Halpern did not like surprises.
Isla knew this.
She also knew that walking into his office less than an hour after the board’s emergency stroll-through and asking to visit another institution’s most prized object qualified as a surprise.
She did it anyway.
He looked up from his computer as she knocked and stepped inside.
“Reyes,” he said. “Twice in one day. To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”
She swallowed a flash of guilt.
“I wanted to talk about the Hammond,” she said. “Their… incident.”
His mouth tightened.
“A regrettable security failure,” he said. “But not our responsibility. Their administration will handle it.”
“Our pieces were involved,” she said.
He sighed.
“Yes,” he said. “Unfortunate timing. But the loan agreement is clear. Liability rests with the borrowing institution. Our insurance people are already sharpening their pencils.”
She winced.
“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she said.
His eyebrows rose.
“No?” he said. “Then what, pray tell, concerns you? You survived the board’s panic admirably.”
She twisted her hands together behind her back.
“Schmiedler’s collection…” she began. “We’ve known for a while that his acquisition practices were… questionable.”
He snorted. “That’s a generous word.”
“And now,” she pushed on, “someone’s targeting his bequests. Specifically his medieval pieces. Ours. The Hammond’s. The Capitol’s. We don’t know why. We don’t know who. But if last night was the start of a pattern—”
“You’re afraid we might be next,” he finished.
“Yes,” she said simply.
He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers.
“The board has already ordered an inventory,” he said. “We’re tightening entry points. Security assures me they’re handling it. What do you propose we do beyond that?”
She took a breath.
“Proactive collaboration,” she said.
One of his eyebrows climbed higher.
“Buzzwords,” he said. “Bold of you, Reyes. Elaborate.”
She fought the urge to fidget.
“I want to go to the Hammond,” she said. “Talk to their conservators. See the damage. Review our loan conditions. Make sure the rest of our pieces are secure. We can’t control what they do, but we can at least… be informed.”
He studied her.
“You think you’ll see something their own staff has missed,” he said.
Arrogant, put that way.
Her cheeks heated.
“No,” she said. “I think… we see things differently. Our medieval collection is stronger than theirs. We’ve been working with Schmiedler’s material longer. We might notice patterns they don’t. It’s worth a conversation.”
He tapped his fingers against the desk.
“You just want to see their crown,” he said dryly.
Her stomach lurched.
She tried to keep her face neutral.
“It’s an important piece,” she said. “If someone’s after Schmiedler’s treasures, it’s a prime target.”
“And you think your presence will… dissuade them?” he asked, amused.
“No,” she said. “But I think the more we know about how they’re protecting it, the better we can protect our own collection. We’ve relied on shared best practices with them before. This is an extension of that.”
He grunted.
She held his gaze.
He sighed.
“You always do this,” he said. “Wrap your instincts in institutional language until I can’t tell if you’re being practical or romantic.”
“Why not both?” she said.
He barked out a laugh.
“Because one gets funding and the other gets you side-eyed at board meetings,” he said. “Fortunately for you, I like troublemakers.”
Warmth pricked behind her eyes.
“Is that a yes?” she asked.
“It’s a ‘I’ll email Claire at the Hammond and see if she’ll let you sniff around,’” he said. “If she agrees, you can go over this afternoon. We can’t afford to look like we’re dragging our feet.”
Adrenaline surged.
“This afternoon,” she repeated faintly.
He nodded.
“Is that a problem?” he asked. “Hot date with a reliquary?”
Her brain flashed a picture of Cael in the coal room.
Hot date with a *dragon*.
“No,” she said quickly. “I can go. Thank you.”
He waved a hand.
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said. “If you find anything that suggests our own security is lacking, the board will want blood. Preferably mine.”
She smiled thinly.
“I’ll bring them a dragon,” she almost said.
Instead, she nodded and backed out of the office, pulse racing.
As she hurried down the staff corridor, she thumbed a message to Tim.
*Halpern’s reaching out to Hammond. Might be there this afternoon.*
The reply came fast.
*Copy. We’ll be ready.*
We.
She swallowed.
She ducked into the nearest bathroom, locked the stall, and pressed her back against the cool metal.
Her thumb throbbed.
She touched the faint scar.
“Next right move,” she whispered.
The hum in her bones answered.
