Marshall snorted, shooting Sorren an incredulous look. “A lifetime? Forever?” He rolled his eyes. “Give me a few days. It’s not like I’ve got them on speed dial.”
“Make it quick. We don’t know when whoever—whatever—is behind this will strike again. There’ve been enough deaths already—and maybe more we don’t even know about.”
“I’ll call you, once I’ve talked with the other pack leaders. In the meantime, try not to piss them off. This is going to be hard enough to sell them on without anybody stepping on toes.” He paused and looked at Derek as if considering his presence for the first time. Throughout the conversation, Derek had not dared to raise his head.
“I believe I’ve found a use for Derek,” Marshall said, a cold smile touching his lips. “He can start working off his penance by being the go-between and your pack-appointed bodyguard.” Derek lifted his face, his expression a mix of relief and trepidation. “Cut him loose. I’ll take him tonight. When I send him to you, don’t kill him before you find out why he came.”
Teag glanced toward Sorren, who gave a curt nod. Teag moved behind Derek and untied the rope.
Derek moved away from Teag like a spooked animal, but he kept his eyes on me with wary hope, as if he thought I might be a skeptical ally.
“He will be safe—so long as he doesn’t act against me or mine,” Sorren warned. “I can’t promise we might not ruffle some fur while you’re setting up the meeting,” Sorren returned. “Better for everyone if we keep working the leads. Maybe I’ll have more to share when we get together.”
“I’ll be in touch.” With that, Marshall signaled his bodyguards, and they strode out of the room
Headed For Trouble
The next day, I headed to the Charleston City Market before it opened to the public. Just as I hoped, Ernestine Teller and her daughter Niella moved busily around the south doorway to the second building, setting up their table and laying out their elaborate sweetgrass baskets. A local magazine recently ran a feature on Mrs. Teller, hailing her as a master basket maker, and I knew Niella’s skill did not lag far behind her mother’s. Several of their baskets decorated my home, among my prized possessions. But today, I didn’t come looking for baskets.
I needed answers from the best Hoodoo woman in town.
“I told Niella you’d be comin’ round today,” Mrs. Teller said in greeting, giving her daughter a nod and a smug smile.
Niella rolled her eyes. “Since you come by most days on your way to or from getting coffee, that was a safe bet,” she said, fond exasperation coloring her tone.
“Looks like you’ve had a good week,” I remarked since the number of baskets set out for sale was more sparse than usual. Other sweetgrass weavers had tables in the market, but Mrs. Teller had a following to match her reputation, and many in-the-know tourists would only buy from her.
Mrs. Teller’s smile broadened. “Business has been good,” she allowed and touched the gris-gris bag on her belt in gratitude. “Niella and I are working on more baskets. Should have them out soon.” She fixed me with a look. “That’s not what you came to talk about today.”
Mrs. Teller knows about my psychometry, and she’s teaching Teag to deepen his Weaver magic. She’s one of the few who knows the whole story about Trifles and Folly, the Alliance, and Sorren. Even so, it always takes me by surprise when she knows what I’m thinking. I forget that her abilities go far beyond hexes and divination.
“So ask me.” Mrs. Teller raised an eyebrow, waiting. Niella gave an exasperated sigh.
“What do you know about shifters?” I kept my voice down since other merchants were setting up inside the building, going back and forth to fetch merchandise from their trucks. This wasn’t the kind of conversation I wanted anyone to overhear.
“They exist.” Mrs. Teller met my gaze. “And they’re closer than you think.”
I nodded. “Can they take on any form?” I’d seen enough movies for my imagination to go into overdrive picturing shifters taking on the appearance of people I knew and trusted.
Mrs. Teller shook her head. “No, or at least, none that I’ve ever known could. Each one is born with the gift of becoming a certain type of animal. Even the ones who can turn into the same type of animal each have unique markings. Can’t turn into just anything—or anybody, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
I relaxed, just a little. “Do you know why anyone might be out to get them?”
