“Father Anne said Mom can stay on the St. Expeditus compound since we’re still chasing the djinn, and staying with my brother is never a great option even if he were in town,” Teag told me on our way back from talking to another of the gallery’s tapestry customers.
“How did you explain that?” Neither Teag nor Anthony had leveled with their folks about the supernatural side of what we do, which was completely understandable. My parents only knew because the shop had been in our family for so long, and even then, I spared them the distressing details when the store passed from my great-uncle to me.
“I told her that Father Anne was a good friend and that the compound offered retreats, so they had nice rooms that weren’t expensive. All of which is true,” Teag replied.
Of course, the rooms were also within a heavily warded compound for warrior priests trained to fight supernatural threats, but that detail could be easily omitted.
“She was okay with that?” Despite the dangers peculiar to what we do, I hated for Mrs. Logan to miss out on a chance to visit the Historic District or do a little sightseeing.
“She thought it sounded restful.” Teag smiled. “Whenever she visits, we do the carriage rides and house tours, so I think as long as I pick up a couple of bags of benne wafers and pralines for her, she won’t miss doing the touristy stuff this time—and she’ll be protected.”
Anthony’s parents lived in town, so lodging wasn’t an issue for them.
“How are the rest of the arrangements going? Has Anthony’s mom chilled out yet?”
Teag let out a long breath. “She’s doing pretty well, actually. Having the wedding planner helps. Holding the reception and ceremony at the marina with a full staff used to hosting dinner parties also means there’s less margin for error. Way different than trying to do it at the Benton house, even if the weather was good enough to be in the yard.”
“I think you and Anthony deserve multiple drinks on the plane just to celebrate surviving the ceremony.” I was one of the few who knew they planned to spend that night at a cozy little—unhaunted—B&B and then catch a flight to England for a return visit to a castle on the Welsh border that had become a favorite destination.
“I will drink to your health as soon as the wheels leave the ground,” Teag agreed wholeheartedly.
The tapestry owner we just visited hadn’t cared for her ex-husband’s purchase and relegated it to a sealed garbage bin in the garage as soon as he moved out. That made it easy for us to take it off her hands and get it to a safe place where it could be neutralized.
Unfortunately, break-ups and financial distress seemed to be part of the fallout from purchasing the tapestries after a few prosperous years filled with luxury vacations and high-rolling Vegas weekends. The tapestry reminded her of everything that went wrong, and she happily handed it off without a backward glance.
Now the sealed can lay wrapped in the spelled metal and rope nets in the back of the RAV4.
“Turn left here.” Teag pointed to an upcoming intersection. “That’s one of the places on my list.”
Teag’s research had given us some clues about where the djinn might be hiding. According to lore, they liked caves, basements, and abandoned buildings. Charleston didn’t really have a lot of underground structures since we came by the “Lowcountry” name honestly, but parts of town definitely had their share of empty buildings in various stages of disrepair that might serve just fine as a monster lair.
“We don’t know for sure how close a djinn needs to be to his target to feed, but clearly some distance is okay because he wasn’t in the houses with the most recent victims,” Teag said. “So I looked at abandoned places that were on the same side of town.”
“Find much? Charleston real estate is pretty expensive.”
“It’s expensive in prime areas,” Teag replied. “But you can go from pricy to run down in a few blocks. The places I found aren’t in the heart of the Historic District or South of Broad, but a number of them were closer than I expected.”
We pulled over to the curb, and Teag showed me a map with addresses circled. “This djinn doesn’t abduct his victims, so that means he can crash anywhere that he won’t be disturbed. Technically, that could include abandoned houses, but I leaned toward more commercial or industrial areas for privacy.”
The old Navy Yard would have been my first pick a few years ago, but the long-promised redevelopment was finally happening, so the area had more activity and wasn’t quite as run down as it had been.
“These seemed like the best bets.” Teag pointed to four places he had circled on the map. “They’re only a couple of miles away from the victims’ houses, big enough to hide in but small enough to defend, and they’re commercial, so set off a bit without nosy neighbors.”
