Inheritance Read online

  Inheritance

  A Deadly Curiosities Novel

  Gail Z. Martin

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-939704-97-9

  Print ISBN: 978-1-939704-98-6

  Inheritance: Copyright © 2019 by Gail Z. Martin.

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), locales, and incidents are either coincidental or used fictitiously. Any trademarks used belong to their owners. No infringement is intended.

  Cover art by Lou Harper

  SOL Publishing is an imprint of DreamSpinner Communications, LLC

  For my wonderful husband Larry, my children, Kyrie, Chandler, and Cody, and my new sons, Nick and Zach. Much love and gratitude to you.

  Chapter One

  “I have a problem antique I’d like you to take a look at.” The man on the other end of the call sounded rattled. I recognized his name—Alfred Stone, from Stone Auctions—but I didn’t think we had ever spoken, let alone met.

  “What kind of ‘problem’ does it present?” I asked. A number of possibilities came to mind. “Questionable provenance? Not sure how to authenticate?”

  “I think it’s trying to kill me.”

  Well, damn. That kind of problem. “All right, Mr. Stone. Try to stay calm.”

  “I just told you, it’s trying to kill me. I heard you…know…about these things. Please, help me.”

  Across the store, Teag Logan glanced up to make sure everything was all right. I nodded, and he went back to helping a customer.

  “I can come now. Are you at the showroom?”

  “Yes. Thank you. And…please…hurry.”

  I ended the call and sighed. This might be the first time Alfred Stone had an antique try to kill him, but that made it just another day here at Trifles and Folly.

  I’m Cassidy Kincaide, and I own Trifles and Folly, an antique and curio shop in historic, haunted Charleston, South Carolina. The shop has been in my family for more than three hundred years. While we’re known as a great place to buy high-quality antiques, the shop is also a cover for the Alliance, a coalition of mortals and immortals who save Charleston—and the world—from supernatural threats. I’m a psychometric, which means I can read the history and magic of objects by touching them. Teag is my assistant store manager, best friend, and sometimes bodyguard—and he’s also a talented Weaver witch. Sorren, my business partner, is a nearly six-hundred-year-old vampire. Together with some other friends with very specialized abilities, we do our best to keep the world safe from dark magic and things that go bump in the night.

  “Problem?” Teag asked when the customer left.

  “I’m not sure,” I replied. “Alfred Stone just called—from the auction house. He says he’s got an item that’s trying to kill him.”

  “You want me to go with you?” Teag pushed a lock of dark hair out of his eyes. His skater-boy haircut and skinny jeans made him look younger than his late twenties. “Maggie can handle the store.”

  On cue, Maggie—our lifesaver of a part-time associate—waved to agree from the other side of the store. She was sporting a new bright pink streak in her short gray hair, and it matched her sweater, a reminder—as if I needed one—that she believed in taking risks and living large.

  I reached up to slick my humidity-frizzy strawberry blond hair back into a ponytail and shook my head. “Let me go see what the problem is, and I’ll figure out what to do from there. It’s not far away, in case I need to give a shout.”

  “Just let me know,” he said, with a look that told me I’d better not get myself hurt. “I can be there in ten minutes. If in doubt—call.”

  “I promise.” I appreciated Teag’s concern, but I had proven my ability to hold my own against some pretty nasty creatures, and while I didn’t intend to push my luck, I didn’t know enough about Stone’s “problem” to call in the cavalry just yet.

  As I drove over to Stone Auctions, I tried to remember what I knew about the man and the business. While Trifles and Folly had enough of a reputation in the area that a lot of people sold their items directly to us, Teag and I sometimes bought from auctions and estate sales. Occasionally an item would be listed that we knew would be a perfect fit for our typical customers, who were tourists looking for a one-of-a-kind souvenir, interior designers searching for just the right piece, or antique enthusiasts hunting down the perfect addition for their collection.

  More often, we bought pieces because they were cursed, haunted, or so tainted with bad mojo from long-ago tragedies that we needed to make sure nobody got hurt.

  Usually, we spotted a dangerous piece ourselves or got a heads-up from someone in our network of friends. This time, whatever had spooked Alfred Stone had enough juice to get his attention, even though he didn’t have insider knowledge about just how much of a spookapalooza Charleston really was. That told me the item might be especially dangerous.

  To my surprise, Stone was waiting for me near the front desk. He looked like he had probably hovered behind the poor receptionist since he called me.

  “Cassidy Kincaide?” he asked, extending his hand. “I’m Alfred Stone.”

  Stone was a stocky man who looked to be in his fifties, and he stood only a few inches taller than my five-foot-eight height. He had a twitchy energy that I suspected was a combination of caffeine and hustle. The man also had a black eye and a gauze bandage on his forehead, like he’d been in a fight. His once-over glance told me that I looked younger than he expected. I’m close to Teag’s age, but don’t look it. Someday, that may be an advantage. Now, it’s more of a liability. I gave Stone credit for not mentioning it.