Mrs. Teller frowned. “I heard some people—shifters—have gone missing. I’ve known there are packs here in town, but they keep their distance, and I keep mine. But people talk.” She shrugged. “Some of the shifters are scared. They’ve come to me for gris-gris bags, for protection.” I’d seen first-hand what Mrs. Teller’s magic could do.
“Can you keep them safe?”
A glance passed between Mrs. Teller and Niella. “Maybe,” she admitted. “It depends on who’s after them, and what kind of power is being used.” She lifted her head as if sizing me up. “How did all this get to be your concern?”
I gave her a very short recap. “Sorren’s afraid something big is behind the disappearances, but until the packs will work together, it’s difficult to get enough information on what’s been happening. And I have the feeling that the only thing the packs dislike more than each other is Sorren.”
A faint smile touched Mrs. Teller’s lips. “Old rivalries never really fade. Both sides want to believe they’re the top predator, the biggest badass in the room,” she added. “And you know that t-shirt about what happens when mere mortals meddle in the affairs of dragons?”
I grimaced. “Yeah. We get deep fried and dipped in ketchup.”
Niella chuckled at that. “What mama’s trying to tell you is that pride is as much a part of the problem as whoever’s causing the disappearances. The packs don’t want to let the other shifters know they’ve been hurt. They sure as hell don’t want help from someone like Sorren. No one wants to lose face by asking for help, but if the disappearances keep happening, they’re going to have to do something soon.”
“If the packs start fighting each other, it’s going to spill over. People will get hurt. I won’t be able to stay out of it—and neither will the Alliance.”
Mrs. Teller sighed. “I know. But shifters are a close-mouthed bunch, and they’re used to keeping to themselves. Asking for help makes them feel weak, and they’d rather fight to the last than lose face.”
“Amazing they’ve lasted this long, with an attitude like that,” I muttered.
Mrs. Teller reached out to take my hand. “Listen to me, Cassidy,” she said, a warning tone clear in her voice. “Whoever is behind the disappearances is strong enough to take on the packs. You and Teag need to be very, very careful. The shifters will turn on you if they think that stopping the killer might reveal them to the outside world. Don’t trust them. Even if you find out who the killer is, they might decide to make sure that what happens among the packs stays among the packs.”
I shivered but nodded. “If they’re that private, why let us help at all?”
Mrs. Teller fixed me with a look. “They might be hoping you’ll force the killer’s hand, draw him out.”
“In other words, we’re bait.”
After I left the marketplace, I called Lucinda, but the calls went to voice mail. Still mulling over Mrs. Teller’s warning, I stopped by Honeysuckle Café to grab lattes for Teag and me. I was so deep in thought that I didn’t see Alistair McKinnon until he hailed me.
“Cassidy! What have you been up to? Haven’t seen you at the museum lately!”
Alistair was the curator for the Lowcountry Museum of Charleston and a good friend. He often helped us out authenticating antiques that came into the shop, and on more than one occasion, he had turned to us when one of the museum’s acquisitions carried a hint of haunt.
“You’re right—I’m overdue,” I admitted. “I need to come over and see the new exhibit.”
Alistair laughed. “It’s a good on
e. What’s been keeping you busy?”
Alistair knew Teag and I dealt with ghosts and tainted old objects, but nothing about the real scope of the supernatural threats we fought. Well, truth be told, he had known a lot more but Sorren glamored him so he’d forget. It was best for us and for Allistair.
“Lots of people anxious to sell off old family heirlooms, and lots of others looking to buy second-hand treasures,” I replied as casually as possible. “You know. The usual.”
“Don’t knock it,” he said as we stood in line to order our caffeine fix. “Excitement is rarely a good thing.” Something about his tone made me glance back at him.
“Problems?”
He shrugged. “One of our exhibits was vandalized last weekend. We’re still not sure how someone got in—or why they left pieces that were far more valuable.”
“What went missing?”