“How did you come up with those parameters?” I couldn’t help being curious. “There are plenty of old warehouses.”
Teag nodded. “I thought of those. But if djinn prefer basements and caves when they go to ground, then it seemed they’d like a smaller space that would be easier to guard. They wouldn’t need a whole warehouse, and those sites might attract regular squatters or illegal activities, which could cause problems. If the djinn is vulnerable when he goes to his lair, he’s not going to want to defend a place the size of a city block.”
“Good thinking.” I studied the map and admitted that these were areas I had no reason to seek out and plenty of reasons to avoid. Nothing looked familiar.
“We don’t know how the djinn gets around. These sites are only a block or two from bus routes. Assuming djinn don’t drive.”
“How did you narrow down the distance?” Teag’s research always intrigued me.
“Stories talk about the djinn lurking near the homes of the people they target, sometimes hanging around outside to feed. With the tapestries as a connection, I wasn’t sure the djinn needed to visit in person, but I guessed it would be easier to maintain the link by being closer,” Teag said. “I could be wrong, but I needed to start somewhere.”
His logic worked for me. “So what did you pick?”
“I want to start with the location of the pop-up gallery,” Teag said. “I spoke with the rental agent, so we can visit legally. I thought we might pick up something from the resonance, or maybe Shaw or the djinn left something behind we can use.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “After that, an old gas station, a small office, a defunct bank branch, and a dead corner store. I pulled them up online to see pictures. They’re all fairly small, more than one entrance but limited windows, and not right next to anything. Easy for the djinn to get in and out, no neighbors, very little street traffic.”
I hadn’t been nervous before, but now that we were actually going looking for the djinn, my stomach tightened.
“Those would be just a drive-by. We don’t stop, we don’t get out. I’m just trying to eliminate anything that might not be suitable when we see it in person.”
“And then?” I relaxed a little realizing Teag had no intention of going djinn hunting.
“We take what we find and see what Rowan and the others make of it. Then we go after it.”
“Do you think it can sense us?”
“We’re staying on the public road, which still has traffic. We aren’t getting close. And the car is warded. We’re not even sure the djinn is home right now. If he attacks us just driving past, he also gives away his location,” Teag pointed out.
“Looks like they’ve packed up shop.” We stood on the sidewalk outside the former dress shop that for several months had been transformed into an edgy art gallery.
“Pop-up locations are trendy,” Teag said with a shrug. “They’re like food trucks. There’s a rush of discovery, the thrill of not knowing where you’ll find them next, the idea that they could vanish and be gone forever.”
The darkened storefront held the empty, featureless space that had briefly been the gallery where patrons mingled over canapes and champaign looking for the next “breakthrough” artist. From what we heard from those who had visited, everything seemed legit.
“Everyone said that the host called it ‘his’ gallery and was suave and knowledgeable,” I said, as Teag used the key we had gotten from the real estate agent on the pretext of looking for space to hold a fundraiser.
“That’s what I heard too. Whoever it was rubbed elbows with the well-off clientele and never raised alarms,” Teag agreed. “Apparently he dropped all the right names, used the correct technical terms, and hobnobbed with the wealthy patrons like an insider.”
The attraction, for collectors, had been the chance to acquire “up and coming” artists before their careers took off when the pieces still sold at bargain prices. The con man had been good enough to deceive seasoned collectors with the right mix of fawning and insider knowledge.
“Anything that looks too good to be true usually is,” I repeated the old adage.
Teag turned on the lights, and we stared at the empty shop. The building had been many things in its long life—dress shop, haberdashery, even a fancy hat store. When the storefront didn’t sell, the owners tried to cut their losses by renting it out to short-term retail customers who only intended to stay for a couple of months.
“Most of these cons wouldn’t work if people weren’t greedy,” Teag said as we made a careful circle of the interior. Even with the lights on, it felt dim and shadowed.
