Her friend breathed deeply and gave a weak smile. ‘They sting, like they’ve been burned or … played to the bone. But it’s nothing your dad’s salves can’t fix.
‘Last night, though? I don’t really know. I think that when I originally touched the—’ She didn’t say ‘harp string’ aloud. ‘It did what Callum suspected. I found it weeks ago, but the moment I touched it, it was like I’d plucked it. I could feel a vibration in my fingers, andit hasn’t stopped for weeks.’ She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t shake it until I started playing music, but it only left me frustrated, like I couldn’t get some crucial thingout. Then once I gave in to the feel of it and let it inspire me,thatsong emerged and I couldn’t stop …’
Nicole nodded and had to hope that if her mother hadn’t left instructions further along this path, that Remi’s father would find some guidelines or ancient instructions in the Siren Archives to protect her from the instrument’s dark allure.
Nicole stopped as they arrived at the gallery. ‘When you want to talk more, I’m here.’
Remi glanced at her, tenderness flickering in her eyes. ‘Never thought I’d find siblings in this life.’
‘You’ve had three for a few years, now.’
Remi’s nose wrinkled. ‘Except for that awkward day when Dylan and I kissed. What a disaster.’
‘I could have lived my whole life without being reminded of that.’
Remi laughed and headed inside.
Built from paler stone than Liverpool’s gallery, the classical building with its Ionic columns sat low and majestic on a modernised street, like a remnant from another era.
Inside, the square entrance reminded Nicole of a Roman villa. The opening hall rose above them, double-storeyed, with a set of stairs across that led up to the rest of the gallery’s rooms. Hanging around the second floor were what looked like small copies of the metopes on the Parthenon: tableaux of centaurs and men fighting.
As Remi went to the front desk, Nicole busied herself scanning the posters for any painting or exhibit that might house even slightly supernatural-looking beings or artefacts.
‘One audio tour, please,’ she heard Remi say, before flashing her supernatural ID, the iridescent circle on it catching the light.
Nicole kept hers tucked away, just in case the Wake had some kind of flag on it.
Tour acquired, they strode up the steps, affording her a better look at the Old Masters’ paintings lining the mezzanine. Herbert James Draper’s seaweed-clad Nymph lifted open a giant pearlescent oyster to reveal a sleeping baby inside instead of a pearl. The solitary, pondering Grecian women of John William Godward drapedthemselves on marble chairs and gazed away from the pristine blues of the Mediterranean landscape behind them.
As they walked, a change, like a pane of warm air, brushed over Nicole’s skin.
‘Do you feel that?’ she asked.
‘Mhmm. Supernatural wards. There.’
Nicole followed Remi’s gaze up to the Centaur reliefs. A plaque revealed they were plaster copies of sculptures from the Temple of Apollo Epicurius at Bassae.
‘Those might be a problem.’
‘Why?’ Nicole knew the stories of Centaurs, knew that they’d been hunted to near extinction by those that wanted their wisdom.
‘Because those bad boys are the security here. Something supernatural gets stolen, they’re going to come to life.’
‘Like the Babewyn?’
‘More like they grow to life-size and intervene.’
Nicole cast her senses up. She couldn’t hear a heartbeat or breath – but if they were stone creatures, she wouldn’t. ‘They might be enchanted sculptures, not living creatures.’
‘I voteyoufight them,’ Remi said. ‘I don’t want plaster dust on this coat, it’s vintage.’
Nicole shot her an amused smile. ‘Let’s hope it won’t come to that.’
Because if they weren’t real supernatural creatures, they were unlikely to emit a kill scent. Which meant she’d be fighting them off just as she was.
‘Come on,’ Nicole said, heading into the first gallery room.
Thankfully, midweek and early, the place was basically deserted.
