Pandora's Box

9. Dust and Darkness

Outside of the museum, my Sense comes rushing back as if someone had flipped my magic psychic power switch. The initial burst of emotional static from people milling around on the street is overwhelming at first but quickly settles to a dull buzz that I find comforting after the complete silence of the museum. The comforting feeling doesn't last long.

Darkness builds on the horizon as a new storm gathers, creeping toward the city. Amidst the auras surrounding me, a familiar wickedness snaps at my Sense; I recognize it as the same deep anger that was at Whistler's the other night. Whipping around, I scan the street, hoping to discover the source. None of the people nearby look particularly menacing, however, so I lean into my Sense and allow it to direct me toward the source.

The darkness seems to come from everywhere, though. I feel it pressing on the entire street as if the sky itself were falling upon the residents of the city. I struggle to find a focal point, my body physically shaking with the exertion. No matter how hard I try or where I shift my attention to, I can't track the source to one aura. I note with surprise that almost every person I look toward - from the two men leaning against the light post beneath the stairs, taking long drags on cigarettes, to the woman across the street pushing a small pram, to the individuals in the tour group eagerly coming up the stairs toward the museum - carries a trace of the darkness within them. It's faint, almost like an echo of the deep, roiling anger that initially drew my attention, but it is unmistakably there.

I release my Sense, letting the auras of the world around me snap back to a dull roar and settle onto the stairs to catch my breath. I can't tell if I'm becoming weaker, or if my Sight and Sense have grown stronger and my body is simply struggling to keep up, but every time I've drawn on either power in the past few days has left me trembling and exhausted. The laser focus of my Sense, though, and the clarity of my recent visions leads me to believe that, somehow, my power is growing. Why now, though? I'm not sure, so I add the question to my growing list of unanswered mysteries.

As I will life back into my aching limbs, I absently peruse the covers of the books Delian lent me. The first is a collection of Greek mythologies: Acastus to Zeus, The Pocket Guide to Greek Myths. The second are works I recognize by title, though I don't have any memory of reading them before: The Iliad and The Odyssey. I question again what value my trip to the museum brought. Meeting Delian was certainly interesting, and I can't shake the feeling that something about him is familiar, but I don't see how his tale about the cursed prophet or these books filled with ancient stories about gods, monsters, magic, and long-dead heroes will do me any good. The artist that crafted my box must have been a hobbyist, a Greek mythology aficionado, or something. I'm starting to think the box wasn't the right lead to follow.

Feeling strong enough to stand again, I gather the books and make my way down the stairs, turning down the street toward my shop. The aura of darkness continues to surround me, not nearly as oppressive but unmistakably present. I try to ignore it and make a plan to spend a few hours in my shop in peace, ruminating on the photo and the tarot card, opening myself to Sight and Sense. Maybe I can will a helpful new vision to appear.

And maybe Zeus will show up and tap dance for me, I grumble as I turn the corner and catch sight of my red door. Standing beside it, cutting a striking figure in his expensive dark coat and slicked-back hair, is Adrian.

"Mr. Morrow," I incline my head toward him, shifting the books under one arm to dig for my keys with my free hand. As I search my bag, the books wriggle free and tumble to the pavement. Adrian bends to pick them up before I can stop him.

"Greek mythology? I didn't realize you were a history buff," he says, waiting for me to open the door before handing the volumes back to me.

"Come in," I tell him, crossing to my table and stowing bag, keys, and books underneath it. "I'm not a history buff. I stopped at the museum looking for clues on the woman in the photograph and this eccentric curator gave them to me. It's a dead-end, though. I don't know what I was thinking."