Pandora's Key

by Nancy Richardson Fischer

  Evangeline collided into bodies. Hands grasped at her down sweater, hair, shoulders, and they held on tight. A soft cloth was pressed over her nose and mouth. She tried to twist free…it smelled…smelled like…she frantically shook her head back and forth…it smelled like grass and…chemicals…and…and…and then the world went black.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Melia and Tristin were making out in the backseat of the black Lexus he’d borrowed from his mother. His hands slid under her sweater, but she pushed them away.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Melia snorted. “Evangeline is going through a world of pain. I’m her best friend and I should be with her. I can’t believe she ditched us at the hospital.”

  “She’s probably off somewhere with Raphe,” Tristin said, kissing her neck. Melia squirmed away.

  “Did you see what she looked like this morning?”

  “Yeah, totally hot,” Tristin said.

  “Wait, what?”

  “I meant, totally messed up.”

  “You think she’s hotter than me now, don’t you?”

  Tristin took Melia’s hand. Half-heartedly, she tried to pull it away, but he held firm and spun the silver bracelet he’d given her. The ruby winked in the weak light. “Evangeline isn’t my type. You are.”

  “Bullcrap. She’s totally gorgeous and it happened practically overnight,” Melia said, frowning. “I had no idea that was going to happen.”

  “Seriously, Melia, she’s not my type. Don’t you get it? I love you.”

  “You’re just saying that because—”

  “Because you’re super smart, pretty, fun, and—”

  Melia leaned in and kissed him, her tongue twirling inside his mouth.

  “Wait,” Tristin said, pulling back. “I need to tell you something.”

  “What is it?”

  “Do you really love me?”

  “Yes,” Melia said. “You know I do.”

  “Even if I tell you something that’s bad?”

  “Try me.”

  “There’s something wrong,” he began, his voice faltering, and then he pressed on, “and I need your help…”

  When Tristin had finished telling Melia his story, she hugged him tightly. “Everyone has their secrets,” she began, “even me…”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Evangeline opened her eyes. She lay curled in the center of a wrought-iron bed covered by a purple quilt, her head resting on a soft down pillow. Where am I? The last thing she remembered was running from Raphe. Somehow Raphe was a part of what had happened to her mom. How do I know that? Her mind felt slow, fuzzy. A photograph. That was it. Raphe’s mother, Samantha, Mrs. Hopkins—they were in that photo together.

  It all came flooding back and Evangeline’s cheeks burned. The whole time she and Raphe had been breaking into the building, searching for Sam, finding her apartment, looking at all those portraits, Raphe had been acting. He was part of Sam’s cult and he’d led Evangeline into a trap. She’d been so stupid to think that he was a friend—more than a friend. And she’d told him things she hadn’t even shared with Melia. Raphe said I was beautiful and I believed him. I am such a pathetic cliche. And everything that had happened with the paintings had to have been an illusion perpetrated by Raphe, his mother, Samantha, and God knew who else. Cleo said beware—it wasn’t real—but she’d been right.

  Pushing herself into a sitting position was hard. Her twisted ankle was swollen and throbbing. Her head felt like it was filled with lead and her vision was fuzzy around the edges. They’d held a rag to her face and forced her to breathe whatever poison it had been soaked in. They. Who were they? Evangeline hadn’t been able to see any faces. She’d just felt their hands holding her tightly as she struggled to escape. And then the lights had gone out.

  “Why?” Evangeline asked aloud. But there was no answer other than the ticking of a round Mickey Mouse clock set next to a lamp on a bedside table. I had a clock like that when I was six-years-old. Samantha bought it for me when she took me to Disneyland. Evangeline looked around the room. The walls were decorated with posters of Pink, Adele, Bonnie Raitt—her favorite musicians. On the table next to the clock was an iPod with earphones. Evangeline picked it up and scrolled through the artists—Wilco, Eminem, Fergie, Kanye West, Beyonce, Rhianna—all music she loved.

