Angel let loose a string of cu
rses that began in Spanish and eventually converted to English.
“That doll is more trouble than she’s worth. I’ll take this side of the museum. You take that one.”
We waded out into the exhibits, sneaking around corners in an attempt to spot her little brown ringlets or porcelain legs. When it came to the nasty of the supernatural, Roni was at the top of the list. Her full name was Veronica, but we liked to call her Roni just to piss her off.
She’d been inhabited by a demon a few years ago, after a naïve couple held a séance in their home to contact their beloved golden retriever from beyond the grave. Little did they know, their dabbling with the devil would gift their four-year-old daughter with a demon-possessed toy.
The possession started out pretty quietly. At first, the doll would move around the room when the family left home. She’d be on the bed one moment and the couch the next. But then, the behavior changed.
Late at night, Roni began to pinch and scratch the little girl, whispering nasty threats in her ears. It wasn’t until the doll’s behavior escalated to full-on levitation, and an obsession with the kitchen knife drawer, was Mr. Jones called in. Without question, he scooped her up and drove her straight to his museum, to be put on display with the rest of his freaky collection.
“Roni, come out, come out, wherever you are,” I sang.
During her six-months residence at the museum, Roni had already escaped five times. But we always caught her and put her back in her case with a new round of enchantments and spells to seal it shut. I wasn’t sure how she kept breaking the lock, but it was getting old.
“Seriously, come out, you little piece of…”
I spotted a snippet of lace near the Mayan masks on the back wall. She’d made it dangerously close to the emergency exit. Those little legs sure could move fast.
“Got you!”
I plucked her off the ground by the back of her dress. Her head turned a hundred and eighty degrees to face me, and she glared through her pair of brown glass eyes.
“Don’t give me that,” I told her. “I’m not afraid of you, and you know it.”
I resisted the urge to smash the doll on the floor, and instead sat her back in her little wooden chair. Destroying her would only release the demon to find a new host. Besides, I liked the idea of a captive audience for the museum.
Turning her head back to the front, I tucked a loose curl back into place and closed the glass case. Glued to the front was a warning to our guests. It was rumored that anyone who made Roni mad would have a horrible accident. The home of her previous owners had gone up in flames the day after Mr. Jones picked her up. So far, I was safe. Although, I wouldn’t put it past the little demon to try.
“Angel, please make sure she doesn’t escape again.” Turning around, I spotted Angel leaning on the front counter and chatting it up with Gideon.
So much for good help.
She waved a hand at me without tearing her eyes from him, clearly intent on flirting.
“What’s with Chucky’s Bride?” Gideon asked when I got closer. He grimaced at Roni in her case.
Angel rested her chin on her hand. “Well, if dolls weren’t bad enough, this one’s inhabited by a nasty little underworld demon. Not only is she super creepy, but she’s got a thing for butcher knives and blood.”
Gideon shivered and tugged at the tie around his neck. While I had to admit he looked great in the simple black three-piece suit, something about the way he moved told me he’d be far more comfortable in a shirt and jeans.
“Keep her locked up, then,” he said, turning to me. “I don’t want to be hunting down a killer doll anytime soon.”
“Yes, sir.” I saluted him with two fingers and shook my head. As if I needed him to tell me how to do my job.
At that moment, a woman entered the museum, spotted us, and made a beeline for the counter. She was around thirty years old and extremely fit. Even from here, I could see the way her white blouse hugged the muscles in her upper arm. Her long brown hair was pulled up into a sleek ponytail, and the only bit of makeup on her face was a hint of mascara. She wore a harsh expression, as if someone had spit in her cereal bowl that morning. I didn’t need to spot the gun and handcuffs strapped to her waist to figure out she was another agent.
“This is my partner, Agent Rita Silva,” Gideon said. He nodded to her in greeting. “This is Angel Rodriguez and Aya Harris.”
Agent Silva’s eyelids narrowed upon my introduction. She pursed her lips and dragged her eyes from the top of my long wavy hair to the bottom of my knock-off designer faux leather boots. From the expression on her face, it was clear she already didn’t like me. That was okay. The feeling was mutual.
“Gideon, can I speak to you over here?” she asked. Her voice was light and feminine. It didn’t sound like something that would come out of her mouth.
He followed her toward the African fertility charms. Agent Silva glanced at the exhibit for only a moment, a disgusted grimace pulling down on the sides of her wide mouth, before turning to her partner. They whispered together, pausing only once to look in my direction. Somehow, I succeeded in not sticking my tongue out at them.
“So, did you get a date set up?” I asked Angel in an attempt to distract myself.