Attracted to being in the know and hoping to sell later for a big increase, collectors had pulled out their credit cards and checkbooks. The gallery had delivered the artwork promptly, and the djinn had a new slate of victims.
“Did anything unusual happen here?” I couldn’t shake the feeling that a trace of evil hadn’t been scrubbed clean. “Not just business failures. A murder? Suicide? Missing person? The energy is off.”
I was careful not to touch anything, but sometimes the emotional stain is strong enough I can get a reading through the soles of my shoes. “I feel desperation, uncertainty, hopelessness. It’s not haunted, but I’m surprised that the customers didn’t get dragged down by it.”
“Maybe whatever we’re dealing with can mask that sort of thing or cast a glamour,” Teag suggested. I didn’t like the sound of that since the sort of creatures who can do those things tend to be powerful and dangerous.
“It certainly didn’t get in the way of the party guests plunking down plenty of cold, hard cash—or credit,” I said. “I don’t think anyone is going to lose their shirt—or their house over it. The buyers were wealthy, but they still didn’t deserve to be scammed.”
As suddenly as the gallery appeared, it was gone. Its rent hadn’t been paid, no permits had been issued, and the host’s meticulous resume fell through as his “references” denied ever knowing him.
The paintings were real but not their provenance, so anyone who bought for an investment rather than because they liked the artwork was out of luck.
“I read the police file,” Teag murmured.
I knew that meant he had hacked into the system. His magic and computer talents come in handy. “He scammed the who’s-who of Charleston. There are probably more who didn’t want to admit they got bilked, but the ones who made a complaint certainly had the wherewithal to get an independent appraisal before buying.”
“But where’s the fun in that, especially if they were spending ‘mad’ money,” I replied as he made a slow circuit of the show floor. “They weren’t going to be strapped for cash even if the investment didn’t pay off. They liked how edgy it felt to come to a place that appeared and might disappear, that wasn’t their usual, boring, same-old, same-old.”
“So the con man wasn’t just peddling art—he was selling an adventure,” Teag speculated.
“Yep. You know how you read about someone who buys a sketch at a yard sale, and it turns out to be a real Picasso? Or who goes on vacation and picks something up in a flea market in Europe that is a long-lost rare antique? The dodginess and here today, gone tomorrow aspect was part of the charm.”
I knew the kind of buyer the pop-up gallery attracted. They wandered into Trifles and Folly all the time. Wealthy and financially secure, the safety of their lives took away the surprises. They romanticized having less and feeling more, taking risks, finding a hidden treasure.
“It probably felt rebellious to buy the paintings without calling their wealth management advisor first,” I said with a sigh. I didn’t envy or begrudge our clients who were like that. I was glad they didn’t have to worry about paying the bills and had money to indulge their fancies and interests.
At the same time, the layers of safety that protected them from the cruel world took away any sense of adventure as efficiently as a helicopter parent. “High stakes” meant betting on a golf game or a poker tournament. “Risky” was staying at a different high-end resort on vacation or trying out a new masseuse.
“The people who got scammed might have been bored, but they aren’t stupid. Even though they didn’t lose their rent money, they’re risk-averse. The paintings were magicked. Maybe the gallery owner had some mojo of his own to lull them into letting down their guard,” I wondered aloud.
“Probably,” Teag answered. “Maybe it felt like going to an amusement park—you pay money for the thrill of walking on the wild side. A witch would have just needed to nudge a little. Throw caution to the winds. It’s your money—do what you want. You could make a killing, and everyone will be so jealous.”
We had made a full circle of the first floor and found nothing. “Despite all the security cameras, none of the recordings showed the face of the gallery owner or the host at the receptions.” I’d hoped we’d find some clue left behind that might help us put the pieces together. “That’s got to be magic.”
“The Grantham’s witch probably had the mojo, but would anyone have recognized him and put two-and-two together?” Teag asked.