***
The Hammond Museum looked different up close.
Isla had been there before—for conferences, for installation help—but always with a sense of professional distance. That was their space; this was hers.
Today, walking up the steps, her badge on a lanyard around her neck and a knot of fear in her gut, she felt… intrusive.
Security at the front desk was tighter than usual.
Bags searched.
IDs checked.
Names cross-referenced with pre-approved lists.
“Isla Reyes,” she told the guard. “From the City Museum. Claire Thompson is expecting me.”
He checked the computer, then nodded.
“Head of Conservation will meet you in the lobby,” he said. “Wait by the bench, please.”
She sat, clutching her portfolio like a shield.
The lobby was all marble and glass, banners hanging from the high ceiling.
*Jewels of Faith: Treasures of the Medieval Church*, one proclaimed, with a glossy photo of *the* crown.
Her stomach dipped.
Claire appeared a few minutes later, her expression drawn.
She was in her forties, tall, Nordic-blond hair in a severe bun. Isla had always admired her work from afar.
“Isla,” Claire said, offering a hand. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
“Of course,” Isla said, standing. “I’m so sorry about… everything.”
Claire’s mouth thinned.
“It’s been a week,” she said curtly. “Come. We can talk in my office first, then I’ll take you through the gallery.”
As they walked through staff-only corridors that looked eerily similar to her own museum’s, Isla’s phone buzzed silently in her pocket.
She’d turned the ringer off deliberately.
The temptation to check it was overwhelming.
In her mind, she pictured Tim watching her on some hacked-into Hammond camera feed, Jay muttering commentary, Cael prowling the coal room like a caged lion.
“You look tired,” Claire remarked as they stepped into her cramped office.
“So do you,” Isla said frankly.
Claire’s mouth softened.
“Yes, well,” she said. “This isn’t my first theft, but it’s the worst. Three objects, cleanly taken, no forensic trace. The board wants heads. The police want answers. All we have is… gaps.”
She gestured for Isla to sit.
“We appreciate your concern about your loaned pieces,” she went on. “Rest assured, we’re doing everything—”
“I know,” Isla interrupted gently. “I’m not here to second-guess your protocols. I just… thought we might compare notes. The more we share, the less likely we are to get blindsided at home.”
Claire exhaled, some of the defensiveness leaving her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said. “Most colleagues have treated this like a juicy story, not a cautionary tale.”
“Anyone who works with Schmiedler material should be worried,” Isla said. “He made a lot of enemies.”
Claire’s eyebrows lifted.
“You’ve dug into his history?” she asked.
“Obsessively,” Isla said, then flushed. “For research.”
Claire’s lips twitched.
“I could use obsessive right now,” she said. “We’ve gone over the footage a hundred times. Nothing. Cameras freeze for thirty seconds. When they come back, the cases are empty. No glass disturbed. No alarms. It’s as if the objects… vanished.”
A chill walked down Isla’s spine.
“May I see the footage?” she asked.
Claire hesitated.
“You understand it’s part of an ongoing investigation,” she said carefully. “I can’t share copies. But you can view it. Here. Under supervision.”
“Of course,” Isla said.
Claire cued up the security feed on her monitor.
Grainy grayscale. The medieval gallery. The familiar shapes of cases, the gleam of glass.
Timestamp: 2:47 AM.
The empty room.
Nothing moved.
Then, abruptly, the image glitched.
Static crawled across the screen.
Lines skewed.
For thirty seconds, the picture was a smear.
Isla’s heart hammered.
Her thumb burned.
Beside her, Claire muttered, “Every tech we’ve had in says it’s a power surge. But nothing else in the building registered one. Just this bank of cameras.”
At 2:48 AM, the image snapped back into clarity.
The cases that had held the chalice, the reliquary, the necklace were empty.
No broken glass.
No disturbed mounts.
No sign of how.
“May I… see that again?” Isla asked, voice thin.
Claire replayed the clip.
Isla leaned in, eyes locked on the static.
The hum in her bones rose.
This time, in the flicker of glitch, she thought she saw… shape.
Not form, exactly.
A shadow.
Tall.
Not human.
She blinked.
By the time her brain tried to parse it, the image had stabilized again.
“Did you see that?” she whispered.
“See what?” Claire asked.