“Pieces from our new Natural History of the Lowcountry exhibit,” he replied. “And the thing is, we’re not the only museum to have a theft recently.” He shook his head. “I don’t get why they wanted what they took, but I guess there’s a black market for everything.”
“Any chance the police can get back what was taken?” I really hated the idea of people stealing anything, but taking one-of-a-kind pieces of history from a museum seemed especially low.
Alistair sighed. “I wish I could believe that, but this kind of theft doesn’t usually get recovered. Some collectors are obsessive enough that they will stop at nothing to acquire what they want—even if they can never show it to anyone because it’s stolen.”
I remembered reading about art thefts where famous paintings had been cut out of their frames in museum galleries and vanished without a trace. It made me angry to think that one person’s greed and selfishness could deprive the world of the chance to enjoy an artifact. “I’m sorry.”
Alistair nodded. “What we really can’t figure out is how the thief got in. Nothing tripped the alarms or the motion sensors. It’s spooky.”
A chill went down my spine. “Were there any legends about the pieces that were taken—any stories that they might have had something supernatural about them?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Alistair replied. “I guess anything’s possible. Are you thinking the thief might have been some kind of cultist?”
I gave my most disarming smile. “You know how some people get when an item has a reputation for being haunted or magical. Some people will believe anything.”
When I got back to Trifles and Folly, I found Maggie, our part-time assistant, handling the lone shopper in the front of the shop. She waved to me, and I headed to the break room, where Teag sat hunched over his computer.
“Brought you a latte,” I said, setting it on the table beside him. “Find anything?”
Teag glanced up. “Yeah. Maybe. I started tracking all the missing persons in the Charleston police reports for the last eight months. And then I expanded it and looked at who went missing over the last couple of years, just in case. Then I mapped their social networks for clues about whether or not they were shifters.”
“And?”
He slid a scribbled list my way. “Bingo. Got about a dozen that I’m almost positive are not quite mortal.”
“Can you tell if they’re shifters?”
Teag grimaced. “No, but there are other clues. If Sorren will share more names of confirmed shifters, I could do more.” He paused. “But I think I figured out one piece of the puzzle.”
This time, he turned his computer around so I could see the screen. The news site carried a story about a break-in at a mansion elsewhere in the state, but what drew my eye were the photos of the home’s interior. The subtitle read “Thieves poach trophies from big game hunter’s home.” Every room featured large taxidermy animals—bears, deer, elk, and wolves. I shuddered, trying to imagine living in a house surrounded by dead, stuffed creatures and remembered how the glassy eyes of the specimens at the fish camp had weirded me out.
The glassy eyes. I met Teag’s gaze as I realized the connection.
“Oh my god,” I murmured. “You think—”
Teag nodded. “Yeah. You know that glass eye from Malcolm’s auction? After I saw the news clip, I took a photo and sent it over to Horace.” Horace was our oddities appraiser. “Recognized it right off as being a taxidermist’s piece, but very old—seventy years or so at least.”
I stared back at him. “Why would Malcolm have—or want—something like that?” A chill went down my spine as I remembered Derek’s conviction that the items Malcolm picked up at pawn shops and flea markets had a connection to the disappearances.
Teag shrugged. “Not sure. I’d think being around trophy animals for a shifter would be like us keeping a mummy in the house.” He met my gaze, and I registered the moment we both realized the connection.
“That theft at the big game hunter’s house,” I croaked, still grappling with the idea. “Have there been other break-ins like that?”
Teag took back his computer and started typing. On impulse, I pulled out my phone. “Alistair? It’s Cassidy. Hey, strange question, but can you tell me what was stolen?” I listened, feeling a chill go down my spine. “Thanks.”
I pocketed the phone and turned to look at Teag. “Someone broke into the museum’s new natural history exhibit last night—”
“Let me guess. All that’s missing are some taxidermy animals.”
I watched Teag’s fingers fly across the keys. In a few moments, he looked up. “There’ve been a dozen thefts from museums, national parks, and collectors in the last six months. All of taxidermy animals. Large specimens. And the thief was choosy. Reports say whoever did the break-ins didn’t take the most valuable mounts. The police don’t seem to have any idea why he—or she—took some and left others.”