“No one said anything about Shaw in connection to the haunted artwork. Maybe he wanted to keep the local covens off his tail by using intermediaries. That also eliminated consequences once the paintings turn out not to be what people expected,” I said.
“That still doesn’t tell us who the slick gallery host was.”
“If Shaw was working with the djinn, maybe the djinn possessed someone to be their frontman,” I said.
“If so, I’m betting they didn’t leave him around as a loose end,” Teag replied in a grim tone.
The longer we stayed in the empty store, the more my intuition warned me something was wrong.
We made another sweep of the room. This time, we opened closets and peeked into offices. All were empty except for unremarkable basic furnishings. I frowned when I noticed a door on the far side of what appeared to be a staging area.
“Look at the floor.” I pointed to a line of dirt next to the bottom of the door. “Whoever cleaned swept up to the entrance, but it doesn’t look like they went inside.”
I put my hand on the knob, and a rush of bad feelings swept over me. Fear, pain, terror. I stumbled, and Teag caught me.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. “I think we’re going to find something really awful inside.”
“Do we leave and call the police? Call Donnelly for magical backup?”
I thought for a moment, evaluating the feelings that had caught me by surprise. “No to the police—at least just yet. Let’s make sure there’s a problem before we get them involved.”
“Donnelly?”
I frowned, parsing through the feelings that my touch magic raised. “I’m not picking up on an active threat. Something bad-wrong-awful, but not currently dangerous. I don’t think we need Donnelly for this, but it wouldn’t hurt for us both to be ready—just in case.”
I let my wooden spoon athame fall from my sleeve into my hand. I didn’t bring the walking stick because much as it comes in handy, I hadn’t wanted to burn down the building. Teag had a net of spell-woven rope and his short daggers sheathed on his belt.
The door was the only one in the interior to be locked. That just confirmed my gut feeling that there was something horrific inside. Teag picked it easily and let the door swing open. He hit the light switch, illuminating a small kitchen.
“Why would anyone hide a kitchen?” I murmured. The room looked as barren and soulless as the rest of the empty space. A table and four chairs had been pushed against the far wall. The cheap coffeemaker nested on the counter above a bottom-of-the-line dishwasher. At one end of the counter sat the refrigerator. Its hum told us the appliance was still plugged in.
“Want me to open it?” Teag asked, and I figured he wanted to spare me any negative resonance. I had a really bad gut feeling, but we had come here to find answers. Reluctantly, I nodded.
A man’s badly preserved body tumbled out.
We both gagged at the smell. Someone had turned down the fridge’s temperature, but it hadn’t been enough to prevent decomposition.
“I think it’s the gallery host.” I recognized the corpse’s clothing from pictures of the gala. “He’s been in there a while.”
“We were right about the djinn not leaving loose ends.” Teag looked queasy.
I had to call the real estate agent and tell her there was a corpse in her client’s fridge. That meant the police showed up, asking plenty of questions. Teag and I stuck to our story about looking for event space, and we didn’t have to fake our horror over finding the body.
When we were finally cleared to leave, the poor real estate agent was still answering questions.
Neither of us spoke until we had driven miles from the gallery. “That was…” I didn’t know how to finish the thought.
“It definitely was.” Teag sounded just as rattled. “Now what?”
“Let’s see if we can find out who else attended the showing. I’m wondering if there’s a list somewhere of people who bought the artwork.”
“I’d be interested to know who handled the sales that night,” Teag mused. “What kind of records did they keep? Was it cash-only? Cryptocurrency? Either should be a red flag to legitimate collectors, but bored and jaded folks like to pretend to walk on the wild side.”
“I want to know where Shaw was during the gallery event and why he didn’t attend.” I was still trying to make sense of how the salesman for the night ended up dead. “I’ve got a theory.”
“Try me.”
