Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(25)

“Say, are you all right?” Oliver murmured, not once, but twice. Yes, yes. Fine. Was he still asking? The tone of his voice sounded like her father’s nagging.

The soup arrived, but she was still in a trance. And when she dared look at Lowe, his waiting, heavy stare sent her heart racing again.

When the fish course was being cleared, her father patted along his place setting, and his beleaguered assistant emerged from the shadows to help. Father then dinged his spoon on his water glass until conversation sputtered to a halt. “Many thanks to the Widow Flood for opening up her lovely home for us this evening,” he announced. Cheers and hurrahs circled the tables. “This night is always a special time for us each year, not just because many of you are graciously opening your pocketbooks for your annual tax break—I mean donation to our fine museum.”

Laughter echoed off the marble walls.

“But it’s also a time for us to see old friends. To reflect on what we’ve accomplished this year, and to share our hopes for the coming one. And as you all know, my health is not what it once was. Now, now. Don’t pity me. I’m not at death’s door yet. But I am old and tired, and I have given the antiquities department twenty-five good years. It’s time to let someone younger and brighter have a crack at it.”

Hadley’s pulse doubled. The haze lifted from her brain. Was her father announcing his replacement tonight, right here, in front of the board of trustees and the director? She’d expected him to wait until next month’s board meeting, but he was doing it now.

Oh, God. A speech would be expected. Nothing long, but she wasn’t prepared to say anything in front of these people. It was a bittersweet surprise, but a thrilling one. All she had to do was say a few words and be gracious, and perhaps try not to gloat at George, who was whispering something to one of the patron’s wives down the table.

Hadley glanced at Lowe and felt her cheeks heat. Why she wanted his respect, she couldn’t say. Silly, really, but she was glad he was here to see this. All her hard work would finally be recognized.

Her father coughed before continuing. “As all of you know by now, Mr. Lowe Magnusson has just returned from a well-publicized excavation in Philae.” Hold on. Why was he talking about Lowe? “He has graciously offered to give the museum an exclusive opportunity to bid on the Philae finds.”

Hadley’s pulse swished in her temples. She couldn’t concentrate on her father’s words. Degree. University of California, Berkeley. With honors. Rising star in his field. She stared at Lowe. He looked as confused as she felt. Her breath came too fast.

“. . . and so it is with great enthusiasm that I nominate Mr. Magnusson as a candidate for primary consideration to continue my legacy.”

A round of polite applause roared in her ears. Lowe was saying something in reply, how it was unexpected and an honor to even be considered, and something else she couldn’t catch.

Considered for her job. She was her father’s legacy. Heir apparent. She had studied for it. Worked for it. And she damn well deserved it. More than any man sitting at this table. A thousand times more than Lowe Magnusson.

He briefly shook his head at her, claiming innocence. Bravo. What a performance. Quietly charm the girl in the garden—an easy task, because she was so starved for company that any scrap of affection thrown her way would do—then sit back and claim your crown.

What a fool she was.

Rage and hurt called the Mori, who rose up from the floor. Dark limbs, blinking eyes, grotesque features. Monsters, fueled by her pain. Dead things pulled from the Spirit World. Things she didn’t understand and could barely control, but they coalesced into a writhing mass of gloom and shifting shadow, crawling up the marble walls and columns. Sniffing out opportunity as they tugged images from her mind.

Command us, they whispered inside her head. Dark avengers, ready and willing to do her bidding. To avenge her through abhorrent deeds. Through fright. Injury.

And death.

Her negative emotions were like carrion. Drawn to them, the specters scavenged her mind, always hungry. And they were hers to command.

Him, she thought, as angry tears flooded her eyes. No, both of them. Her father for his betrayal. And Lowe for carrying it out and lying to her face. Both of them.

The museum director was standing, raising a toast, while her specters slithered across the ceiling like a cloud of black exhaust toward their goal: a massive crystal chandelier dangling high above the table.

A rumble shook the ceiling.

The guests stilled, poised with glasses in hand.

Until his blindness, her father could see the specters. But now the great Dr. Bacall was as oblivious as the rest of the guests, who assigned an easy logical excuse to the unnatural act—

“Earthquake?”

Once the word flew out of someone’s mouth, fear dominoed down the table.

At her elbow, Oliver lurched from his seat, looking up. Could he see them? How was that possible? It didn’t matter. Too late to reel the specters back in now.

Hundreds of crystals clinked in unison. The ceiling cracked. Electricity sparked. And as the light dimmed in the chandelier, one of the cables suspending it snapped with a horrifying metallic twang! The chandelier swung on its side like a great glass pendulum.

Startled gasps bounced around the hall. Chairs skidded on marble. Guests scattered.

Everyone but Father, who couldn’t see to move. And Lowe, who was struggling to pull a blind man out of his seat, just as Oliver was pulling her in the opposite direction.