Angel Condemned by Mary Stanton

whether you want to confuse the two issues, sir. While I sympathize with your career difficulties over the relic—”
    “The relic,” he said. “A good man lost his life in pursuit of what you call ‘the relic.’ My wife lost any hope of a comfortable old age because of what Prosper White did to us over ‘the relic.’” His face flushed dark red. He clenched one hand into a fist. “I’m going to take White down. I’ll take you and your aunt down with him, if I have to.”
    Bree didn’t like threats. She pulled herself up, concentrating on the man before her, pulling on the strength of will that made her what she was. A breeze came up from nowhere and stirred the catalogues piled at their feet. Her voice was icily level when she finally spoke. “If my aunt’s determined to marry him, what I want or don’t want doesn’t matter. You should know—you need to let your lawyers know—that I’ll defend him against anything they might try. Is that clear, sir?”
    Chambers drew back and paled. “Who are you, anyway?” Then, as if ashamed of his momentary fear, he blustered, “What is this, some kind of threat? You can’t bully me!”
    Bree felt her lips part in a smile. She’d caught a glimpse of her face once, when she was angry like this. She hadn’t liked herself much. “No threat. Just a statement of fact.”
    Chambers shoved his office chair as far away from her as he could get without standing up and running away. He hunched his shoulders and crossed his arms across his chest as if he were cold. “My wife says . . .”
    Bree waited.
    “My wife says the thing’s cursed.”
    “The Cross?”
    He nodded, mute.
    “You’re a scientist, Professor. I didn’t think scientists believed in curses.”
    “Haven’t had a day’s luck since I found it again.”
    “Again?”
    “Long story.” He rubbed his hand over his face. “Bad story. Want to see the artifact that caused it all?”
    “The Cross of Justinian?”
    “Prosper would say the purported Cross of Justinian.” He bent sideways and pulled open the lower desk drawer. He scrabbled around in its depths and then emerged with a small wooden box. He tossed it to her. Bree caught the box in midair. “Go ahead. Open it up. I . . .” The door chime rang, and he leaped to his feet, clearly glad for a chance to get away from her. “A customer, by gum! Here’s a rare chance! Take a look at the piece of crap that started it all. I’ll be right back.”
    The box didn’t weigh very much. Bree hefted it in her hand. It was made of pine, with a cheap brass latch. She flipped the lid open with her thumb and took out the small jeweled cross and held it up.
    White had described it perfectly, although the cedar base was so heavily inlaid that her first impression was that it was solid silver. The work wasn’t refined, at least not to twenty-first-century eyes, but it was very beautiful. Semiprecious stones were inset with great care into the metal. The green must be jasper, and there were tiny bits of coral and lapis lazuli. Bree held it up . . .
    And a wisp of dark shadow rose from its center.
    Bree closed her fist. The Cross was warm, almost hot, in the palm of her hand. Her clients came to her through objects that had been near them when they died. She didn’t want another client. Not now. Not this case, with her mother’s cherished sister at the heart of it.
    The dark light seeped through her fingers and coiled around her wrist with a touch that was almost loving. Bree closed her eyes. She didn’t have to take every case that came along, did she?
    “It’s not a customer; it’s a damn dog!” Allard Chambers shouted from the front of the store. “Ha!”
    The shadow was an absence of light. A shape of nothingness. It crawled up her forearm and then rose in a slender pillar, taking shape in front of her eyes.
    “Whoops! Heads up!” Chambers shouted. “It’s headed your way.”
    Bree put the Cross back into the box, slid the cover shut and put it