“Shaw knows the artwork is dangerous and more likely to react to his magic if he’s nearby. He doesn’t want to freak the mundanes, so he uses a proxy—the dead guy who emceed the event. To make sure everything goes as planned, the djinn possesses the guy. But the longer the djinn is in control, the harder it is on the guy’s body, burning him out. The djinn vacates the corpse, and Shaw leaves him behind like so much trash,” I speculated.
“Awful, but possible,” Teag agreed. “It’s the best story we’ve got. I’d like to know how often Shaw was around the gallery when it was in business.”
“The cops can run a trace on the dead guy.”
“Which I can hack into,” Teag said.
“It would be helpful to know who was here—and who bought art. I bet Mrs. Morrissey and Alistair could work their contacts and find out.”
“The so-called artists weren’t supposed to be famous or have much of a track record,” Teag recalled. “That’s what made the showing so exciting—and such a gamble. People might have reached out after the fact to Alistair to see if the museum knew the provenance of what they bought.”
“That’s where Mrs. Morrissey might come in handy. Rich people aren’t going to like admitting that their new piece of art wasn’t what they thought it was. They got conned. It’s going to stick in their craw.”
“Want to bet Alistair gets some calls from donors as well, looking for second appraisals?” Teag asked.
“Buyer’s remorse,” I replied. “I can let them know that there are some dangerous forgeries out there and see if they’ll pass along the names of people who contact them.”
Maggie handled the store while Teag and I sleuthed. She’s worth her weight in gold. Sorren and I make sure she’s well-compensated.
“I want to know all the juicy details,” Maggie said during a lull when the shop was empty. “Sounds like a humdinger from the little I’ve overheard. Not that I’m eavesdropping.” She gave a mischievous grin.
We kept very few secrets from Maggie, only the ones that might put her in more danger than what came just by associating with us. She’s got nerves of steel and a passion for seeing bad guys get what’s coming to them, even if justice has been delayed by a lifetime or two. Lucky for us, the supernatural side of what we do doesn’t bother her.
Turned out Mrs. Morrissey and Alistair had already gotten calls from long-time donors and patrons who regretted their impulsive decision to buy at the pop-up gallery. I concocted a reason to call—saying that as the owner of Trifles and Folly, I wondered about the attractiveness of the pop-up sale model.
“Boy, did I get an earful,” I told Teag after I had talked to them. “Buyers are unhappy that the pieces sold for inflated amounts when the artists are unknowns. I was right about it being gambling with art. There’s no one to get the money back from, and the museum and historical archive can’t buy them.”
“If the gallery only took cash or crypto, I’m guessing they might not have gotten receipts that will hold up under IRS scrutiny if they try to donate the pieces,” Teag said. “We don’t want the art here at the shop, but I’m wondering if there is a way we can take ‘unwanted’ art for store credit.”
“Hmm….that has possibilities. We wouldn’t be out the cash—although I’m sure Sorren and Donnelly could cover expenses if necessary.”
“The buyers get something for their trouble, and we can ‘donate’ the art to the Briggs Society for Donnelly to get rid of,” Teag added. “We don’t need to match what they paid for the piece because by now they know the art is nearly worthless, so salvaging anything helps them save face.”
“And the South of Broad crowd likes to shop here, anyhow. We might take a temporary hit to the bottom line for a good cause.” I fret about profitability, and we usually operate well into the black. Sorren sees the shop primarily as an avenue to stop supernatural evil, so he’s less concerned about the balance sheet, although he appreciates our efforts.
“Make it an invitation-only offer, and it only goes out to the people who got taken advantage of by the pop-up gallery,” Teag suggested. “They have to bring an original invitation to be accepted. Plays to their ego as they offload their white elephant and take home something nice from the store.”
“You’re a genius,” I told him. “We can design the invitation and write the letter tonight.”
A few hours later, my phone pinged. “Mrs. Morrissey sent me a list of the people who talked to her and a few others who didn’t but who run with the ones who did. So they probably got rooked too. Alistair said he’d get his list to me tonight.”