  “Good to meet you, Mr. Stone. I’ve attended some of your events, but we’ve never had the opportunity to meet.”

  “Alfred, please.”

  I smiled, trying to set him at ease. “Cassidy.” Now that we were on a first-name basis, I hoped we could get down to business. “How can I help?”

  Alfred led me down a hallway, away from the reception area. “If you’ve been to some of our events, then you know Stone Auctions has an eye for the unusual, the off-beat. Our repeat buyers know they can come to us for pieces that are, if not completely unique, then at least unlikely to pop up everywhere.” He tugged at his collar, trying to hide his discomfort. “Sometimes, we end up with pieces that are…unsettling. We’ve had items made from bone, and odd taxidermy pieces, mourning jewelry, that sort of thing. But I’ve never sensed anything dangerous—until now.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that was because Teag and I bought the malicious items from prior sales before they had a chance to hurt anyone. Since he hadn’t recognized their negative juju, then whatever it was that freaked him out had to be hella bad.

  Which, given the kinds of things I’ve seen since I took over the store, could go anywhere from soul-sucking demons to end-of-the-world Viking sorcerers. Never a dull moment.

&
nbsp; “How did you come to purchase it?” I asked. Not that I expected Alfred to give up his sources—those were a trade secret in this business—but I needed something to go on, and finding out where a piece came from usually told me a lot about what to expect.

  “Through a seller’s representative,” Alfred replied. “Fairly common, for someone who wants to sell a piece but doesn’t wish to handle the sale directly. I’m sure you’ve done acquisitions that way yourself.”

  I had, but rarely. Given our particular specialty at Trifles and Folly, I liked to know exactly who I was dealing with. Sometimes that could be a life-or-death detail.

  “Anyhow, this gentleman assured me that the piece had been in the collection of a very wealthy man from an old family, whose will directed that the pieces be sold after his death,” Alfred said.

  “Did he give you a name? Of the man or the family?” I had a bad feeling about this. There was a thin line between discretion and deception.

  “No, although the paperwork all seemed to be in order,” Alfred replied, shaking his head. “And before you ask—I tried to reach him when the … problems…began, but his number has been disconnected.” His cheeks colored, telling me that he knew exactly how bad that sounded.

  Great. So it’s not just a secret…the piece was probably stolen.

  There could be situations in which a representative could not disclose the former owner. That was rare because an item’s history—the fancy word is “provenance”—usually increases the price. A common object that was owned by a famous person is worth far more than the item itself would fetch. Keeping the ownership and history a secret hurt the representative’s ability to get the best price for the client—unless the history would raise a scandal.

  Or, as I suspected happened here, the item was hot.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Alfred said, with an embarrassed expression. “I may have left myself open to legalities. A rookie mistake—and I assure you, I’m no rookie. But…the piece wasn’t terribly expensive, although it was unique. And it called to me. I realize how that sounds.”

  It sounded exactly like what would happen if a cursed object saw the perfect victim.

  “What you’re describing isn’t that unusual when an object has troublesome energy.” I’d learned to use phrasing that didn’t come right out and mention ghosts and magic to set people at ease, people who wanted to go back to their ordinary lives and forget that they ever got a glimpse of the supernatural. Sometimes the lucky ones could do just that.

  Usually, it wasn’t that simple.

  We reached the door to the storage area, where items are checked in, cataloged, and tagged while awaiting their turn in the spotlight during an auction. While the auction theater is luxurious, like good seats at the symphony or opera, the room Alfred led me into was utilitarian, with functional wooden racks and plenty of shipping boxes. We crossed to the far corner, to a small room with a steel door and a reinforced glass window.

  “It’s in here.” Alfred sounded less than excited about getting close to the troublesome piece. He unlocked the door and gestured for me to go inside. While I was ready for danger, I had to admit to being curious—especially since Alfred seemed to swing between fear and chagrin.

  “That’s it.”

  All right, then. Now, I understood—at least a little more. It wasn’t every day when a well-to-do business owner was forced to admit he was terrified by a framed mosaic made up entirely of seashells.

  “It’s a ‘sailor’s valentine,’” I said, recognizing the style. I leaned closer, careful not to touch. While the idea of an intricate design crafted from shells sounded like a kitschy souvenir, antique sailor’s valentines could be true works of folk art and fetch thousands of dollars. This one was particularly well done, with a floral rose inside a nautical wind rose, enclosed in a detailed decorative border, and all of it painstakingly pieced together from naturally-colored seashells.

  “We can authenticate the original ownership,” Alfred asserted, probably hoping to regain my professional respect. “It’s old—the date on the back says 1845, and the appraiser confirmed that the materials are consistent with that period. The writing next to the date reads, ‘To my darling Millicent, undying love from Joseph.’”

