Page 2

Liar.

“Mom,” I groan.

“Sunday,” she chirps back in that classic Mom way. I know exactly what she wants—she wants me to come visit, which will turn into her stuffing me with food like a Thanksgiving turkey and cooing over me like I’m still a toddler, even though I’m twenty-fucking-eight.

It’s times like these I wish I had a proper desk chair in my workshop and not one of those funky saddle stools, so I could throw myself back dramatically. I settle for rolling my eyes and pulling the phone away from my face to let out a sigh.

“I can’t visit, I’m busy this weekend. I’m filming with⁠—”

“You’re not still doing that urban exploring thing, are you? You know I don’t like you wandering around in structurally unsound buildings.”

“I’m a big boy, Mom. I can handle a few crumbling bricks,” I gripe, picking up a pin and stabbing it into the wood grain of my worktable repeatedly. Anyway, what are friends for, if not creeping around in dusty old buildings with occasionally?

“I’ll play slow jazz at your funeral,” she threatens.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“I really would, Sunshine. If you insist on doing these things, you should wear a hard hat.” Something clatters in the background, metal on metal.

“I’d rather eat fucking glass.” I would not look good in a hard hat. Baseball cap or nada.

“Language, Sunday,” she titters, as if I’m still a potty-mouthed teenager who needs reprimanding. “Anyway, I’ve got a cadaver to prep. Come visit soon, okay? Love you!” She doesn’t let me get a word in, making kissy noises before the line clicks off.

Pulling the phone away from my ear, I scowl at the screen. She still manages to mother me, even from three hundred miles away.

I turn my attention back to the second most annoying thing I have to deal with today: dead birds. Forming them into mounts is a special kind of torture, albeit one that I relish—I’ve been able to hold a scalpel basically since I could recite the alphabet, so I do enjoy a challenge. Birds have tiny hollow bones, delicate skin, and highly visible feather patterns, all demanding exact placement. Otherwise, you’re left with something that looks like it’s flown into a tree or been shot. It’s down to the symmetry of the wings, the angle of the neck, the natural position of the feathers—the devil is in the details, as they say.

Taking a deep breath to calm the energy drink jitters, I gently pull thread and carefully stick needles where they need to be to capture the bird mid-landing, wings splayed out and feet just so. In the coming weeks, I have several more corvids and other creatures to do for the museum’s upcoming exhibit on occult history.

Maybe it wasn’t the smartest move, coming to Salem. While I love fall, and the permanent spooky aesthetic adopted by the town, every time I see a tarot deck in a store window it reminds me of my ex. Which then makes me cranky because I haven’t gotten laid since that crapshoot date I had with my neighbor.

“Sunny?” The voice jolts me from my task, causing me to knock some pins askew, eliciting a stream of curses from my mouth. I turn to glare at the intruder, who has evidently ignored my halfhearted attempt at a Do Not Disturb sign.

I’m about to tell them that the now-demented crow is going to take a one-way trip up their ass, but then I recognize who the voice belongs to.

Lara Torres: museum guide by day, urban explorer by night, and my closest friend. She looks bookish, with long dark curls, olive-toned skin, and big green eyes in a kind face. As daughter of the curator, her role here varies and presently includes heading up the education department.

The only thing she can’t do is my job. Trust me, I’ve tried to teach her, and it was not a pretty experience. Lots of squealing.

“I’m so sorry dude, but Séverin called in sick,” she says apologetically.

“Again?” I grunt. Séverin is a nice enough kid, but his attendance record is shocking.

“Yeah, I know.” She crosses her arms over her chest.

Knowing what’s coming, I scrub my hand down my face in exasperation.

I.

Hate.

Children.

“How old are they?” My voice is little more than a grumble.

“You have a choice: six-year-olds or fifteen-year-olds.” The grimace on her face tells me everything I need to know: both groups will be insufferable, loud, awful⁠—

“We’ve got like five minutes, so can you hurry up and pick your poison?” Lara taps her watch furiously at me, clearly frazzled that her protege tour guide has bailed on work yet again.