Theater of Curses: Sleuths of Shadow Salon, #2

By Catherine Stine

Shadow Salon detectives Luna and Celestine take on their second case, when Tim Calhoun insists his Conservatory of Theater Arts has been cursed, and the police have come up dry. He claims a red specter is terrorizing him, upturning his library of historic plays, setting fires in the theater, even brutalizing him. Tim is desperate to solve this terrifying mystery before Hollywood directors and agents flock to Savannah to watch his students perform and sign them.

 

The 1811 anonymous play is The Romance of the Recording Angels. Hazardous incidents follow rehearsals. Luna interviews students, inspects dorms and the library, where she unearths a copy of the play with strange red notations. She hires Arthur Dodge, a necro-visionary to find out who drew them. The shocking entity he resurrects reveals that three aerial realms must be unlocked to end an actual curse. But as time runs out, where the realms are, what must be done in them and just why the curse was inflicted remains a mystery.

 

To uncover clues, Luna uses her water magic and flight skills, while resisting her growing attraction to client, Tim. Celestine shares tips from her automatic drawings. As time runs out, Luna must try anything: Dodge's visionary tea, Hoodoo Root Worker, Selka Dupree's spell jars, and farmer Crow Dao's lessons in realm jumping. If Luna fails to reach the realms, people will perish, the conservatory will be shuttered, and the curse will spread.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Konjur Road Press
• Release date: Apr 8, 2024
• ISBN: 9781733390194

Catherine Stine

Catherine Stine is a USA Today bestselling author of historical fantasy, sci-fi thrillers, paranormal romance and YA fiction. Her novels have earned Indie Notable awards and New York Public Library Best Books for Teens. She lives in Manhattan and loves spending time with her beagle, writing about witches and other fabulous characters, gardening on her deck, and meeting readers at book fests. Find out more at catherinestine.com

Book preview

Chapter

One

"M s. Luna Finley, meet Nora Fields, the lead actress in our forthcoming Romance of the Recording Angels play. Mr. Calhoun, wide-eyed and with a faint bruise on his left cheek, quickly introduced them in the school’s foyer. Come to my office when you are done. Nora will show you the way." With that, he turned on his heels and scurried away. Luna’s belly did an uneasy flip at his hasty retreat.

So, you’ve had disturbing incidents in the dorms? Luna asked Nora.

Nora, a finely boned brunette with tawny skin and compelling black eyes, nodded. Costumes were damaged, scripts had pages torn out, and nonsensical red graffiti suddenly appeared in the cafeteria. Everyone denied painting it. I’ll show you. Nora’s strappy yellow sundress rustled as she led Luna through the conservatory halls. She waved on a couple of her classmates—Bonnie, a long-legged blonde woman, and Fisk, a husky freckled guy—to join them.

Luna wasn’t all that much older than Nora and her classmates—maybe all of six or seven years—and a wave of nostalgia for her own youth hit her. Her world had grown darker and more complex since the murder of her parents by a crazed follower, and her stressful escape from her coastal home up north to save herself. She related to these young actors, whose sense of peace had already been shattered.

First, the group went into Bonnie’s dorm, where she showed Luna her torn costume, a full-skirted mint-green tulle gown. When I went to bed one night, I hung it in the closet, and it was fine. Woke up the next morning and it was ripped to shreds. Her face reddened. Clearly, Bonnie had treasured this dress and felt violated.

Luna took a moment before she photographed it for evidence to deeply sense it for dark elemental magic. Easier done if she could touch the fabric, but that would put other energies and fingerprints on it. The tulle didn’t contain even weak traces of air, water, or earth magic. Confusing, but there were supernaturals that wielded magic by other means, such as demons. She backed away.

What? Bonnie asked nervously.

Did you hear anyone come into your room that night?

Bonnie shook her head. Nope, and I’m a very light sleeper. I would have woken up from a ripping sound. She shrugged. It’s like bad juju magic.

Luna shuddered. That could be exactly what this was. But until she had many more answers, she was not going to traumatize this frightened woman further. Can you lock your closet? If so, I’d start locking it, just to be certain no one’s sneaking in here.

I can do that.

They walked to Fisk’s room next, where he pointed to a mess of torn papers. I haven’t touched this script since it happened. I figured that would be tampering with evidence. He let out a low groan.

Luna photographed and dusted it for fingerprints with a DIY kit her PI partner, Celestine LeBlanc, had given her. As Luna leaned over, she tried to sense the entity. Again, no clear elemental magic, though she did get hit with an incoming rush of jealous rage. She’d have to ponder this because intense emotions were palpable energies but not magic. Was this coming from an outside supernatural force or a disgruntled student? She stuck the test set carefully back in her pack.

Is there any student who hates the play? She studied Fisk’s brown eyes for any subtle shift in emotion. Anyone who didn’t get the part they wanted? Has a grudge about who got what part?

