About PANDORA’S KEY
“With vivid imagery, compelling characters and plenty of bursts of action, this first novel weaving mythology and contemporary teenage troubles is thrillingly memorable!
[In] this fresh, intriguing novel, Fischer is clearly laying the groundwork for a trilogy that will successfully continue to bring ancient mythology forward into a modern tale of self discovery…[and] Fischer’s fast pacing and numerous plot twists are sure to keep the reader turning the pages…”
—Kirkus Indie
When everything you believed about yourself is a lie, how do you unlock the truth?
Evangeline Theopolis has nightmares about the violent deaths of women she has never met. Her single mother suffers delusions she can’t hide. And Malledy, a brilliant young man, has a disease that will leave him paralyzed and insane. Their lives are about to collide.
On Evangeline’s 16th birthday her mother gives her a necklace with an antique key charm—a family heirloom, though no one knows what the key unlocks. Everything changes. Her mom is hospitalized. Her godmother attempts murder. An ancient Order tries to kill Evangeline, and a lethal Sect to kidnap her.
Nothing makes sense—especially Evangeline’s own face, which has morphed from geeky to eerily stunning; the ancient key that feels strangely alive against her skin; and the magical abilities she begins to possess.
Evangeline must use her wits and supernatural powers to fight her deadly adversaries and discover her true identity. But can she accept who she really is and save the world?
Praise for PANDORA’S KEY
“With vivid imagery, compelling characters and plenty of bursts of action, this first novel weaving mythology and contemporary teenage troubles is thrillingly memorable!
[In] this fresh, intriguing novel, Fischer is clearly laying the groundwork for a trilogy that will successfully continue to bring ancient mythology forward into a modern tale of self discovery…[and] Fischer’s fast pacing and numerous plot twists are sure to keep the reader turning the pages…”
—Kirkus Indie
“In this inventive debut installment of The Key Trilogy, an Oregon girl’s life is uprooted by the discovery of her pivotal role in a prophecy stemming from Greek mythology… Surprising twists add to the story’s intrigue. The co-author of several sports autobiographies, Fischer hits her stride in this quick-paced novel.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Never have I seen a book take over my classroom like this one did… I haven’t seen this much enthusiasm since [my] students read The Hunger Games Trilogy… “
—Sandra K. Stiles (5 stars, Amazon)
“In Pandora’s Key the story of Evangeline moves along quite quickly, a wonderful thing after reading so many books with slow starts. Hearing about the mythology of Pandora and Pandora’s Box was a treat. The entire story was well written and there wasn’t a dull moment to be found…While this story wrapped up the beginning, there is still so much more that can be had in continuing the series and I would love to see where it goes.”
—Jessica for Book Sake
“Pandora’s Key was a wonderful spin on Greek Mythology. The characters were engaging and there were twists and unexpected turns throughout the book.”
—The Norman Howard School (5 stars, Amazon)
“A great read for the young to not-so-young readers alike. Fischer has a captivating imagination and wonderful story telling ability. This book will throw you an unexpected twist just when you think you figured it out. I can’t wait for the next two!”
—Castine 207 (5 stars, Amazon)
“Pandora’s Key is Greek mythology with a suspenseful, modern twist. This story hooked me from chapter one, and then again, and again with each consecutive chapter. Evangeline (heroine) is super cool… a seemingly normal girl thrust into a freaky, twisted, almost unbelievable adventure. Except it’s written in such a way that it feels like it could really happen. You won’t put this one down…I didn’t. Can’t wait for the next story in the trilogy!”
—MythGal (5 stars, Amazon)
“I’m a big fan of mythology, so I was intrigued by the opening chapters and immediately I was hooked. This book is wildly entertaining, imaginative and creative—the twisting plot propels the reader to the end. It’s perfect for teens but also for adults who enjoy a great fantasy with lots of symbolism and interesting characters. Definitely worth the read!”
—KM (5 stars, Amazon)
“I simply couldn’t put Pandora’s Key down. It was a pleasure to read such a beautifully written novel in this genre of coming-of-age fantasy thrillers. It’s a bit like Dan Brown meets Twilight with a mythological twist. I would recommend this book to teenagers and adults alike who appreciate strong heroines, suspense and unexpected twists.”
—A McKenna (5 stars, Amazon)
“I really loved this book! While the story is supernatural, it’s believable. It’s a page turner—fast paced and never boring or drawn out. I’m ready for Book #2! Hope it comes out soon!”
—Lisa A. Mitchell (5 stars, Amazon)
“I couldn’t put down Pandora’s Key. It’s the kind of book you try to avoid the ending of, so you can just keep reading it. I loved this book and I would definitely recommend it to friends.”
—Emily Whitfield (5 stars, Amazon)
“Pandora’s Key is a delightfully magical story about two separate peoples’ lives and how they end up intertwining. Once the background is established…the book becomes spellbinding. The words just flow! From young teens through adults, all aspects of the story are clearly understandable. The Greek mythology in the prologue serves as a hint of where this inspiration began. I am a retired educator and I loved this book!”
—Peter (5 stars, Amazon)
“When I first started to read this book there was no way I was going to put it down. The story sucks you in and when something sad or scary happens you feel the emotion, too. Pandora’s Key has a range of everything, from mystery to romance it creates detail of the characters and you feel like you are there with all of them.”