  Dragging herself to the edge of the bed, she peered at the bookshelf in the corner. Anne Rice, Jodi Picoult, Tim Powers, Joe Hill, Neil Gaiman, Stephen King. Evangeline liked reading all those authors’ books. There was also an entire shelf of DVDs from “Talladega Nights” to “28 Days Later” and “Something About Mary.” She and Melia had watched “Something about Mary” at least ten times and it still cracked them up. Evangeline felt her eyes burn and fought back a surge of emotion. Crying wouldn’t help her now. There was a flat screen TV on the far wall. Music. Books. Movies. Someone must think I’m going to be here for a long time.

  Evangeline shivered and looked down—she wore only a cotton camisole and underwear. Where are my clothes? Who took them? Who undressed me?! Evangeline’s face burned. At the foot of the bed were a neatly folded white thermal shirt, Levis and a gray sweatshirt. She yanked on the shirt and jeans, wincing as she put weight on her ankle, and then pulled on the sweatshirt.

  Evangeline noticed her mom’s beat up guitar resting in the corner of the room and her heart skipped a beat. How—why was it here? Her mom could play any song she heard on the radio—Evangeline could, too. When her mom sang, her voice was so pure that Evangeline would stop whatever she was doing to listen. Sometimes they’d harmonize, but lately Evangeline had acted like that was babyish and beneath her—she’d made herself too busy with school, Facebook, texting Melia, and all the other stuff that didn’t seem to matter anymore.

  Standing on wobbly legs, she limped over to the guitar. Gingerly, she picked it up and returned to the bed. Leaning against the headboard she began to play. It wasn’t any song in particular—just the same familiar melody in her mind that she didn’t know the words to but that was always there. Humming along with it, she felt her fingers begin to tingle. When the sensation in her hands turned to throbbing and became uncomfortable, Evangeline put the guitar down. She didn’t play often and she guessed her fingers weren’t tough enough to play for long.

  There was a window on the wall to her right and Evangeline stood up again. Strange, her ankle wasn’t hurting anymore. She pulled up the jeans and looked at it—the swelling was gone and there was only the pale-blue trace of a bruise. Stranger still, her balance was restored, her head had stopped pounding, and her vision was almost back to normal.

  She looked out the window. She was on the second floor of a house and her view was of a backyard bordered by dense forest. There was a greenhouse set against the trees, but she couldn’t see inside it because dusk was quickly sliding into darkness. She wasn’t on a residential street. That meant no one could hear her yelling for help.

  Releasing the lock on the window sash, Evangeline tried to slide the glass up, but it wouldn’t budge. The window was nailed shut. “Damn!” Grabbing the desk chair, she took a wild swing, attempting to break the glass. But the chair just bounced off the window. She let the chair clatter to the floor and went over to the bedroom door. She tugged at the knob. It was locked and a set of four bolts ran up in a line above the knob. “Oh, come on!” Grasping the chair again, she bashed it against the door over and over, but the harsh sound after each impact told her that the door that appeared to be wood was actually made of metal. Is everything a crazy illusion? Still, she kept swinging until her arms ached. How am I going to get out of here?

  Finally too exhausted to continue, Evangeline sank onto the wooden floor. Maybe there’s no way out. Ever. She started hyperventilating and made herself focus on just breathing in and out until the spots and swirls swimming in front of her eyes disappeared. She was being held prisoner. No one knew where she was. There was no one left to care. Samantha had tried to kill her mom. Raphe was s
omehow involved. Melia didn’t know where she was, and her best friend was so in love with and distracted by Tristin that she might not even notice that Evangeline was gone.

  What about Dr. Sullivan? Evangeline actually laughed aloud at the idea that her mom’s doctor gave a damn where she was. No one cares. The feeling of being totally and utterly alone washed over her like a tidal wave. Some freak had locked her in this bedroom. He knew everything about her. He might be a pervert. He might rape her and then he’d probably kill her. NO. Don’t go there or you’ll be too paralyzed by fear to help yourself if there’s a chance.

