“Thank you. I just had it installed after Christmas. People really seem to like it.”
“So what is the voice saying?” Ryder asked.
“Sad things. So many sad things.”
That’s when I noticed the tears. No one was wailing or sobbing. But all these people were sitting here, bopping their heads, silently crying. That made the whole thing worse.
“Okay, I’m creeped out. Where’s the clapper?”
Piper tried to lift her hand, but grimaced. “If I move, I’m not going to be able to tune out the voice. Window,” she said. “Window.”
Great. The entire place was made of windows. I focused on the sills and noted there were dozens and dozens of little plastic figures, waving and wobbling. Flowers, cats, horses, people set on stands with little solar panels at the bottom, all of them rocking and swinging.
These little toys had been popular several years ago, and yes, they were cute. But too many cute things all collected together was how people got eaten in horror movies.
I took a careful step forward. Ryder’s hand landed on my arm. “I don’t like you going in there alone. I can hear it now. Can’t you hear the voice?”
I turned. My man was pale, his eyes wide. Tears tracked down his face. I could tell he was torn about staying behind or going forward with me.
Ryder was human. He had been claimed by a god and that had changed him in some ways, but mostly, he was human.
Because I came from a family line blessed by all the deities who had made this town, I was a lot more tolerant of magic. It wasn’t that I was unaffected by magic, but usually it didn’t hit me as hard as it hit other mortals.
“It’s okay,” I said. “You stay here.”
“But.” He sucked in a shaky breath, and the tears poured harder, making his eyes red. “How are you going to stop it?”
“Box,” Piper said. “Counter.”
If the demigod was struggling to keep the voice at bay, I knew the time I had to find the cursed clapper and stuff it back into the box—if I could find the box—was short.
“Well, isn’t this great?” Crow strolled up behind Ryder. “Move aside, Bailey.”
“Can’t,” Ryder sniffed.
“It’s some kind of sadness spell,” I said. “They hear a voice.”
Crow cocked his head, the feather in his ear flipping in the wind.
“Okay, yeah. I can hear it. Distantly. Where’s the little monkey?”
“It’s a monkey? Okay, I’ll find it,” I told him. “You find the box behind the counter.”
Crow ducked under Ryder’s arm and squeezed past him through the door.
I strode into the room, missing Ryder’s hand on my arm as soon as I was out of reach.
The music had switched to something upbeat and cute about wearing colors for someone’s return, but the song sounded strange.
Like there was another song playing.
Or like there was another voice singing right over the top of the melody line.
Great. I could hear the little bastard’s voice. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst of it was the words were in a language I had never heard before.
And everything about those words—the tone, the rhythm, the delivery—was undeniably, crushingly sad.
This was nothing like hearing god powers. The sound of the curse was like fingernails scrabbling down the inside of my brain.