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked, feeling a knot in the pit of my stomach. Teag nodded.
“Shifters,” he said, and his voice sounded like he was going to be sick. “Bad enough for them to be hunted for sport but—”
He swallowed hard, unable to say the rest, but I knew what he meant. Hunted for sport. Shot down for someone’s idea of fun. Mounted and preserved… I ran to the bathroom and threw up.
When I came back to the break room, Teag handed me a glass of sweet tea. My hand was shaking as I accepted it. He met my gaze, and I saw the horror I felt reflected in his eyes.
“Do you think the owners of the mounted pieces knew the ‘animals’ were really people?” I managed when my stomach settled and I had nearly finished my latte.
Teag frowned, then shook his head. “I doubt it. But whoever’s taking them now has to know. So is it one thief or several? Are the packs in on it?”
I set aside my empty glass. “I could sympathize if someone from the packs was behind the thefts,” I said slowly, thinking out loud. “It’s like when the Native American tribes sue a museum to get back the bones of their ancestors or important relics. Some things should never have ended up in a collection.”
“Yeah, but the tribes can at least explain why they want the pieces back without everyone thinking they’re nuts,” Teag replied. “What would the packs say? ‘Hey, that polar bear you’ve got on display, it’s really my uncle?’”
A dark suspicion surfaced. “What about the disappearances?” I asked, afraid of the possibilities forming in my thoughts. “Derek and Marshall seemed to think the kidnapper was someone outside the packs, not one group turning on the others.” Something Alistair said at the coffee shop made my blood run cold.
I met his gaze. “Alistair said that stolen museum pieces aren’t usually recovered—that obsessive collectors don’t care about keeping the hot artifacts a secret because they just want to own them.”
“What if the same person is behind the thefts and the disappearances?” Teag finished my thought aloud. “A collector with very specific—and unusual tastes.”
I nodded. “Someone who’s filling in the gaps with the exotic piece
s he doesn’t already have—either by stealing them or hunting them.” My mouth went dry. I hadn’t made peace with the idea of shifters, and the ones we’d met seemed unlikely allies. Yet if I could accept a vampire as a friend, a mentor, and an employer despite knowing that others of his kind were dangerous, then I had to believe that some shifters could live safely among regular humans, too. If Marshall and the other packs weren’t killing anyone, they weren’t Alliance business. And if someone was stalking and killing them, the paranoia we had seen when we met with the pack leader suddenly seemed a little more justified.
“See if you can find anything else out about the thefts or the disappearances,” I said. “I’ll go up front and help Maggie. It sounds like she’s busy out there.” Maggie was handling the front room while Teag and I brainstormed the shifter problem. Maggie knows what we do, and while she steers clear of the big fights, she’s always had our backs by holding down the fort or helping to pick up the pieces afterward.
Teag dug into the research, while Maggie and I kept customers happy. The day started out slow, but a couple of busloads of tourists made for a very busy afternoon. Before I knew it, we were a few minutes away from five o’clock, and I was starving.
“I’m going to call Sorren, right after I order food,” I said as I went to find out what Maggie wanted to eat. After figuring out the link between the stolen items and the missing shifters, I wasn’t hungry anymore. The idea of skinning, preserving, and displaying a trophy that was a human in another form made me nauseous.
I froze mid-step as an even more awful thought occurred to me. “You don’t think that their souls are trapped in those display pieces, do you?” I could scarcely force out the words.
Teag’s eyes widened. “Shit. Maybe. It would depend on how the magic works for the shifters. And whether the taxidermist has magic of his own.” He stared at me as the pieces clicked. “We might have a renegade necromancer on the loose.”
I wandered back into the front of the shop as I called in the order. Maggie went over the day’s new acquisitions as we waited for dinner. When I glanced out the front window and caught sight of someone I didn’t expect to see.
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