag looked up from where he’d been closely examining the names on an old picture of a large hunting party from the turn of the past century.
“Personally? No. I can’t imagine anyone on our staff doing such a thing. But the police are right to investigate. And if it isn’t someone who works here, then there’s no telling who it might be. Because the thief didn’t leave any fingerprints or evidence, or show up on any of the security cameras.”
Getting past keypads and cameras wouldn’t be difficult for a powerful witch, or a creature with the right kind of magic. Not that the police would believe that. Still, that left the question of why someone wanted the dagger that badly, and how the Nicholson family had gotten quite so tangled up in the strange goings-on.
“I can ask Father Anne to come by and read a blessing,” I offered. “But before that, I’d like to bring a medium back with me. Alicia’s very talented. If the ghosts can tell us something, she’s the one who can find out what they have to say.”
Alistair gave a curt nod. “Could we bring her in before the exhibit opens—when the public isn’t around? I’m afraid some of our board of directors might not be open-minded about such things.”
“I’ll call her and see when she’s available,” I said.
“Thank you,” Alistair said, taking my hand. “You don’t know how much this means to me. It’s such a good exhibit—I don’t want the theft to put a damper on it.”
As we walked, I had been trying to get a “feel” for the objects in the cases with my gift. Given how important they were to their owners and how much they were valued and coveted, I expected to pick up a lot of resonance, even if it was mostly pride and satisfaction. Yet the pieces surprised me with their lack of mojo, which seemed strange. I stopped in front of a tall silver cup engraved with what must have been at least a hundred names. It gave off more of a vibe than anything else, yet it, too, felt oddly weak.
I read down through the names, speaking them aloud in the hope that would call up more of the trophy’s energy. I registered a lot of positive vibrations, but instead of getting glimpses of celebrations or champagne bottles being uncorked, the persistent image was of a pitcher being emptied. I shook myself out of my intense focus and tried to make sense of what I’d seen.
“Did you pick up anything?” Teag asked.
I nodded. “The ‘signal’ is very weak. But I don’t think it always was. In fact, I’ve got a suspicion that someone or something drained energy from the pieces.” I looked to Alistair. “Before we leave, I want to swing by some of the permanent exhibits. I know how much juice some of those items should have—and I’ll know if it’s changed.”
“Of course.” Alistair looked startled at the thought of psychic energy being siphoned off. “What kind of person could do that?”
“I’m not sure,” I replied, although I could think of a few. Psi-vampires, for one. They can steal energy from living people; I figured some of them could probably drain an object’s resonance. I didn’t doubt that some witches could tank-up on stolen energy, and maybe very powerful ghosts as well. But I didn’t want to keep Alistair from sleeping at night, so I kept my suspicions to myself. “But we’ll figure it out.”
“Do you think my staff is in danger?” Alistair asked. “If the ghosts are trying to warn us, should we be worried?”
Teag gave me a look that clearly told me it was my call. “I don’t think so,” I said slowly. “Not unless something else worrisome happens. I don’t see a threat to visitors, either. You know I would tell you—and that I have told Mrs. Morrissey when I thought a display had dangerous elements.”
Alistair nodded. “I know. Thank you.” He pinched the bridge of his nose as if staving off a headache. “It’s not what I expected when I planned the exhibit.”
“We’ll keep our eyes open,” I promised. “And as soon as we know anything more that could help, we’ll fill you in.”
Alistair thanked us again, then headed back to his office. Teag and I veered off to the Common Threads exhibit, and I didn’t need to be an empath to tell how excited he was.
“Beautiful textiles always carry power,” he told me. “But it doesn’t have to be something big like the quilts at the Archive, or those rugs we saw a while back.” Teag entered the exhibit room like a kid heading for the packages under the tree on Christmas morning. I could hear the passion for the topic in his voice.
“Oh, look at these!” He groaned in appreciation as we got a good look. Beautiful hand-embroidered tablecloths and other linens hung behind glass. Next came framed “samplers” showing off the needlework skills of their creators. Hand-made lace filled the center case, so delicate and fragile and with such immaculate, tiny stitching that my breath caught.
The far side of the room had a video showing artists at work. The long glass case had examples of thread-making, yarn-spinning, dyeing, and weaving. A small collection of shawls, scarves, and other finished pieces showed the final outcome.
“They’re all beautiful,” I said.
When Teag didn’t respond, I turned to look at him. He had a pinched expression, and he seemed to be gazing at nothing.
“Teag?”
“I think I know what you were feeling, out in the other room,” he said. “The energy’s wrong. These pieces are all masterworks. Some of them took hundreds of hours of work, an
d whether the maker has magic or not, there’s a lot of devotion and creativity and love that goes into these. They should practically glow with energy, to me if not to you.” He shook his head. “But it’s gone. It feels like they’re husks. Like they’re missing their essence. And it’s like something stole their soul.”
I knew he meant that metaphorically, that objects don’t actually have “souls.” Then again, even a rock has energy on some level, and plenty of other cultures believe that inanimate objects have a spirit. So maybe what Teag and I knew as “resonance” carried even more weight than I thought. That would be an interesting existential conversation with Father Anne and Lucinda over cocktails some evening, but right now, we had an energy vampire—or something—to catch.
“Teag,” I whispered, and when he gave me a look, I inclined my head toward the small loom in the exhibit. The translucent form of a woman stood in front of the case, and as we watched, I saw her gesture. She held her hands out, chest high, palms out, and waved them back and forth, a timeless motion of warning. Then she looked straight at Teag and pointed directly at him, eyes filled with a silent caution. The woman glared at me, then looked back to Teag. I got the message. Watch out for Teag.
The ghostly woman vanished before I could figure out how to ask my questions in charades.
“Okay, I’m officially creeped out,” Teag said quietly, still staring at the spot where the ghost had disappeared.
“You and me both.” I walked closer to the display, and sure enough, the ghost looked exactly like the weaver whose picture hung next to her prized loom.
“Why you?” I wondered aloud. “The warning was clearly meant for you. But what was she warning you about?”
“Maybe…” Teag began, then stopped. I gave him an expectant look. “You sensed the energy drain in the other exhibit. I could feel it here. Maybe whatever drained the objects can drain energy—or magic—from people, too.”
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