The Morrison Gallery occupied a corner of SoHo that had probably been artist lofts before money discovered the neighborhood.
I'd done my research. William Morrison—the owner—provided invitations to exclusive auctions for clients who demonstrated serious purchasing intent. He catered to new collectors seeking entry into rarefied circles, taking a commission on introductions that connected old money with new obsessions.
Sebastian Morrow arrived at two in the afternoon, dressed in clothes that suggested wealth without screaming it.
"Mr. Morrow." Morrison emerged from a back office with the practiced hospitality of someone who assessed visitors' net worth within seconds of meeting them. "Your call this morning was intriguing. You mentioned an interest in pre-twentieth-century Americana?"
"Among other things." I let Sebastian's voice emerge—cultured, confident, the kind of man who'd grown up with money and never questioned its presence. "I've been building a collection over the past year. Nothing exceptional yet, but I'm looking to accelerate."
"Accelerate?"
"Find pieces with provenance. History. The kind of objects that tell stories." I moved through the gallery, examining displays that mixed genuine antiques with reproduction pieces designed to test potential clients. "Your reputation suggests you can help with that."
Morrison's assessment shifted—skepticism giving way to interest as he recognized authentic knowledge in my comments. The Civil War-era compass I identified as a reproduction (the patina was wrong). The Victorian mourning brooch I correctly dated to 1847 based on the hairwork technique. The 1920s typewriter I praised for its condition while noting the replaced keys.
"You have an eye," he admitted.
"I have patience. And resources." I turned to face him directly. "I'm told you facilitate access to markets where serious collectors operate. Private auctions. Invitation-only events. The kind of venues where interesting objects actually appear."
"I do provide introductions to certain events." Morrison's professional mask remained in place, but I could smell his interest—the particular scent of someone who sensed a commission. "For clients who demonstrate genuine commitment to collecting."
"How does one demonstrate commitment?"
"Purchase history helps." He gestured at the gallery around us. "Objects that show discernment, not just spending capacity. Anyone can write checks. Collectors understand what they're acquiring."
I'd prepared for this. Sebastian Morrow's cover required establishing purchasing credentials that would survive scrutiny. The three items I selected over the next hour served that purpose—genuine pieces with documented provenance, expensive enough to signal seriousness, distinctive enough to demonstrate taste.
The Civil War compass I'd dismissed as reproduction went back on its shelf. In its place, I chose an 1862 field officer's journal with maps drawn by hand during the Antietam campaign. Fifteen thousand dollars. Not trivial.
The Victorian mourning brooch joined my collection—a piece containing hair from Queen Victoria's own head, certified through a chain of documentation that traced back to the royal household. Eight thousand.
The typewriter stayed where it was. Instead, I selected a first edition of a grimoire that Morrison didn't realize contained actual magical formulas. The binding was damaged, the pages foxed, but the content... the System hummed with recognition when I touched it.
"Ah, the Blackwood Compendium." Morrison's smile suggested he knew more about the item than his mundane appearance implied. "A curious choice for a Americana collector."
"My interests are broader than I initially suggested." I met his eyes. "Some objects are valuable for what they are. Others for what they mean."
"And this one?"
"This one tells a story I want to understand."
Morrison processed my response. His assessment shifted again—no longer seeing a wealthy amateur, but something more complex. Someone who recognized that the supernatural existed and chose to engage with it anyway.
"The Compendium is thirty-two thousand," he said. "For the complete package—compass journal, brooch, and grimoire—I can arrange favorable terms. Fifty thousand even."
"Forty-five. Cash, if you prefer."
"Forty-seven. And I'll include something not on display." He disappeared into the back office, returning with an envelope. "An invitation to tomorrow evening's auction. For our most discerning new clients."
I examined the envelope—heavy paper, discrete embossing, no return address. The kind of invitation that couldn't be purchased directly, only earned through demonstrated worthiness.
"I understand Bela Talbot consigns items through your network," I said casually, pocketing the envelope.
"Ms. Talbot is a valued associate." Morrison's expression gave nothing away. "You're familiar with her work?"
"By reputation. I'm hoping to discuss potential business arrangements."
"She'll be at tomorrow's auction. I can facilitate an introduction if you'd like."
"That would be helpful."
The transaction completed efficiently—wire transfer arranged, items packaged for delivery to my hotel, invitation secured. Forty-seven thousand dollars for cover maintenance. The coalition's treasury would feel the loss.
But access to the artifact trade would more than compensate. Eventually.
Back at the hotel, I examined my purchases. The journal was historically significant—the maps it contained showed troop movements that historians had debated for decades. The mourning brooch was morbidly beautiful, a piece of genuine Victorian death culture preserved in silver and hair.
The grimoire, though. The grimoire was something else entirely.
[ARTIFACT ASSESSMENT: BLACKWOOD COMPENDIUM] [CLASSIFICATION: GENUINE OCCULT TEXT] [CONTENTS: SUMMONING RITUALS, BINDING FORMULAS, PROTECTION WARDS] [DANGER LEVEL: MODERATE — REQUIRES PROPER HANDLING] [NOTE: DEALER MAY NOT HAVE RECOGNIZED TRUE VALUE]
I'd found something real. Whether by accident or design, Morrison had sold me an authentic magical text for a fraction of its actual worth. The coalition could use this—study the rituals, adapt the formulas, add supernatural knowledge to our growing capabilities.
But first, tomorrow's auction. Bela Talbot. The beginning of something that could fund the Monster Nation's expansion.
I set the grimoire aside and studied the invitation again. Heavy paper. Discrete embossing. Tomorrow night.
Time to be charming.
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