On one hand, I could make the case that the buyers’ greed got them into trouble. At the same time, I didn’t doubt that Shaw and the djinn added some supernatural influence to secure new marks to leech money and energy. Helping the buyers out of their bad choices ultimately would weaken Shaw and the djinn, so it fell in line with our mission of getting bad stuff out of circulation.
At this rate, the Briggs Society would be naming a wing of the building after us.
We’re handling the “folly” part—which is right in our name.
As the names of the buyers trickled in, Teag put his hacker skills and Weaver magic to work investigating them.
“Are we surprised that in the time since the pop-up gallery sales, every one of the buyers had a streak of good luck and then some calamity?”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” I replied.
“One guy’s stock portfolio got wiped out—and since he had bought on margin with money he didn’t have, he lost everything.”
“Ouch.”
“Someone else got a sexy new girlfriend after a nasty divorce, which went great until she turned out to be a Russian scammer,” he went on. “A few of the buyers came into a lot of money and ended up with terminal diagnoses or incapacitating accidents. They might not have lost the money, but they won’t be around to spend it. Mrs. Morrissey and Alistair have found about twenty people so far. All of them had a shot of good luck, and then it went south.”
I didn’t fight the anger that surged through me at Shaw’s cruel schemes. Whether or not the victims had been “good” people, they didn’t deserve what he did to them. He got the money, and the djinn drank down their fear and pain. There were serial killers I loathed less.
Forcing a calm I didn’t really feel, I called Donnelly and filled him in, along with confirming that the Briggs Society would take the “fire sale” artwork off our hands.
“Absolutely. And kudos for coming up with a truly inspired solution,” he chortled. “Brilliant. Are you any closer to finding the knave who caused the problem?”
I’m not entirely sure how old Donnelly is. He dresses like a time-slipped Victorian. As far as I know, he’s human—but I’ve never had that confirmed.
He’s not a vampire—I’ve seen him in daylight—but lots of other creatures are long-lived. Or he might have started out as mortal and just had his lifespan extended through supernatural means. Maybe the time the Briggs Society building is “elsewhere” doesn’t count for aging. I’m curious, but not enough to pry.
“We’ll have to come up with a safe-ish way for them to hand over the artwork to you, but we have time to figure that out.”
“I already have a few ideas,” Donnelly assured me. “I do love turning tables on the bad guys. Smashingly good fun.”
* * *
Four days later, we held the “donation’ day at the St. Expeditus Society within their wardings and under the watchful eye of Father Anne and the monks. Beck helped with triage since he had seen a lot of dark magic growing up in a witch dynasty.
Nearly everyone on our list showed up. If anyone questioned why we picked such an unusual and out-of-the-way place to do the drop-off, they didn’t ask. I suspect that on some level, they could feel the wardings and understood that the compound was the safest place to get rid of their dangerous acquisitions.
With Father Anne’s help, we set up a heavily protected tent not far inside the warded gate. To me, the magic felt thick, like a humid day. Most people might feel calm or peaceful.
Teag, Rowan, Beck, and I wore our entire arsenal of charms and protections, as well as spelled linen scarves Teag wove. Donnelly reinforced the wardings and added a few more of his own, as well as a supernaturally protected truck to transport the cursed artwork to the closest place he could “land” the Briggs Society, since the building can travel through space and time.
“I don’t know what came over us,” an older woman said as she turned over a painting of a young girl. On closer inspection, the feral gleam in the girl’s eye would have made me sleep with my door locked if I lived in a house where it hung. “We got caught up in the excitement of the auction, I guess, and the chance to discover a hot new artist.”
I remembered her story from our research. She and her husband had a great run on Wall Street that paid for a round-the-world vacation and set them up for life. But within months, the stocks crashed, and the husband caught a rare fever on the vacation that killed him.
“You’re not the only one.” I did my best to comfort her. “All these people got cheated too—if it helps to know that. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
A haggard man was next in line, also toting a piece of artwork. His was a landscape that managed to look menacing and idyllic at the same time. Like the tapestry at the Grantham house, I thought I saw creatures with eyes and sharp teeth barely hidden among the plants.
