Ivy Wolfe Janice Griffith |work| May 2026

Ivy, sleek in emerald velvet with a razor-sharp bob, smirked. “You never like any of them, Griffith. That’s why I bring you.”

Forty minutes later, Ivy circled back through the sewers. She found Janice sitting on a crate, pendant still around her neck, shadows milling confusedly ten feet away like dogs who’d lost a scent.

The moment her fingers touched the jade, the lights went red. Sirens. But not museum sirens—something deeper, like a building groaning in its sleep. ivy wolfe janice griffith

“Curses are just marketing for ghosts,” Ivy replied, slicing the glass with a diamond-tipped stylus.

“Ivy…” Janice pointed.

“If it’s cursed, it follows the holder.” Janice slipped the chain over her own head. The shadows above them paused. Turned. Slithered toward her instead.

The museum’s security was a joke. The real obstacle was the other attendees: billionaires in masks, dripping with real diamonds and fake smiles. Ivy worked the room, charming a tech CEO out of his keycard. Janice disabled the west wing’s pressure sensors by spilling champagne “accidentally” on the control panel. Ivy, sleek in emerald velvet with a razor-sharp bob, smirked

“You’re alive,” Ivy breathed.