Spirit and Dust - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,45
the Oosterhouse Jackal.”
The woman’s frown seemed genuine. “I’ve never heard of any pieces called that.”
“Any jackals you can think of?” asked Carson, with a hint of that devilish grin.
She smiled back like she couldn’t help it. I rolled my eyes for the same reason. “Down that hall and to the right is the Egyptian gallery,” she said, pointing to a pair of double doors leading off the foyer. “I’m sure there are plenty of jackals represented there.”
“Thanks,” said Carson. “One more question.” He took out his phone and pulled up a picture of Alexis. “This is the girl we’re trying to beat to the prize. Has she been in here recently?”
The lady looked carefully at the photo, then shook her head. “I’ve never seen her. But I only work here on Thursdays.”
Carson thanked her again, and she waved us on, wishing us luck.
I’d already started down the hall, drawn by the ginormous carving at the end of the gallery. It covered most of the wall—a winged bull with a man’s head. Assyrian, maybe? The distinction was probably important to someone who knew it.
There were no individual shades or remnants that I could sense. But the carefully curated artifacts saturated the air with history, bearing ancient witness to births and deaths and dynasties. My head was full of snatches of sound and color—Iron Age forges and sun-saturated desert.
“Hey, Sunshine.” A hand waved in front of my eyes. “Twenty-first century calling.”
I blinked myself back to the world as it was—high ceilings and climate-controlled cabinets and an almighty crick in my neck from staring up at a seventeen-foot-tall statue of a pharaoh. I looked around, surprised to find that I’d gone from ancient Iran to ancient Egypt without noticing.
“Boy,” said Carson. “You were not kidding about museums being tricky.”
“I warned you,” I told him, like it was his fault I’d gotten lost in time. Narrowing my focus, I circled the gallery and gingerly poked around with my extra senses, checking the room for any psychic hot spots. “Do you see anything … jackal-y?”
“You tell me.”
I didn’t understand what he meant until I looked with my eyes instead of my Sight, going from one limestone-encased cabinet to another, scanning the artifacts on display.
“Wow. There are a shit-ton of jackals in Egyptian art.”
“Hardly surprising,” said a stranger’s voice. I whirled. Carson turned calmly, as if he’d seen the guy approaching. The young man went on, “The jackal-headed, or sometimes dog-headed, god Anubis played a vital role in funeral rituals and afterlife beliefs.”
He seemed nonthreatening, speaking with a sort of friendly condescension, as if he couldn’t quite help himself. He looked way too young to be wearing a tweed blazer with patches on the elbows. Whatever look he’d been aiming for, all he hit was nerdy.
“Do you work here?” Carson asked. Silly question—dressed like that, where else would the guy work?
“I’m in the graduate program. Sarah—the volunteer at the front desk—told me you’re looking for something called … What was it?”
“The Oosterhouse Jackal.” I watched him for a reaction to the name. “We’re supposed to sketch it for art class.”
“I don’t know about a jackal,” he said, without any artifice that I could tell. “But there was a Professor Oosterhouse here during the nineteen twenties and thirties. Could that be related?”
“Maybe,” I said, a lot more “Here’s hoping” than “Eureka.”
He gestured to the exit. “Let’s go up to the research library and see if there’s any information in the archives.”
Carson didn’t move right away, but this seemed like an excellent plan, so when Elbow Patches led the way out of the gallery, I followed him and Carson followed me.
“I don’t trust him,” he murmured, when Elbows was far enough ahead not to hear. “Why is he being so helpful?”
“It’s a research institute,” I whispered back. “This place exists to help people find stuff out.”
Carson stared at the back of Elbow Patches’ head like he could see into his skull. “He was looking at you funny.”
“People always look at me funny.”
He made a noncommittal sound. I let him stay on his guard. One of us should be wary, I figured, even of a nerd with a slightly rabbity smile.
We went up a flight of stairs and down a hallway lined with office doors, finally reaching the reading room of the archives. Elbows opened the door for me and I had to hold back a squeal of delight. It looked like something out of Hogwarts.
There were rows of tables, shelves along the walls and more toward the end