Fisk rubbed his broad chin. Luna could see him playing Falstaff or the congenial burly sidekick in an action movie. She shook off the distraction as Fisk went on. None of us gets every part we want. But the drama teacher, Ms. Charlotte, and Headmaster Calhoun have both drilled into us that if we want to seriously pursue this career, we better get over ourselves! We got the memo.

The three classmates laughed.

Yeah, I mean, Paula was hoping to get Nora’s part as the lead, Bonnie said. But she would never, ever rip a costume. We all know how hard Ms. Charlotte works in wardrobe to put them together. Bonnie smoothed down her tank top. Plus, Paula got a solid part as one of the recording angels.

Luna made a mental note to question Paula. She didn’t detect guilt or secrecy from these students, though she’d keep her senses on high alert.

The recording angels act in the play itself? Luna asked.

Yes, they function as a chorus of narrators, like in old Greek plays, Nora explained.

I’ll have to ask Tim for a script to get up to speed, Luna said.

Smart idea. It would take a while for us to explain, Fisk said.

It’s a romance that goes off the rails, Nora countered. A couple of major betrayals and a murder. Pretty intense. She grimaced. I guess even back in the 1800s there was lots of hideous behavior and domestic violence.

Bonnie raised her brows. It’s fiction, though.

But is it? Does any author write completely made-up stories and characters from scratch? Luna should interview a professional author as part of the investigation. They moved on to the cafeteria. She gaped, staring at the agitated, bloodlike strokes forming five unintelligible pictograms scrawled across one wall. The offensive marks contrasted starkly with the elegant ambiance of this landmark structure from the 1700s with its delicate wooden casings around each long window that looked out to bright rose gardens. Luna scraped off a paint chip and held it up to her face. Again, no magic, but a sort of Screw You emotion wafted up. Luna put it in a clean plastic baggie. She took a barrage of photos.

I’ll update you all when I can, she promised them. And text me if there are any more upsetting occurrences. They agreed. Here’s my contact number. She jotted it down and handed it to Nora and wondered momentarily if she should okay this with Tim first. But what if some calamity should befall him and the students needed to take charge? They should have a way to reach her. Another sickening clench in her gut that was becoming the norm. She’d better get used to it. Effing PI work.

Nora walked Luna to the foyer. The two women paused, and Luna got up the nerve to ask Nora a more pointed question. Does this malicious activity scare you off? Tempt you to take a break from school or…

Nora’s brow set itself in a serious, stubborn stare. Ms. Finley, I was brought up in the forests near the great swamp, with parents who loved us but couldn’t give us much. My mother, of Creek descent, is a nurse, my dad, a short order cook at a fish fry restaurant. This conservatory is almost impossible to get into. It’s like Julliard up north. Hundreds are turned away after auditioning. I was amazed and grateful to be awarded a fellowship. Once you learn to act here, you can get a job anywhere—in London, on Broadway, in Hollywood… She shook her head, her black eyes gleaming. So, no. Nothing would scare me off.

Good to know. I promise to work hard on solving this mystery and keeping you all safe in the process. Luna smiled at Nora, and the two bonded in an unspoken ferocity of purpose.

Oh, I don’t want to forget. Nora pointed up the main staircase. "Mr. Calhoun’s office is on the second floor, first door to the left. The plaque says Headmaster."

A humble man. He’s the owner of the conservatory, not just the headmaster, not just one of the drama coaches, Luna thought as she climbed the stairs. She gave the door a light knock.

The clip of Mr. Calhoun’s boots grew louder, and the door swung open. Ah, come in, Ms. Finley. Have a seat. He walked with confidence, like a man used to being in charge, and his broad shoulders and muscled hands gave a sense of strength and agency. He had a neatly trimmed goatee and his dark red hair was long enough for the waves to play around his pressed caramel-hued collar. He ushered her to a cushy antique tall-backed velvet seat facing him. His hazel eyes, studying her, were soft, wise, and a tad world weary. She imagined him without his glasses as a Clark Kent turned sexy Superman, in part because his handsome build was evident even under his tweedy jacket.

Pegging him to be around forty-five, she wondered if he was single, married, or divorced. She guessed he was too wedded to the job to be married. He emanated an awareness of his sexual charisma in the way he ran a finger along his full lower lip and set his boots apart while leaning forward. Yet this cocky vibe was mixed with an air of unhealed trauma, so probably divorced. Odd that the bruise on his left cheek was worse than before. She detected no elemental magic in him either. Thoroughly human.

How did you find Nora and the others to be? he asked.

They described scary incidents, but they’re unflappable, especially Nora. What’s your take on it, Mr. Calhoun?

