Page 5 of Dead and Gone

"Bloody hell.Thisis what we paid to see?" asks Grayson incredulously.

The half-empty museum's mundanity spreads into the windowless room, where the walls are painted in faded pastel hues and chipped in places. Only a few overhead lights cast a soft, yellowish glow over the dim interior and sparse exhibits.

"I expect he needs to keep his biscuit supply topped up for his meetings," says Rowan, who wanders to the nearest glass cabinet.

"Or he's saving for a new suit," says Holly with a snicker.

"Do you think the curator knows who you are, Violet?" Rowan examines a hand-written label on yellowed paper beside an old top hat.

Fascinating.

"No. He hates supes for taking away his items and, by all accounts, shrinking his museum display by half. Therefore, if he knew I'm the daughter of the man who leads the supernatural council, I don't believe any amount of money would permit me entry."

Hands linked together behind my back, I pace slowly around the room, across worn floorboards, as I follow the chronological history of Little Wittering displayed on cards and photos on the wall.

Interesting—there are no references to shifters whose history preceded both the witches and the humans. The museum owner could've includedthatrather than pretending supes were never part of the area's past.

I pass through an arched entry into a U-shaped room with an open display in the center, then abruptly halt, boots squeaking on the floor as I do. Grayson's hand goes to the small of my back as he supports me unnecessarily, but the guy hasn't touched me all day—something akin to a miracle. Still, the gentle pressure from his fingers awakens the desire for his blood within me, and I quickly sidestep.

"Good grief."

"What? I barely touched you," he says.

"No. Not good grief at you pawing me—good grief atthat."

Ahead of me, a tableau stretches the room as animal figures intermingle with fake plants to depict the local flora and fauna. I walk forward and sniff, then wrinkle my nose at the smell of chemicals and death. Taxidermy. If you ask me, the practice isn't too far removed from necromancy since both interfere with dead bodies.Andboth create something to possess.

But nobodywouldask me.

A rabbit. A badger. Fox. Small rodents. Sparrows and robins. All are positioned on fake grass, around dead tree branches designed to paint a 'natural environment'. Something squeaks nearby, and as I consider whether the museum extended its budget to sound effects, the source of the noise passes me.

Holly.

"Omigodsogross," she breathes out.

"Yes. Such a waste," I say blithely and tap my lips. "At least when I preserve bodies with magic, mine can still move."

I glance at Holly when she doesn't reply. "You're paler. Don't worry, there's no blood. You won't faint."

"That's not why—" She shakes her head. "Never mind."

On the wall, cards are placed beneath each exhibit's photograph, providing visitors with information about each animal. One of the images depicts a man in an old-fashioned three-piece suit beaming at the camera, a Frankenstein with his creations displayed on a table before him. Fortunately,hisbody isn't part of the display.

The card beneath his photo readsExhibits created by Arthur Redridge, award-winning taxidermist c.1840. Donated by the Redridge family.

Award-winning. What accolade would that bestow? A golden stand to mount his stuffed creatures on?

Holly reads, too. "I'd also donate these things to a museum if I inherited them. They're creepy."

"What's the point in all this?" asks Grayson, walking over and tentatively placing fingers on the head of a stuffed fox.

"Do not touch the exhibits!" comes a loud voice.

I pivot.Stalked by the curator. "Don't you have a meeting?" I ask.

"You heard me. Thirty minutes. I'm not leaving you in the museum alone." He jerks his chin. "I don't know if you're friends with the last lot."

"Last lot?" asks Rowan, joining us.

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