“Nothing,” Isla said quickly. “Probably my imagination.”
She sat back, forcing her breathing to slow.
“That’s all we have?” she asked.
“For the theft itself,” Claire said. “Yes. But there was something else. A week ago. Before any of this. A minor temperature anomaly under the foundation.”
Isla’s skin prickled.
“A… spike?” she asked.
Claire nodded. “Brief. Unexplained. Facilities brushed it off as a sensor error. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“Did anything… happen… around that time?” Isla asked carefully. “Any… construction? Strange sounds? Complaints from staff about… I don’t know. Drafts. Feelings.”
Claire gave her a sharp look.
“Feelings?” she repeated.
Isla flushed.
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve been working with medieval superstition too long. I meant… anything *unusual.*”
Claire hesitated.
“One of our night guards filed an odd report,” she said finally. “Said he heard… something. Like a roar. Very faint. Under his feet. Another guard laughed it off. Said he’d left his YouTube on. But the timing lines up.”
A roar.
Under the foundation.
A week ago.
Isla’s pulse thundered.
“Claire,” she said carefully, “have you considered the possibility that… what you’re dealing with isn’t entirely… human?”
Claire’s eyes narrowed.
“Isla,” she said. “I’ve been in this field for twenty years. I have dealt with superstitious donors, haunted painting rumors, and a volunteer convinced a Roman statue was cursing her love life. I do not entertain ghost stories from staff. Not in an official capacity.”
“I’m not talking about ghosts,” Isla said quietly.
Claire stared.
“Then what, exactly, *are* you talking about?” she asked.
Isla opened her mouth.
Closed it.
She thought of Cael in the coal room.
Of his scales rasping against stone.
Of his fury when he’d spoken of his scattered hoard.
“Never mind,” she said hoarsely. “I’m… getting ahead of myself. Let’s… see the gallery. Maybe something will look different from another angle.”
Claire looked like she wanted to press.
But years of professional politeness held.
“Of course,” she said. “This way.”
***
The Hammond’s medieval wing was smaller than Isla’s home turf but no less lovingly curated.
Gothic arches. Faux-stone walls. Dim lighting to protect fragile textiles.
Empty spaces where the stolen objects had been.
The absence felt loud.
Claire’s staff had already removed the mounts.
The gaps in the cases yawned like missing teeth.
“They hit us precisely where it hurt,” Claire said, bitterness sharpening her voice. “The reliquary and chalice were from Schmiedler. The necklace too. Donors loved that one. The board is already talking about closing the exhibit until further notice. I say that just tells the thieves they won.”
Isla tuned out the familiar institutional politics.
Her attention honed in on the cases.
Her thumb tingled.
She drifted toward the far end of the room.
The crown’s case.
It sat on a plinth under a glass vitrine, lit from above and below.
Gold.
Sapphires.
Delicate quatrefoils and fleur-de-lis.
It glowed.
Not just under the spotlights.
To her.
The hum in her bones swelled to a thrumming.
Her breath caught.
She stepped closer.
For a moment, it felt like she was underwater. Like the air around the case had thickened.
“Beautiful, isn’t it,” Claire said quietly, at her elbow.
“Yes,” Isla whispered.
Her hand rose, almost of its own accord, stopping inches from the glass.
Something on the other side reached.
A feeling, not a hand.
A tug.
Like the scale.
Like the sword.
Stronger.
“You okay?” Claire asked.
Isla blinked.
The pressure eased.
She exhaled shakily.
“Sorry,” she said. “It’s… overwhelming. Seeing it up close after all the catalog images.”
Claire smiled faintly.
“It has that effect,” she said. “We joke that it’s cursed. Half for publicity. Half because anyone who works with it gets… weirdly attached.”
Isla swallowed.
“I can imagine,” she said.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
She ignored it.
She couldn’t pull it out here, under Claire’s watchful eye, surrounded by cameras.
She forced herself to step back, to walk through the rest of the gallery, to ask smart, technical questions about mount design and case seals and environmental controls.
Part of her brain took notes.
The other part reached, over and over, for the low, steady hum of the crown.
She felt… watched.
Not by people.
By something else.
Something old.
“You could stay and observe tonight,” Claire said as they wrapped up. “If you want. See if anything… stirs.”
Isla’s heart thumped.