Call me Tim. He grinned, which coaxed out a pair of charming dimples. Fiddling with a pen, a chunky ring with an etched design gleamed on his right hand—not the wedding one. The damage is escalating. I nearly suffocated in my office from a sudden blast of red, foul-scented fog. His grin faded. It seems to be connected to the play they’re rehearsing, though it’s also affecting other things. I take it they showed you the graffiti on the lunchroom wall?

Yes. Call me Luna, by the way. She asked him what the red mist smelled like, and he explained that it reeked of operating-room chemicals. That it didn’t come from the window but swirled in from nowhere. She got out her phone and typed in notes: A doctor’s ghost? A red apparition related to blood or what? "Tell me about The Romance of the Recording Angels."

What exactly do you want to know about it? He sounded defensive.

Everything. Where you got it. When it was written, who wrote it, how many times it has been performed, and how well-known it is. I should take a copy to read, by the way. Understand the themes, the plot. Most importantly… She leveled her gaze on him. Why now? Why persist in this performance if it is attracting bad… energy?

He put the pen down and shifted position. I discovered the first copy in a used and rare hole-in-the-wall bookstore down by the Okefenokee Swamp about seven years ago. I’m always scouting for obscure, overlooked, historically significant plays—it’s my passion. So when I saw this script from 1811 with a title and author I’d never heard of, I got excited. He let out a low chortle. "I mean, The Recording Angels is off the grid. Never been performed. No reviews, in zero articles, in zero listings whatsoever. Nothing on its author L. Tell either, as if the playwright never existed. I just kept on researching. Decided to find at least something before I had the students perform it. He made an impatient face. I got tired of waiting."

Have you encountered this phenomenon before?

Tim solemnly held her gaze. No. Never. He spoke after a weighted silence. More than its obscurity, I swear it’s cursed. I’m obsessed with the need to break the spell.

Why do you think it’s cursed?

A gut feeling.

Her gut was churning from a creepy vibe, too. Though supes needed hard evidence as much as mundane detectives. You couldn’t banish a spirit on a whim.

And why exactly are you obsessed with breaking this perceived spell?

Justice. Absolution. His hazel eyes heated to molten embers as they stared at her. I was married once. My wife was a physician. One of her patients, a practitioner of black magic, claimed it was her fault his health had rapidly declined. He said he put a curse on her. That very afternoon, I was with her when she drove home from work. There was an ungodly explosion, and then the car caught on fire. A flying metal object pierced my liver. My wife was crushed between the steering wheel and the seat. She died instantly.

Oh no! Luna’s breath caught in her throat. I’m so sorry to hear about your wife, the accident.

Thanks. His jaw stiffened, and he gritted his teeth as if he had more to say before his tension could ease. "The fumes that blew in with the red dust, they… Well, they sent me back to the day I lost my wife, to my own tissue sepsis and emergency surgery. The reek of surgical disinfectant, formaldehyde, blood—I don’t know exactly, but it’s as if this damned Red Specter knows what haunts me the most, what will drive me to madness. Perhaps the specter was a doctor at some point, if this red ghoul is related to the Recording Angels play in any way." Tim frowned and raked a hand through his hair.

So, a character in the play is a doctor?

Yes, the male lead is a murderous doctor, who stabs his lover in Act Three.

She waited to see if he was finished. He wasn’t. I know, it sounds selfish. Crazy, Tim muttered. But there’s something else. He rose and pulled a script from his bookshelf. Walked it over to her and lightly brushed off its faded cover. He opened it to the title page and pointed to an inscription in a Victorian cursive font and read it out loud. To whomever first performs this play: your lives will be utterly, magically transformed. Tim looked down at her with hopeful, gleaming eyes.

So, a curse but also a magic gift of renewal, she murmured.

He whispered, Yes. Justice for the curse on my wife. And a wish that absolution from my tortured life might be possible.

Luna was hooked.

She impulsively reached up and put her pointer finger an inch from his bruise. If you don’t mind me asking, where did you get the bruise from, and why is it worse than a half hour ago?

His hand snapped up to where hers been a moment ago, and he rubbed his jaw. I got hit. Yeah. I don’t know by who. His tone was shaky, not dissuaded. I put theatrical makeup on it. It must’ve worn off a bit. Is it that obvious?

She nodded.

If this ass of a ghoul just focuses on brutalizing me and not my students, I’m okay with being its whipping post, he hissed.

But what if you get seriously maimed? Killed? Luna asked. And what if this… entity isn’t satisfied only hurting you?

Tim sighed. He tugged at his goatee. I guess that’s where I’m counting on you to stop this hell before anyone, including you, gets harmed. The cops were useless. They found nothing. When I said it might be the work of a supernatural entity, they laughed. Told me to call in the Ghostbusters. He groaned.

