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fake rocks, the other standing alert like he was thinking of popping out for a bite. It crossed my mind that these lions ate themselves a few
dozen
workers while the British were trying to bridge the Tsavo River, so maybe preserving ’em and putting ’em on display wasn’t the brightest move, savvy? Especially when they’re so damn close to Bastet the cat goddess’s shrine over in the Egypt department. Just a smidge too much symbolic resonance for my comfort. Most of you mugs ain’t exactly wise to the spiritual and supernatural, and no, and they didn’t much feel haunted or cursed to me. But c’mon.
    And yeah, all of that was me wasting time while my brain pounded away at the real problem in front of me.
    It didn’t none of it figure. The whole situation made a lot more sense if there was no intruder, no mystery spear; just some drunk kids breaking windows, and an over-tired curator getting his artifacts confused. Or maybe staging some kinda hoax, though I really couldn’t noodle out why he would. I really wanted to call it just that way and go take a load off. Okay, yeah, Lydecker seemed awful sure of what he saw, and if the situation
was
on the up-and-up, it was certainly hinky enough to be interesting. But I was tired, I didn’t know if this was even an earning gig, I
sure
didn’t want to work with Galway, and it wasn’t as if any actual harm had been done.
    Nah, this was a curiosity, not a real case. Two inches of column space in the city section before the papers moved on to the next bit of urban weirdness. Nothing more to do with me.
    Except that was all of it hooey, wasn’t it? Pure bunk. And part of me’d known it the whole time.
    I hadn’t just come up here to escape Galway’s huffing and puffing, had I? It wasn’t “pure chance” that had dragged my feet through empty, echoing halls to this particular set of exhibits. I’d felt it, sensed it on instinct long before it had busted through my thick skull enough for me to be aware of it.
    Whoever he, she, or
it
was, they were packing enough magic to make Circe swear off bacon. And they were really, really close.
    All right, then, Mick. Let’s see how much swift you still got.
    I thrust my hand under my flogger, yanking the Luchtaine & Goodfellow from the shoulder holster. I’d had the hardwood wand for so long, I’d worn the grip down to where it perfectly fit my clenched mitt. I dropped low in the same breath, hopefully clearing the line of any fire—figurative or literal—might be coming my way.
    I
didn’t
turn away from the Tsavo kitties. No point, since I didn’t have anywhere to aim at.
    Yet.
    Pumping my own magics through the wand, I swept the room, hoovering up scraps of fortune. I mean, think about it. All the artifacts on display in the Field? How long had they survived in order to wind up here? What had they made it through that a thousand other bits and gewgaws hadn’t? There’s enough ambient luck in any real museum to choke a
sluagh
.
    Course, I didn’t wanna take too much from any one piece, but that still left me plenty.
    In, and right back out again, surrounding me, seeping into me, giving me the luck I needed to punch through any sort of mystic veil, whether shadow or illusion.
    I
still
almost missed him.
Damn
, this bird was good! I swear he was hiding between the glass and the reflection of one of the displays, and if you’re having trouble picturing that, imagine being there!
    He was off like a shot before I was even positive I’d seen him, faster’n most of the animals on exhibit, and it was all I could do to beat feet after him. Whoever he was, I didn’t buy he was here by coincidence. He knew something about something, and no way was I letting him vanish without singing first.
    If I’d gotten a halfway decent slant on him, enough to even begin to figure out who he was, I mighta rethought some of that.

CHAPTER TWO
    S o, right. Think that about catches us up to where I left off—Herne dangling me off a damn