“That’s… tempting,” she said truthfully. “But I have to… report back. And help with our own inventory. Maybe… another night.”
“If there is another incident, you’ll be the first colleague I call,” Claire said grimly.
Isla forced a smile.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” she said.
She didn’t believe it.
Not anymore.
***
In the bathroom stall before she left, she finally pulled out her phone.
Three texts from Tim.
*You in?*
*Everything okay?*
*Two taps if it’s a trap.*
She huffed out a shaky laugh.
She typed quickly, fingers clumsy.
*Saw footage. Glitch like ours. Something shadowy. Not human. Crown humming like crazy. Security tight but patterns. Will explain in person.*
There was a pause.
Then: *Copy. Cael is… impatient.*
*Shocking,* she replied.
*Come straight to the coal room when you get back,* he wrote. *We need all three brains on this.*
She hesitated.
Then thumbed a quick, impulsive text to Maya.
*You were right about nonsense dick.*
Maya: *HAHA. Pics or it didn’t happen.*
Isla: *Working on it.*
***
The coal room felt smaller when three people were in it.
Four, if you counted a dragon’s presence as bigger than one human body.
Cael paced when Isla slipped inside, his movements constrained by the low ceiling. His human shape barely fit; she could *feel* the dragon under his skin straining to stretch.
Tim leaned against the wall, arms folded. Jay sat cross-legged on an overturned crate, laptop open, chewing on a pen.
“You’re back,” Cael said.
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” she said.
His gaze swept over her, searching as if for injuries.
She bristled instinctively.
“I’m fine,” she said. “No one tried to eat me.”
“Except possibly the crown,” Jay muttered.
Cael stilled.
“You felt it,” he said.
Her throat worked.
“Yes,” she said. “It… knows you. Or you know it. Or both.”
He exhaled.
The air warmed.
“Tell me,” he said.
She did.
The footage.
The glitch.
The shadow in the static.
The security details.
Claire’s haunted eyes.
The way the crown’s hum had wrapped around her ribs like fingers.
By the time she finished, the room seemed hotter.
Cael’s jaw was clenched hard enough that a muscle twitched.
“So,” Jay said, tapping on his laptop. “We’ve got a mystery glitch ghost thief. Could be a wizard. Could be some other cursed thing that woke up under the Hammond.”
“Or,” Tim said, “it’s the same magic that woke Cael. Ripples from his spell breaking.”
Cael shook his head.
“No,” he said. “My bindings were tied to this stone. To this foundation. To that cursed man’s blood. The Hammond is… another place. Another pattern.”
“Could there be more of you?” Jay asked quietly.
Isla’s breath caught.
Cael’s eyes flashed.
He shook his head once, sharply.
“I would feel them,” he said. “Dragons… know each other. Even sleeping. The others are gone.”
Silence thickened.
“Then what is it?” Isla whispered.
He looked at her.
For the first time since she’d met him, she saw… uncertainty.
“I do not know,” he said.
The admission made the room seem smaller.
Less anchored.
“Fantastic,” Jay said weakly. “A mystery entity with glitch powers and a taste for medieval bling. Love that for us.”
Tim rubbed his jaw.
“Whatever it is,” he said, “it’s after the same stuff. That makes it our problem. And Cael’s. And, by extension, the entire city’s.”
“No pressure,” Isla murmured.
Cael’s gaze flicked between them.
“These things you do,” he said slowly. “With cameras. With… shared information. With these…” He nodded at Jay’s laptop. “Machines that see what you see and talk to each other. Can you use them against this… thief?”
Jay brightened slightly.
“Can we hack the ghost?” he said. “Maybe. We can set up our own monitors. Watch the Hammond feeds if Claire lets us. Look for patterns. Overlay the glitches from here and there, see if they line up.”
“I can ask her,” Isla said. “It’s a big ask, but… we’re all in this now. She might be desperate enough to share.”
“Careful how much you tell her,” Tim cautioned. “We’re already juggling too many secrets.”
“She deserves to know something,” Isla argued. “Her people are at risk too.”
“Need to know,” he said.
She glared at him.
“I hate that phrase,” she said.
“I know,” he said softly.
It disarmed her more than any logic could have.
She sighed.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll… be vague. But if this gets worse, you’re both coming with me to explain why we didn’t loop her in sooner.”