Even in Savannah, the home of ghost tours and famous cemeteries, cops are trained not to believe in curses and dark magic. Or at least, they’ll never admit it, she said, and they laughed. My PI partner, Celestine, worked with one guy over at the precinct who grudgingly admitted there might be energies beyond science. If we have to approach them for anything, Detective Wade is our guy. She straightened her blue jacket and smoothed back strands of honey-hued hair. Look, lend me a copy of the play and I’ll read it, try to find clues. And I’ll let you know how the tests come out.

Appreciate it. He took another copy from his bookshelf and handed it to her. Let me know any and every kind of clue you see in it, okay?

Promise. And try not to let that invisible ghoul beat on you. This time she noticed him gingerly touching the back of his head. God, had the entity also hammered his skull or what?

I’ll do my best, he said, walking her to the door. Take care of yourself. And thanks, Ms. Finley.

Luna, she reminded him.

Right. She felt Tim’s troubled eyes settle on her back as she walked down the darkening school stairs and out the door. She pictured the students—luminous Nora, husky Fisk and lithe Bonnie—and sent them all a burst of protective energy. The school would need it. She hated to acknowledge it, but she also sensed the specter’s malicious energy tracking her. Through her twist of fear, she flung it sharp warning spears to back the hell off.

Chapter

Two

Luna breathed in the nutty aroma of fresh-brewed coffee and stretched, gazing out the picture windows of her studio on West Alice Street. The place was small, but a sanctuary for her sea-glass sculptures. Her first gallery show at Shadow Salon had been a success. Amazingly, she had sold every single sculpture, which would cover her rent for the next six months. She was hard at work crafting a new one. Even more important than bringing in money, the ever-moving sparkles and colorful reflections of the mountainous sea-glass sculptures helped keep Luna hopeful, grounded, and raised momentum for her magic and meditations.

Shadow Salon was also a cover for her PI work with partner Celestine LeBlanc, a witch, wolf shifter, and artist intuitive who whipped up badass earth magic. Luna had helped Celestine solve the first PI case against a clan of evil pirate mages that built a water monster to destroy Savannah in revenge for being trapped in a magical teapot for more than thirty-six years. Real supe cases were stranger than the most twisted thrillers.

And now Luna was the lead investigator, with Celestine as backup. On this first big job, Luna so wanted to deliver. She had already made tons of inquiries based on her visit to the conservatory, including sending out interview questions to a willing local author for info on how much people pulled from real life for their fiction and how common it was to use pseudonyms.

Luna made her bed and dressed in flowy blue harem pants, a white tank with allowances for her wings, shell earrings, and blue sea-glass bangles wending up her tanned arms. She let her wings go unfettered in the studio, though when outside, she often tucked them into a sheath under a loose shirt to conceal them. She was pouring her second cup when her phone rang.

Thanks for getting back to me, she said to Cary Sands, the author.

My pleasure. So, to answer some of your questions, I do use elements of my life in my fiction, though they’re mixed with made-up stuff and woven into various characters. So, yes, authors I know use concerns, fascinations, obsessions from their real lives.

Obsessions. Like dotting an I, Luna repeated the word Tim had also used. She put the phone on speaker so she could jot down notes. What about pseudonyms? What would the various reasons to use one be?

Cary whistled. Oh, everything under the sun! If you write in multiple genres or want to make it ambiguous as to whether you’re a man or woman. If you have a serious need to conceal your real identity.

Something sparked in Luna. Like if you literally need to hide?

It took a beat for Cary to reply. Sure. In the case of an exposé.

Luna was compelled to write obsessions and exposé in all caps.

Anything else? Cary asked, as if she had more important business to take care of.

One more thing… have you ever heard of an author called L. Tell?

No. A contemporary writer?

Sorry, no, from 1811.

Wow, it’s still a no. Could be either a male or female. Maybe a desire to conceal the gender? Good luck with your investigation.

Luna barely had time to say thanks before her phone blew up with messages.

There was a curious result from the dusting of the torn play. Negative for fingerprints other than Fisk’s and Tim’s. The next email reported that the paint scraping turned out to be regular house paint. Again, no DNA from a human. She would ask Tim if he had red house paint stored in the school basement.

A text from Nora made Luna shiver all the way from her brain to her wingtips: Luna! The red graffiti on the cafeteria wall is gone! No trace. WTF!!!

Does Mr. Calhoun know?

Yes. I’m sure he’ll be in touch asap!

So, the specter or whatever the crap this thing was, liked to play taunting head games? Just having nasty fun? Luna decided to head over to Shadow Salon to confer with her PI partner.

The gallery was closed, so Luna let herself in with her key. Celestine was there, hanging work with her feisty purple-haired assistant Aline. Southern blues were on blast. The pieces were mirrors with intricate silver patterns etched on them that let parts of the mirror peek through.

Scryer mirrors, Celestine explained.

Luna put down her pack and removed her vest, shaking her wings free. Huh?

"The scryer sees through the mirror into the future and reports back to this earthly plane. But since art is in the eye of the beholder,