  Suddenly, there was the scraping sound of a key in a lock and then bolts being turned and released. One. Two. Three. Four. Evangeline scrambled backward along the floor until she was pressed into the far wall. Wrapping her arms around her legs, she curled into a tight ball. The door eased open…

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Malledy trudged up the steps of the townhouse. Darkness was falling, and after such a long day his bones felt like they were filled with cement—another side effect of the heavier dose of tranquilizers he was taking and the supreme effort required to act like nothing was wrong with him. He took a deep breath, feeling as usual like he couldn’t quite fill his lungs. He tried to pull together his thoughts and his plan, and then walked inside.

  “I’m home!” Malledy called, shrugging off his backpack and tossing it onto the leather sofa.

  Juliette walked out of the kitchen with a bowl of steamed broccoli and brown rice. The smell made Malledy nauseated, but he smiled at the woman who only this morning he’d thought might shoot him. She should have. She’s an Archivist and I’m about to break all the rules. And I’m a threat to Pandora. Two reasons to remove me, and both are valid. But the fact that Juliette hadn’t killed Malledy had told him everything he needed to know. Juliette still trusted him—not because that was the rational choice—because she loved him. And she was now, at least in the eyes of the Archivists, his willing accomplice. He knew what they would do if they found out. And he assumed that the deadly sect of Pandora would do that, and worse, should Juliette cross them, too. That was why he had to make sure Juliette was never found out.

  “Juliette, I need to speak to the leader of Pandora myself,” Malledy said, sinking onto a couch and trying not to smell the food his mentor set on the table beside him.

  “Non—impossible,” Juliette said.

  “I’m worried about your safety.” Malledy’s eyes filled with very real tears. “If I can convince the leader to let the girl heal me, then I won’t have to steal the box and key for leverage. Please tell her I just want the chance to make my plea.” Please don’t become a victim of my disease, too.

  What Malledy didn’t say was that only a few hours ago, the last remaining member of the team he’d organized to find the artifacts had confirmed he’d discovered Pandora’s lair—thanks to an unsuspecting Juliette. Malledy didn’t want that man to make a move until he knew where he stood with Pandora. Until then, he’d continue to play out two scenarios. In the first, Pandora would embrace him and allow the girl to heal him, unwittingly giving him the opportunity to find and acquire Pandora’s Box. In the second scenario, either Juliette, Malledy’s man or Malledy himself would find the box and steal it. He’d attain the girl’s key to open the box and if wielding the power inside didn’t cure Malledy, he’d force the girl, by whatever means necessary, to make him well.

  “Please talk to the leader again,” Malledy implored. “Tell her that I’ll pledge the rest of my life to the Sect.”

  Juliette hesitated, then nodded. “I’ll try. Will you be okay here?”

  “Yes.” Malledy watched his mentor walk toward the front door. “You know that I love you like a mother?”

  “And I love you as a son,” Juliette said with a cheerless smile. And then she was gone.

  Malledy listened to the silence left in her wake.

  “I do love you,” he whispered, feeling unbearably sad. “But there’s not enough love in the world to keep me from killing you if you stand in the way of my survival.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The smell of food made Evangeline’s mouth water. A few minutes ago, when the door to her room had swung open, a dirt-encrusted hiking boot had appeared, kicking a tray of food and a thick, leather-bound book into the room. Seconds later, the door had closed with the bolts thrown shut. Evangeline had missed her opportunity to escape—she’d been too afraid to move.

  The meal was curried chicken over brown rice—one of Evangeline’s favorites. She knew that she shouldn’t eat it, though—it was surely poisoned. Picking up the book, she climbed back onto the bed.

  The leather was buttery soft and the pages were yellowed parchment, brittle and wavy with age. There was a cord of red silk marking a page. Evangeline flipped to it. The writing was tiny and composed of swooping black letters that looked like the calligraphy on wedding invitations. Evangeline began to read:

  The Gods created the first woman, Pandora, endowing her with spellbinding traits and magical abilities, and sent her down from Mount Olympus with a golden box. Inside the box were five Furies meant to plague mankind for their crime of accepting stolen fire from Mount Olympus. But Hope was also placed inside the Box by Hera, Zeus’ queen, because the Goddess believed that without Hope mankind would lose the will to survive.

