Free The Skeleton Key by Tara Moss Page A

thought I’d best shut it. My satchel was at my feet and I pulled it out and fished around for the bagel I’d packed. Morticia pulled a chair over from one of the empty desks and we sat side by side, eating our lunches.
    â€˜I’m really sorry it didn’t go well,’ she said between mouthfuls, genuinely trying to be helpful.
    â€˜It’s fine. I’m going to cover this thing on Saturday night for our social page. Do you know anything about it?’ I said, hitting on the perfect topic to change the subject.
    Who needed to talk about boys, anyway? Boys from the Civil War, who made you feel like you were floating when you kissed . . .
    â€˜Oh!’ Morticia exclaimed suddenly, taking me by surprise. She sat up straight and put her sandwich down. ‘So you did score an invite!’ Her eyes were huge, more huge than usual. This thing was obviously a bigger deal than I’d realised. I hadn’t given it a whole lot of thought, with everything else going on. ‘I thought I heard her mention it to you but I was trying not to eavesdrop.’
    I doubted Morticia had tried very hard not to hear.
    â€˜Well, I wouldn’t call it an invite,’ I said. ‘I mean, Pepper just wants me to take photos.’
    â€˜That is so cool ,’ she declared, waving her hands around a little crazily. ‘All the famous people will be there!’
    â€˜Really?’ That seemed unlikely, technically speaking. Unless the venue was very large indeed.
    â€˜It’s an annual thing,’ she went on excitedly. ‘I’ve always wanted to go.’
    And I’d never even heard of it. Maybe you can go and take the photos , I nearly said, but I held my tongue. I was hardly in a position to reassign my duties.

    I arrived home to Spektor after my day at Pandora , just as the final colours of a purple sunset faded to starry black. My boss Skye DeVille had not shown up all day (again) and, as promised, Pepper had given me her camera along with the address for the party on Saturday, plus a list of names of people to photograph and a media pass to get me in. The list included some pretty famous designers and actors, and the idea of meeting them, even just to photograph, gave me something to look forward to. It seemed possible that Morticia was right about it being an exciting event.
    It wasn’t quite enough to take my mind off Lieutenant Luke’s MIA status, but it was something.
    The walk through Central Park that evening was uneventful and the streets of Spektor looked as uninhabited as a ghost town as I passed Harold’s Grocer and arrived at the front door of the mansion unmolested by my fanged neighbours. Yet when I put my key in the lock I immediately sensed that something was different. I couldn’t say what it was or how I knew, but I was learning to trust my instincts, and my instincts told me something was up.
    My stomach went cold.
    Someone is here.
    Or something?
    Visibility was poor, the street particularly foggy. I looked both ways and pulled some rice from one pocket before I turned the key, unlocking the heavy door, worried some Sanguine supermodel might ambush me. The lobby was in absolute darkness, lights off. No sounds. No one lunging at me. Quickly, I flicked the switch and the big chandelier came on.
    â€˜Oh!’ I cried and covered my mouth.
    A woman hung from the chandelier.
    She was dressed from head to toe in black, her long widow’s veil cinched tight at the neck by a knotted rope, looped around the light fixture. Her black crepe veil was bunched up tightly across her face, showing the shape of a nose and the hollow of an open, screaming mouth. For one horrible instant I thought it might be my great-aunt Celia, as she was the only woman I’d ever seen wear a black veil. But the clothing was wrong. The figure hung from the chandelier in a dull, ankle-length black dress with long sleeves and a tight-laced bodice, the skirt made full