Page 2 of Dead and Gone

"Oh, I'll find something new to link town and academy history," I say smugly. "I always do."

"And that's another problem," she mutters.

"Are you concerned about what we might find, Holly?" I ask.

"Well, you always look for something you believe needs solving, and that usually leads to trouble."

I never wanted to leave my parents' estate for Thornwood Academy, but my father, Dorian, strong-armed me into attending. As leader of the supernatural council, he's keen for me to integrate, which I initially vocally resisted. But since I embraced my new life amongst the mostly unpleasant masses, I've become drawn to the unexplained and unusual.

Although my detective work was originally triggered by a need to clear my name, the thrill of solving the murder switched my obsession with death into healthier directions. Slightly.

"I am merely interested in the origins of the town, particularly the settlement by humans onto the witches' and shifters' land," I say.

"Right," says Grayson beneath his breath and chuckles. "Not secret chambers and hidden bodies beneath the town and academy?"

"Good grief. No."

"Then what do we need to do, Violet?" asks Holly, defeat weighing her shoulders.

Rowan looks up and smiles. "I agree with you, Holly—something off-campus."

"Really?" Her brightness flares again.

"Yes. The museum," I inform them.

You'd think I'd invited Holly to join me at the morgue as her face scrunches with revulsion. I didn't invite Holly along thelasttime I visited a morgue, and I'm unlikely to ask her to join me next time I go.

Because there'll be a next time.

Death is only ever a stone's throw away from me and my investigations.

2

The bellabove the museum's door tinkles, heralding our arrival. A balding man with silver-rimmed spectacles stands behind the museum foyer counter, and he places the chocolate biscuit he's nibbling beside his mug. Either the biscuit tasted terrible, or we're the ones he finds distasteful because his expression sours.

"Whoa," says Rowan, now by my side.

I wrinkle my nose. "Yes. There's rather a pungent smell to the place. Old things. Dead things."

"No," he whispers. "The energy. I'm not touching anything and my head hurts with all the held memories shouting. I can't switch off the magic and close it out."

"Ah. I never considered this may affect you. Would you like to wait outside?" Rowan shakes his head. "Good, because that would be unhelpful."

I rarely receive a warm welcome wherever I go, but the museum's curator's is particularly frosty as if he'd happily freeze us in place and stop us from moving further. We squash together in the carpeted space opposite the reception desk, where a door to the right leads into the exhibits. Thin guidebooks, a collectionof pens, and magnets that feature the building line the desk, and an old black-and-white photo of the street hangs above the man's head.

"Fun times ahead," says Grayson, and I've learned enough recently to know that's definite sarcasm.

An odd clove smell emanates from him, something I'd associate with witches. I study the white-haired man more closely. He's dressed in a brown suit with green patched elbows, but there's no sign of anything supernatural about him.

The man switches his look of abhorrence from me to Grayson, his lip curling slightly before he looks at Holly.

"Hi!" Holly gives him a small wave. "I'm Holly, and we're from?—"

"Five pounds," he says, slapping a folded brochure onto the wooden reception desk.

"Excuse me?" I ask and step closer.

"Entry to the museum costs five pounds each."

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