“We thought it was a lark, you know?” He sounded like he had lost all his fight. “We had brunch downtown at our favorite place and then went over to the tent sale to score a bargain. Always dreamed about being one of the first to ‘discover’ the next Picasso.”
He gave a self-deprecating snort. “We thought we got a real deal. And for the next month, everything came up roses. Until it all turned bad. Got in a car accident that put my wife in a wheelchair. Our dog got sick. Nearly lost the house in a fire. One thing after another. And it all started when we brought that accursed thing into the house. So take it. I don’t even need your voucher. I just never want to see it again.”
Teag, Rowan, Beck, and I sat behind tables in the warded tent, and we each had a line of people bringing their items for disposal and to get the purchase credit at our store.
Donnelly and the monks took the pieces and moved them to the heavily warded truck so they could be whisked away once the event was over.
I exchanged a look with Teag. We had just started the exchange, and I wasn’t sure my heart would survive hearing how much harm Shaw’s paintings had done. The buyers might have been foolish or vain, but whatever their failures, the cursed paintings and the djinn had made them pay for their sins many times over.
Thankfully, with four of us handling the intake and giving out the vouchers, the lines moved steadily. I wondered if there were others who had been taken advantage of who didn’t live to get our invitation, or who had ended up hospitalized or in a nursing home due to the djinn’s curse.
I try very hard not to make the job personal. We go up against absolute evil, and if we didn’t keep some distance, the scope of what we do would eat us alive. Usually, I’m pretty good at maintaining professional distance. But this case made that difficult. Maybe it was because we deal with a lot of artwork at the shop, and I know the joy that the right piece can bring to a collector. Using it to destroy lives seemed especially twisted and wrong.
“You okay?” Father Anne asked before she brought up my next “client.” I could tell from the look in her eye that she had probably guessed the direction of my thoughts.
“Trying not to feel,” I told her. “I don’t have time to grieve for them, and thinking about what I’d like to do to Shaw isn’t good for my blood pressure.”
She gave me a pastoral smile. “Never stop feeling. It’s what keeps us human.” She put her hand on my shoulder and murmured something that was probably a blessing under her breath. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but the gesture helped a little.
Two hours later, all the art collectors were gone. Donnelly’s bespelled truck was full of cursed art, and we had given out a hefty amount of store vouchers, although more than one person offered to pay us to take their paintings.
Father Anne and Rowan cleansed the tent in their varying ways and placed protections on Donnelly’s truck on top of whatever he had already put into place. They also cleansed each of us individually with purification spells, holy water, and incense. Maybe it was my imagination, but I felt lighter and cleaner afterward.
Psychic residue is real, and it can be dangerous. It’s like stepping in dog poop, only way worse, and I didn’t want to carry home any malicious hitchhiking bad juju.
“We’ll take it from here.” Donnelly gestured to the monks headed for the truck who had offered to help him.
“Let’s be blessed and break bread together,” Father Anne said. “Two of the oldest ways to send away the darkness.”
Two of the kitchen monks wheeled out a cart with hot tea and coffee and a tray of fresh cookies. Teag, Rowan, Beck, and I sat down with Father Anne, Donnelly, and the priests who had helped handle the donors. We talked about what we had seen and the stories we had heard. Just sharing the tragedies told to us helped me get a healthier distance.
“We will lift them up to the light,” she promised us. “You’ve removed a great evil from them, and that is one of the greatest blessings we can give to another person.”
I usually thought of myself as more of a fighter than a healer, but I appreciated the sentiment.
“Thanks again for letting us invade your space,” I said with a wan smile. “I can’t think of anywhere that would have been safer for us—and the donors.”
“That’s what we’re here for,” Father Anne replied. “Happy to be of service. And when you find that son of a bitch Shaw, you let me know, and I’ll be right beside you for the fight.”