“Deal,” Jay said quickly. “I’d pay to see Tim try to talk his way out of that one.”
“Helpful,” Tim muttered.
Cael watched this exchange with something like bemusement.
“You bicker like hatchlings,” he said.
“We bicker like people under stress,” Isla corrected.
He huffed.
“Stress,” he repeated. “You use that word for many things.”
“You are one of them,” she said.
His mouth curved.
“Good,” he said.
Her heart did a weird little flip.
She scowled.
“Back to the crown,” she said briskly. “It’s… vulnerable. Even with their security. I could see three potential blind spots in their rotation. Doors. Sight lines. Case seals. If we time it right, if Claire trusts me enough to leave me alone in the gallery for even five minutes…”
“You can open the case,” Cael finished.
Her stomach swooped.
“Yes,” she said.
“And then?” Tim asked.
She looked at Cael.
He smiled slowly.
“Then,” he said, “I step through.”
“Through *what*?” Jay asked.
“The cracks,” Cael said. “The places your cameras do not see. The places your minds do not look. Walls remember. Stone remembers. If I have a strong enough tether, I can… reach.”
He tapped the sword’s hilt.
“Piece of hoard here,” he said. “Piece of hoard there. A path.”
Isla’s skin prickled.
“That sounds… dangerous,” she said.
“For whom?” he asked.
“Everyone,” she said.
He shrugged, unconcerned.
Tim pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Okay,” he said. “Break it down. Isla gets access. Opens the case. Signals us. Cael uses this… hoard-tunnel thing to get to the crown, grab it, and get out before anyone notices. We swap in a replica if we can manage it in time, but even if we can’t, the Hammond will assume their mystery thief hit them again. No one connects it to us.”
He made a face.
“I hate every part of that sentence,” he said.
“Same,” Isla said.
“Counterproposal,” Jay said. “We fake a break-in at *our* place, make it look like the same thief hit us too, so the Hammond doesn’t feel singled out and we have cover for missing objects.”
“Absolutely not,” Isla and Tim said together.
Jay sighed. “Worth a shot.”
Cael rolled his shoulders.
“My plan is simpler,” he said. “I go now. I take it. I come back.”
“You can’t just *go,*” Isla said. “You need me there. You said so yourself. Anchor.”
He made a face.
“I do not *need* you,” he said instinctively.
The bond between them hummed, offended.
He grimaced.
“I… require… your assistance,” he corrected, as if every word cost him.
Her lips twitched.
“Better,” she said.
Tim watched them.
“You two are giving me heartburn,” he muttered.
Jay snorted.
“Same,” he said. “But, like, in a fun way.”
“It is not fun,” Isla said.
Cael tilted his head.
“Is it not?” he asked quietly.
She bristled.
“People could get hurt,” she snapped. “These are not games.”
He sobered.
“No,” he said. “They are not.”
He stepped closer.
The small room felt even smaller.
“Curator,” he said softly. “You are… very brave. But you are also very small. Do not let your guilt kill you.”
Heat flushed her cheeks.
“I’m not guilty,” she said stiffly.
“You are guilt in human form,” he said, a hint of rough fondness in his tone.
Her heart skipped.
She hated that it did.
“Stop… reading me,” she said.
“Stop broadcasting,” he retorted.
Tim cleared his throat. Again.
“Okay,” he said. “Before this devolves into a telepathic staring contest, logistics. Isla, can you get back into the Hammond tonight?”
She chewed her lip.
“Maybe,” she said. “If I volunteer to stay and help. Frame it as solidarity. Extra eyes. Claire might say yes. She’s exhausted.”
“Do you want to?” Tim asked quietly.
No.
Yes.
Both.
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “But I think I have to.”
He nodded.
“Then we help you,” he said.
She exhaled.
“Next right move,” she murmured.
Cael frowned.
“You say that often,” he said. “What does it mean?”
She thought of Maya on the couch, wine in hand.
“It means,” she said, “when everything feels too big, I don’t try to solve all of it at once. I just pick the next thing I can do that’s not terrible. And do that.”
He considered.
“Next… right… move,” he repeated.
He looked at the sword.
At the chalice.
At her.
“Very well,” he said. “Let us make one.”
***
End of Chapter Six.
---