“Spanish explorers, most likely,” Dr. Navarro said. “When the Aztecs were conquered, their temples were looted.”

Mathilda crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. “And then, of course, there was a French privateer by the name of Jean Fleury. He famously captured two Spanish galleons carrying Aztec treasure back to Spain. Most of that treasure was given to the king of France, but who can tell where all of it eventually ended up?”

Bo made a small noise and stared at Astrid with a look of amazement widening his face. He said only one word. “Pirates.”

FOURTEEN

Upon leaving Dr. Navarro and Mathilda, Bo and Astrid excitedly talked about the Pieces of Eight Society while they called for the elevator and waited for it to ascend. The more they talked about how it might fit in with the ladies’ legendary soothsayers, the more electrified Astrid got—and in no small part because she now knew ab-so-positively that her visions hadn’t been mere figments of her imagination.

Not that she had much doubt before today, but it was good to be proven right.

“Do you think the survivors are actual pirates who’ve been keeping themselves alive for hundreds of years?” she murmured to Bo. “One of the survivors was a woman. Imagine that—a female pirate. God, Bo. This is exciting. I feel like we’re gumshoes who’ve stumbled upon the case of the century. Oh! What about Mrs. Cushing? And none of this explains where the yacht disappeared to for an entire year, and—”

“Christ, slow down, Typhoon Astrid,” Bo whispered, but he wasn’t really irritated. He struggled to control a smile and his face betrayed his excitement. “Let’s think for a moment. All this talk of human sacrifice is making me nervous. If it weren’t for your visions and your . . . unhealthy aura, I’d just return the idol to Mrs. Cushing and be done with it.”

“And let her and her cronies sacrifice more helpless people in the future?”

“These people may be more dangerous than we originally thought.”

“Pfft. Max didn’t even have a weapon. What kind of pirate doesn’t carry a weapon?” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“This is serious, Astrid. There’s a chance the idol’s done permanent damage to you—not to mention that you could have died that night on the yacht.”

“But I didn’t. Velma said it might not necessarily be bad. Maybe I should just stay away from cursed turquoise and I’ll be fine.”

He shook his head with quick, deliberate movements. “Too dangerous to take that chance. I won’t risk your well-being on a ‘maybe,’” he said, ever the protector.

She tied the belt of her coat around her waist while the clack of the approaching elevator grew louder. “I’m more concerned that these people got away with murder—for God knows how many centuries.”

Bo groaned, but Astrid’s mind was turning too fast to put on brakes. Mrs. Cushing and the survivors could very well be killers, but Astrid and Bo couldn’t take their theory to the police. What would they tell the chief? I had a magically induced vision and I think six people may have drowned in the Bay, but I don’t know who they are, and it’s just my word against some high-society dame who’s probably ten times richer and a good deal less infamous than my family.

As much less infamous as centuries-old murdering pirates could be, anyway. But even if it didn’t sound utterly insane, when did Magnussons go to the police for help? Never, if they could help it.

And they’d already told everyone in the family about it, and none of them wanted any part of this. If they were going to do anything more about it, they’d be on their own. Maybe it wasn’t worth the trouble, but what if Bo was right? What if she truly were damaged from her initial contact with the idol? Velma said she couldn’t perform a counterspell without knowing the nature of the original magic. They knew at least part of it now, but they still didn’t know the origin of the idol’s strange symbol . . .

No, there was no way around it. They had to see this through. Together. She just needed to convince Bo of that.

The elevator clunked to a stop and the scissor gates opened. Astrid heaved a long exhalation and stepped inside with Bo following. It wasn’t until the gates were shut that she realized their previous friendly Jack Johnson–look-alike operator was no longer working the elevator. And it wasn’t until he pulled the lever too fast that she smelled a very familiar fruity cologne.

She glanced toward Bo and saw his eyes widen. Saw him reach inside his jacket, but his hand froze halfway through the motion . . . at the exact moment she felt something cold and sharp pressed to her throat.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” the man warned Bo. “Hands up, please. I’d rather not get blood on this suit, but I will slit her open like a fish if I have to. This knife has felled large beasts, soldiers, and thieving whores. It will easily slay a tiny woman.”

Bo complied.

Astrid didn’t move her head, just her eyes.

She saw the ornately carved ivory handle of the knife that pressed to her neck. And to her side, she saw Max’s full lips and wide-bridged nose.

“Hello, again,” he said with a dark smile that didn’t climb to the blue eyes shadowed by his fedora. He looked awful. Sickly, with a strange grayish pallor. Dark circles like day-old bruises hung beneath his eyes.

He used his free hand to pull the lever and bring the elevator to a jarring stop between the second and third floors. The movement caused a sharp sting on her throat and a warm trickle below the knife’s blade.