Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(27)

Astrid couldn’t tell who was the instigator, but Lowe was either pressing Hadley against the chalkboard or Hadley was pulling him against her. Either way, they had their hands all over each other in the least professional way possible.

Nothing like catching your brother with his tongue down his wife’s throat.

Astrid was simultaneously unsettled to see them act like randy animals and transfixed by their enthusiasm. She was also a little envious. Lowe said something that made Hadley laugh—a sound more intimate than Lowe’s hand, which was most certainly heading to cup Hadley’s breast.

And as she watched this unfolding, Astrid was acutely aware of Bo’s presence. She wondered what he was thinking. She wondered if he ever thought about putting his hands on Astrid like that.

She certainly had.

She chanced a quick look at Bo’s face and found his eyes titled toward hers. She looked away. Heat washed over her cheeks. Bo cleared his throat loudly.

Lowe and Hadley stopped but didn’t break apart. Hadley’s eyes just peered around Lowe’s shoulder, and when she spotted Astrid and Bo, the rest of her face followed.

“The youngest Magnusson has returned to the fold,” the black-haired curator said with a warm smile and slid away from Lowe. Astrid strode forward to meet her, eager to get away from Bo and her wild feelings.

“I missed you,” Astrid said, hugging Hadley’s slender frame.

“And not your own flesh and blood?” Lowe asked. “I’m wounded.”

Astrid hugged him, too, clinging a little longer. When their parents died, Lowe seemed to handle everything better. He had Egypt and his friends. He didn’t have Winter’s burden of being the driver in the accident—or the obligation to take over Pappa’s businesses, both legal and illegal. Lowe was the freest of the family, and Astrid always admired that. She longed for his easygoing nature and optimism. His good humor. She’d spent the last few years wishing he wasn’t so far away, always trotting off to exotic locations. When he’d settled down with Hadley and Stella, she’d hoped she’d have a little more of him more often, but then she was the one running off to college.

“Hey,” he murmured in a reassuring voice, pulling her back to study her face. “Glad to see you, too, baby sister. You look older and wiser. Far too pretty. I thought it had only been a few months. What happened to the towheaded yapper I gave piggyback rides?”

“Funny how getting older works, isn’t it?” she said with a smile.

“Ruins all of us,” he agreed, and reached beyond her to give Bo a hearty slap on the shoulder. “How’s the warehouse, Bo?”

“Still standing and sandbagged deep enough to keep out Poseidon, at least for now. Stella okay?”

“High and dry on Telegraph Hill with her nanny. She’s a little sad about the rain chasing all the parrots away, but we’ve assured her they’ll come back and that Number Five hasn’t eaten them.”

Number Five was Hadley’s lucky, death-proof black cat. He used to be Number Four until this past summer; whatever happened, they didn’t speak of it.

After small talk about their upcoming trip to Egypt (Bo was right about; Hadley practically glowed at the mention of it), the subject of the idol was raised. Astrid and Bo quickly told the story of the yacht once more. Lowe’s concern over Astrid’s well-being lessened when she told him about Velma’s tea—and then was temporarily forgotten when Bo brought out the polished turquoise figurine for their inspection.

“We think it’s solid turquoise,” Bo explained. “But we don’t know where it came from or what it’s for.”

Lowe whistled.

“Fascinating,” Hadley agreed. “I felt the vibration of it when you walked in.”

Lowe slowly lifted his hand away. “What kind of vibration?”

“Velma didn’t feel any magic,” Astrid argued.

Her sister-in-law shook her head. “Not magic, exactly. Just some sort of energy.”

Hadley’s ability to feel strange energies stemmed from something bigger. Hadley’s mother, a former archaeologist, had contracted a dark Egyptian curse that she passed along to Hadley. Mori specters—Sheuts. Shadowy hounds of hell that materialized when Hadley became upset. Few could see them, apparently. Lowe couldn’t, but he claimed Hadley’s specters had nearly killed him “a hundred times”—which was, of course, an exaggeration, like everything else out of her brother’s mouth. Even it were partially true, he likely deserved whatever he got, and it certainly hadn’t deterred him from marrying Hadley . . . or keeping his hands off of her in public places.

Hadley now lifted her head and squinted at Astrid. “Huh.”

“What?”

“Now that I’m listening for it, I think perhaps the energy is coming from you—not the idol.”

“Rats!” Astrid said. “Can you see a shadow on my aura?”

“I don’t see auras,” she said. “Ask Aida.”

“I already did. She only sees ghosts.”

“We like our women bizarre and dangerous, eh, Bo?” Lowe mumbled.

Bo stilled. Just for a moment. No one seemed to notice but Astrid. And Lowe was already muttering something else about ancient turquoise mines in California and Mexico. But all Astrid could think was: did Lowe know something about Bo’s feelings toward her? She remembered Bo’s letter this fall that made her so angry: Teachers should not be staying in hotels with students. Lowe, being a professor himself, agrees with me.