“That painting supposedly has one,” Grove says. “Didn’t you look it up? Owners have said they saw the ghost of that girl. Some went crazy. A couple died. Personally, I don’t believe in curses but, yeah, I’d wrap it in lead, too.”
Connolly clears his throat. “May I fix either of you a coffee? There are a few pods out here, but Kennedy has a full selection in the back if you’d like to come and choose something.”
He ushers them into the back room while I mouth my thanks. He props open the door, so they won’t think I’m about to abscond with the painting, but they don’t seem too worried. Connolly keeps up a running patter about curses, which Officer Grove seems interested in.
I turn my attention back to the painting. It’s half unwrapped. I don’t quite dare expose it entirely. Last thing we need is a ghost popping up in the showroom.
I tune out Connolly and Grove, and allow myself to drift back to the curse. It’s right there, whispering in my ear. I’m untangling the tune, hunting for the lyrics. When they come, they aren’t in English, and that gives me pause. Is that Italian?
“You’re still unwrapping that thing?” Platts’s voice startles me from my work.
“I was examining it,” I say. “We didn’t get a chance earlier. Ms. Silver seemed in a rush, which now makes sense. As I presume you’re going to take it, I wanted the chance to have a closer look. It is a legendary cursed object, after all.”
He snorts. “It’s a creepy painting of a crying kid. Now get that damn blanket off so we can confirm it’s the one reported stolen.”
“The owner sent a photograph of the signature,” Grove says. “I have that here along with a photo of damage to the top left corner. A scorch mark.”
“I can see the scorch mark,” I say as I tug back the shield. “And the signature should be—”
“Get that damn blanket off,” Platts snaps again. “We aren’t taking it in that.”
“Of course not,” Connolly says smoothly. “It’s Ms. Bennett’s blanket, so she will remove it. I presume you’ll want the painting properly wrapped afterward? To protect it for the owner?”
He goes into detail about how they should wrap it and why they might want to do so with such a valuable object. Buying me more time. Before I can focus on the painting again, though, Platts says, “Get that blanket off now.”
I finish unwrapping it. Grove moves in for a closer look at the identifiers while Platts chugs his coffee. Grove confirms that it’s the right painting, and I start wrapping it while Connolly talks, letting me sink back into the curse.
“What the hell!” Platts booms. A crash, and I turn to see him backing away, broken mug on the floor, coffee snaking out, heading right for a rolled up Persian rug. I lunge to grab the rug out of the way, and Grove says, “Stop right there!”
“I’m just moving that rug before the coffee stains it.”
“Stay where you are, please, Ms. Bennett. Ron? What’s the matter?”
“Y-you don’t see it?”
“See what, Ron?” Her voice is calm and even.
He points in front of him. “T-the girl.”
“Ron, there’s no girl— Holy shit!” Grove wheels and nearly drops her phone. Her gaze fixes on a spot in front of her. “What the hell is that?”
“What are you seeing?” Connolly says.
“You know what we’re seeing,” Platts snaps. “The girl from the painting. You drugged our coffee.”
Connolly’s voice stays calm. “You made your own coffee, Officer Platts. You selected a pod and inserted it yourself.”
“Then you dosed the water.” Platts keeps backing away and then stops short and gives his head a sharp shake, muttering, “It’s a hallucination. Just a hallucination.”
He strides forward. Then he yelps, staggers back and thumps to the floor, hands rising to ward off the ghost.
I glance at Connolly who shakes his head. He doesn’t see it either.
“Everyone stay calm,” I say. “No one has been drugged. This is the curse at work, and I’m a trained professional.”
I think I deserve an award for uttering those lines with a straight face. Still, my heart thuds as I realize just how bad this looks, just how much trouble we’re going to be in for “drugging” two police officers.
Connolly takes over in his efficient way, as if spotting a curse-born ghost is no different than dealing with a small fire. Remain calm. Don’t panic. It won’t hurt you. Let the professionals deal with it.
Oh, they aren’t buying that. Not even Officer Grove, who’d seemed sympathetic to our plight. Well, she had been . . . up until a ghost flew at her and we tried to claim it was a curse.
I tune them out. It’s all I can do. Connolly is reassuring them that whatever they’re seeing, it really is just a hallucination. Try to ignore it, and don’t worry, they can certainly take the coffee machine into evidence for investigating possible tampering.
I’d love to grab my noise-cancelling headphones from the back room. They were a gift from Connolly, the result of a joke bet, and they’re the best money can buy, naturally. I use them to focus on curses. I’d also love to get my kit. This seems a simple enough curse that I don’t need it, but I’d still like the backup. Can’t exactly get any of that now, not when it would mean I could be accused of doing something to the “evidence” of the coffee machine while I’m back there.
I have a few simple uncursing tools here, under the counter, and I can use them if needed. I have to balance the uncursing by casting a curse, but I can do that easily enough with my Magic 8 ball after the police are gone. I’ll be fine. I just need to focus and get this done.
When I focus, I catch the music of the curse quickly enough. It’s eager to be heard, like a little girl tripping over herself to be noticed. It’s definitely Italian, which makes this difficult. While curses can be in any language—and curse weavers from any nationality—my family is Greek, and most weavers I know are Greek or Italian. I’m most accustomed to curses in Latin or ancient Greek, but there are enough similarities in the languages that I figure out the nature of the curse. It helps that I’ve seen it triggered.
It’s an illusion curse, obviously. Above my pay-grade for weaving. As illusions go, though, it’s a simple one with a simple trigger. Get within a certain radius of the painting, and you may see the girl herself, flying at you like a tiny Rottweiler.
The curse itself speaks of grief and rage. Does that mean the backstory is true? The painting capturing the vengeance of the girl whose siblings murdered their parents, the girl who went for help, only to be killed by her supposed rescuers? If so, I wouldn’t blame her for flying at anyone who came close.
Except the illusion is not the girl herself. Not a ghost. And the part about the artist being possessed is bullshit. This is a curse. The weaver may have drawn on the story—fact or fiction—but it’s the work of a real person, and as such, I am able to unweave it.
When I sag against the table, Officer Platts says, “Done?”
I nod, unable to summon the energy to speak.
“Good. Now, you are both under arrest for poisoning two state law enforcement officials . . .”