  “Do you have any idea who Joseph and Millicent were?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Alfred admitted. “The representative said that it had been given by a sailor to his fiancée when he returned to port.” He cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, it was a parting gift, because the sailor had already married someone else. After that, the piece passed through various hands until it was acquired a few decades later by the family of the late owner.”

  I walked around the piece, which was secured on an easel. The mahogany frame appeared to be in good shape, and despite the age of the piece, the shells had not discolored or come loose from their glue, and the glass had no chips or breaks. The shell work itself was a wonder, using a variety of types—common cockles, beaded periwinkles, baby’s ears, bubbles, jingles, and more—in an array of colors and sizes. I could understand why it could catch someone’s eye.

  Assuming they couldn’t feel the psychic reek of malevolent energy that made me recoil. If it has that much resonance when I’m a foot away, I really don’t want to know how it feels to pick it up.

  When an item gave off vibes that were that strong, I could usually get a read without having to touch it. I closed my eyes, aware that Alfred was watching, and reached out with my psychometry, stretching my gift toward the piece but not getting any closer than necessary.

  Hatred and vengefulness hit me like a punch to the face. After all this time, the resonance was so powerful that I caught my breath and took a defensive step back. I saw everything, like a movie in fast-forward. Millicent’s happiness that her beloved had returned from the sea, and her delight in the beautiful gift. Joseph’s admission of betrayal. Her shock, turning to grief and then cooling into anger. A heated argument, and the swing of a candlestick in rage, leaving Joseph in a pool of blood. Fear, remorse, loss, and guilt, and then a knife blade that Millicent used to open veins and let herself die beside her faithless lover.

  The vision ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving me breathless. I might have spared some sympathy for Millicent, despite her reaction, if I didn’t feel the temperature drop and know from the prickle on my skin that Millicent’s spirit still clung to the tragic gift.

  “Get back!” I reached into the pocket of my jacket and grabbed a handful of the loose salt I kept there for situations just like this. As Millicent’s spirit began to take shape and the air around us grew freezing cold, I hurled a handful of salt at her ghostly outline, making her flicker and vanish.

  “Run!” I grabbed Alfred by the arm and dragged him with me as I sprinted toward the storage room door. I’d disrupted Millicent’s manifestation, but it wouldn’t take a spirit that strong long to regroup.

  I slammed the door and reached into my large tote. In this business, it never paid to leave home without tools of the trade. I grabbed a canister of salt and a small bag of iron filings. “Go over there,” I ordered, and Alfred was all too happy to put distance between himself and the small room. Then I laid down a line of salt across the threshold and sprinkled iron filings on top. As an extra precaution, I hung a small, blessed silver chain from the door handle.

  “What are you doing?” Alfred sounded skeptical but curious.

  I straightened and put the items back in my bag. Just to be safe, I palmed an iron dagger and the old wooden spoon I used as an athame to channel my touch magic defensively.

  “Keeping Millicent in the storage room until we can send her on her way,” I replied.

  His eyes widened. “So, you saw her too?”

  “Yep. Throwing salt at her bought us time to get out, but it won’t stop her from manifesting again. And the line at the door will only hold her for a while. I think we need to talk, while I call in a consult.”

  Alfred seemed lost in thou
ght as he led me to his office. I paused in the hallway to call Father Anne Burgett.

  “Cassidy? What’s up?” Father Anne knew I didn’t call to chat.

  “Got a vengeful ghost I could use some help with. Are you free?”

  She chuckled. “Give me the address. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” she replied. I rattled off the information and walked to the front desk to let the receptionist know I was expecting someone. When I came back to Alfred’s office, he was pacing and looked like he could use a stiff drink.

  “I called in a priest who can help the spirit move on—I hope,” I told him. “And I’d like you to send everyone home, so no one gets hurt from Millicent acting up. But before my priest friend gets here, I need to know everything—including how you got that black eye.”

  Alfred stopped pacing and sat. He glanced toward a side cabinet with a look that suggested it was probably the liquor cabinet. “I should have known something was wrong when the damned thing seemed irresistible. I’m not usually an emotional buyer.”

  I shrugged. “We all are, whether we like to admit it or not. And the piece is well made. It could fetch a good price.”

  He shook his head as if he hadn’t quite made himself clear. “This was different. It wasn’t just strongly liking the piece. When I saw it, I had to have it. And then afterward, I wasn’t sure what came over me.”

  I had a suspicion, but it could wait. “Did Millicent give you that shiner?”

  Alfred reached out to touch his sore eye, looking chagrined. “She packs quite a punch—for a ghost. I was alone with the piece, and all of a sudden the air got very cold and I felt shivery. And then I saw a gray woman in an old fashioned dress appear out of nowhere. She rushed toward me and knocked me into the wall. I tried to get away, but she slid furniture into my path. I tripped and fell, and that’s how I hit my head.”