  At the last moment, Hades, God of the Underworld, gave Pandora a key fashioned out of an enchanted obsidian stone. Should Pandora realize that the box she carried contained the Furies, she could use the key to lock it. Once locked, no force of Man or Nature could open the box—only Pandora and the key.

  Pandora arrived at the home of Epimetheus and he readily accepted the first woman. However, he refused to open the gift she’d brought to him, because his brother, Prometheus, had told him never to accept a gift from the Gods. Driven by insatiable curiosity, Pandora opened the golden box herself, releasing the Furies.

  And the Gods cheered as the terrifying drama unfolded. But their elation was short-lived because the God Hermes had given Pandora the gift of cunning. When she realized what she’d done by opening the box, Pandora slammed the lid and locked it, trapping Annihilation, the fifth and most devastating Fury inside.

  Furious that the fifth Fury he’d created wasn’t released, Zeus hurled a curse down on Pandora. For the crime of trapping the fifth Fury, Pandora would violently die when she was in the prime of her life.

  The hairs on her arms rose and she shivered. She touched the key—it felt as ice-cold as she suddenly did. This is just a made-up story that some freak created to scare me. Turning the page, Evangeline read on:

  For her own amusement, the Goddess Athena added to Zeus’ curse. She decreed that it would apply to any female descendant Pandora might give birth to before her death.

  Slamming the book shut, Evangeline grabbed the key, intending to rip it off. She didn’t believe anything she’d read was true, but it still seriously freaked her out. An intense pain shot through her palm and she let go of the key, looking down in shock. Her palm was seared—burned in the shape of the key! This is totally crazy.

  Suddenly, the bolts were being turned in rapid succession. Evangeline’s head snapped up just as someone slipped through, their back to her. The bolts were thrown again and a figure turned to face her.

  “Melia!” Evangeline leapt from her bed and wrapped her arms around her best friend, holding too tight but unable to let go. “They got you, too? What do they want from us?”

  “We want you to protect the box, Evangeline,” Melia replied calmly.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Evangeline felt like the floor beneath her had fallen away. Up was down. Right was wrong. Could it be that Melia was one of them, too?

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Melia implored. “E, try to understand, okay? I was born into this, too—me and my real mom, and her mother before her. We all protect the descendants.

  “Do you hear yourself, Melia?” Evangeline asked,
bile rising in the back of her throat. “The descendants of what?”

  “Of Pandora.”

  “Oh, please! You are out of your mind!” Evangeline backed away from the girl she’d loved like a sister—the girl who was now a stranger. I am not a descendant of Pandora.

  She noticed Melia was wearing flip-flops. Indoor shoes. Shoes you leave in a house you visit often—where you’re comfortable and at home. There was a gold ring on her second right toe.

  “We all have this toe ring. It’s inscribed with the word, Pandora,” Melia said. “That’s our Sect.”

  “Our Sect? You mean a cult for you, Samantha, and Raphe—and who else?”

  Melia looked startled and confused. “What are you—just hear me out, okay? Please?”

  “Why bother? I don’t believe that a mythical box created by fictional Greek Gods ever existed, let alone Pandora and—”

  “And her descendants,” Melia finished. “But what if you’re wrong, E? What if the box did exist? What if it still does? What if a devastating fifth Fury remains inside—like you just read about? Don’t you think there are people in the world who’d want to get their hands on it?”

  “Okay, I’ll play along with your sick game. There’s a big bad Fury around and some people want it. What people?”

  “Their names don’t matter, E. They work for companies, governments, and dictators in countries that want to manipulate the world for money and power or in the name of religion.”

  “Right.” Evangeline held up the gleaming black key. “So, go ahead. Just take this key if it’s what you freaks think it is. Lock up your precious box. Just let me go!”