I shoved it back to the limits. I shivered and found myself crying into Chaos's pelt. Shuddering, I carried her off, crawled back under the covers, and hid from the ugly world.
Monday morning Will met me at a cafe near the Madison Forrest House for breakfast. He greeted me with a more-than-friendly kiss and we sat at a table outside. I told myself the thin golden line around him was a trick of the cool spring sunshine.
I smiled at the delicious quivers he sent over me. "When do you have to go to work?" I asked.
"Closed on Mondays," he replied, draping an arm over my shoulders, "and probably forever afterward, too, thanks to Brandon—who's not returning phone calls and seems to be dodging some guys in dark suits, sunglasses, and grim looks."
I raised my brows. "Who do you suppose they are?"
"I don't know. Mikey spotted them hanging around. They didn't bother to introduce themselves, and their cars had rental plates."
"He noticed that? Sounds like Michael could be a detective, too."
"I hope not. I'd rather admire your technique than watch Mike do it." He wiggled his eyebrows at me. "Want to show me your technique?"
I giggled. "Right here? Heck, no. What about Mike?"
"Let him get a girl his own age. I'm not sharing."
"You know what I mean."
"He's fine. Thinks it's funny. He's in school today."
"Does that mean you have nothing to do?"
He ran a finger along the curve of my ear and down my neck. "Mmm. I wouldn't say nothing."
I shivered. "Unfortunately, I have things to do that preclude dancing the horizontal tango with you all day—much as I might like to. Or had you forgotten this is supposed to be a professional meeting?"
"Spoilsport."
I poked him with a finger and made a face. "The curator will meet us in a little over an hour, so take a look at this and give me your professional opinion."
He glanced at the description sheet I offered him. "Without even looking at it, I expect that my professional opinion will be that it's a piece of grot."
"It does make me rather suspicious of the client's motives." I was suspicious of Sergeyev in general, but I wasn't going to discuss that with Will. "I need to know as much about it as possible."
"You think your client is up to something?"
"Something doesn't smell right, if you know what I mean. He said there was no rush, but he's thrown an awful lot of money at the project and he's shown up once, although he said he was in Europe the first time we talked. His check was drawn on a Swiss bank, but the rest of the packet came from London."
"I'm surprised it wasn't an Irish bank," Will commented. "The Swiss aren't as reticent about giving out information as they used to be, and the Irish make them look like pikers."
"Irish offshore banks? I've never heard of such a thing."
"It was on the horizon the last time I was in England," he explained.
"They've tried a lot of things to bring international business to Ireland. Most didn't pan out, but you don't need any special resources to be a banking power, especially if you're willing to buck the bully tactics of the US and the EU and maintain absolute discretion about your customers."
"Really? You're a guy of unknown depths, Mr. Novak."
"Yep. A diamond of the first water. Better grab me while you can."
I laughed. "I'll consider doing that."
We ate and joked around some more, then headed for the museum.
I parked the Rover in the gravel lot across the street. Will pulled his truck in beside mine. The house was forbidding, all its windows frowning and clouded through a thick bank of Grey. Even the glow of the nexus seemed to have died out. We crossed the street, but this time the gate was locked. I rang the bell on the intercom.
A woman's voice spoke from the box. "We're closed on Mondays."
"Harper Blaine. I have an appointment with the curator."
"Oh. I'll be right up."
A few minutes later, a middle-aged woman in a suit, heels, and corporate hairstyle appeared from behind the house. She took one look at Will and knew a kindred spirit. They chattered antiques the whole way up the drive.
"Nobody cares about the national heritage here," she declared as we reached the kitchen door. "You have to drag every penny of funding out of these bureaucrats' hands as if it were their own money. They'd rather spend it on a new baseball stadium. Watch your feet. There's a towel to wipe your shoes on."
We did as she suggested, leaving the mud on the towel instead of the parquet floor. She led us into the main hall and waved her hands around. "Gorgeous, isn't it? It's a damn sight better than it was when I came here. They had the interior all done in high Victoriana. Crammed with horrible gewgaws and junk, bad wallpaper, ugly, ugly colors. Totally out of period for this building."
"Then why did the museum acquire a parlor organ?" Will asked.
"Oh, yes. That's what you came for, isn't it? There was an organ on the original inventory, but it was broken and the first curator threw it out. Come on. It's upstairs. You can imagine what it was like getting it in here!" she added, leading us up the front staircase. Upstairs, she opened the door in front of us. "There you go. Awful, isn't it?"
A small sofa, chairs, and a needlework stand clustered around the hearth, as before, exuding their reassuring odor of age, must, and wood oil. Against the back wall stood the organ, outlined in gleaming red threads and writhing with vile, silent Grey snakes. Will pulled out the description sheet I'd given him and started studying it.
I felt woozy and my heart sped up. I clamped down on the feeling, but the sense of seasickness remained, tickling away, and the room had become hazy and soft like the stink of rot no matter how I tried to resist it.
Will read the sheet as we walked across the polished wood floor. Two feet inside the door, I felt sick. At four feet, my head was pounding with an instant headache of migraine proportions. I put my hand on Will's arm.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
I lied. "I don't know. I just don't feel well." I turned my attention back to the parlor organ.
It was still the ugliest thing I'd ever seen and would have been even if it wasn't cloaked in swirling energy matrices and sucking darkness like a drain. It had grown worse in just a few days. Clear vision in the Grey seemed to have come with Wygan's "gift." Storm-mist pulse around the organ and phantom faces leered and screamed in transient gusts of paranormal wind. Creeping horror played up and down my spine. I dragged myself a step closer to it, hating the proximity. A glowing tentacle struck out and slammed into my chest where Wygan's thread was tied. I gagged and stumbled.
I tried to bend the Grey and push it away. The tentacle rippled and sucked away the strength of my push. My knees folded and I felt the floor rush up as vision went black.
Will grabbed me under the arms. "Harper!"
The tentacle pulled on me, wrapping around my insides like a steel fist. I choked, "Get me out of here."
Will picked me up and ran out. He didn't stop until we were out-side, where he put me on my feet with the care of a collector placing a prized piece.
"Are you all right now? Are you sick? Do you need a glass of water, a doctor…?"
I slumped down on the carriage steps like a dropped sandbag. "No, no. I'm OK now. I just… I just need some air. Go back inside. I'll be fine." I could not face that thing again. It had drained my resources too easily.
"Are you sure? We can go if you want."
"No, it's important that I know about that organ."
Will sighed. "All right. But you'll be OK till I get back, right?"