—Lucy B (5 stars, Amazon)
“For any teen that enjoys action, suspense and mythology, Pandora’s Key is the perfect read. With compassionate characters and exciting plot twists, it truly kept me on the edge of my seat. Pandora’s Key is action packed, filled with magic, and has just the right amount of romance mixed in to make it a wonderful coming of age tale.”
—Abby Dennis (5 stars, Amazon)
“The thing that strikes me most about Pandora’s Key is that it’s such a sophisticated YA book that I’m 40 and couldn’t put it down. Seriously, I read it in three hours and can’t wait for the next book in The Key Trilogy. Fischer’s debut urban fantasy novel seamlessly blends Greek mythology with a gritty, modern world. There’s something for everyone—a teenage girl coming of age and forced to accept a terrible gift and burden; a doctor drowning from loss and struggling to find something to believe in; and an antagonist who is brilliant, desperate and devolves into pure evil. There was enough magic, ancient curses, Gods and Goddesses and powerful talisman to create a story that travels at a breakneck pace. Bravo Nancy Richardson Fischer—now get busy writing the sequel!”
—Ashley Anderson (5 stars, Amazon)
“This story is highly addictive… I must say, I didn’t expect to be so emotionally invested in the storyline. I cried, bit my nails down to the cuticle, and held my breath until I simply had to put the book down to find release. But I couldn’t keep it down for long, because I simply had to know what would happen next. I’m currently in a state of impatience; anxiously awaiting the sequel in The Key Trilogy.”
—Katrina (Kindred Dreamheart, 4 stars, Goodreads)
“[Pandora’s Key] had a complex plot that was woven expertly and subtly. In terms of pace, this book moved very quickly… I thought the characters were fantastic! They were realistic and three-dimensional and I loved learning about them from their own perspective as well as through the eyes of others… I think the real genius with this book lies in the delivery… I will DEFINITELY read the rest of the series! The characters were enthralling, the story fantastically told, and there were lots of twists and unexpected surprises to keep me on my toes! All in all, this makes for a great read! I can’t wait for the next book to come out!”
—Jeanette (5 stars, Goodreads)
“I love the Greek mythology. I love the storyline. I love the characters.”
—Chey (5 stars, Goodreads)
“I could not put [Pandora’s Key] down… It was brilliant… I found myself holding my breath while reading because there were so many twists [and] I didn’t know what was going to happen… Nancy is such a great author and she has a way of hooking you to the story… [she] is definitely an author to look out for. Pandora’s Key is such a great book and all mythology fans will love it.”
—OCD Kay (K-Books, 4 stars, Goodreads)
“I thought [Pandora’s Key] was very well written and well thought out. It kept me on the edge of my seat… and stayed on my mind when I had to put it down. An intriguing twist of plots where you were constantly wondering who was friend and who was foe… I really appreciated this unique take on an ancient legend.”
—Alison W (4 stars, Goodreads)
“From the first page of Pandora’s Key, Nancy Richardson Fischer grabs your attention…Every reader will find themselves lost in this book…Fischer successfully captures the readers’ attention, with endless action and unusual twists and turns that never let you go.”
—Katheryn36 (5 stars, Goodreads)
“Everything about Pandora’s Key is intriguing, from the title to the last word.”
—Shannon (5 stars, Goodreads)
“Prepare to be disappointed! You are going to want to read the other books in this trilogy and they are not in print yet! This is a story based on Greek mythology with a paranormal flavor… In a field of YA books, this one stands out. It is a refreshing change of pace from vampires. This one is not just another Twilight wannabe!”
—Glenda Christianson (5 stars, Goodreads)
“This book was so fantastic it left my brain paralyzed.”
—Emilija (5 stars, Goodreads)
PANDORA’S KEY
Nancy
Richardson
Fischer
THE KEY TRILOGY • BOOK ONE
Copyright © 2012 by Nancy Richardson Fischer
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Smashwords Edition: April 2012
Contents
Prologue • Chapter One • Chapter Two • Chapter Three • Chapter Four • Chapter Five • Chapter Six • Chapter Seven • Chapter Eight • Chapter Nine • Chapter Ten • Chapter Eleven • Chapter Twelve • Chapter Thirteen • Chapter Fourteen • Chapter Fifteen • Chapter Sixteen • Chapter Seventeen • Chapter Eighteen • Chapter Nineteen • Chapter Twenty • Chapter Twenty-one • Chapter Twenty-two • Chapter Twenty-three • Chapter Twenty-four • Chapter Twenty-five • Chapter Twenty-six • Chapter Twenty-seven • Chapter Twenty-eight • Chapter Twenty-nine • Chapter Thirty • Chapter Thirty-one • Chapter Thirty-two • Chapter Thirty-three • Chapter Thirty-four • Chapter Thirty-five • Chapter Thirty-six • Chapter Thirty-seven • Chapter Thirty-eight • Chapter Thirty-nine • Chapter Forty • Chapter Forty-one • Chapter Forty-two • Chapter Forty-three • Chapter Forty-four • Chapter Forty-five • Chapter Forty-six • Chapter Forty-seven • Chapter Forty-eight • Epilogue
Acknowledgments • About the Author • More by This Author
Coming Soon From Nancy Fischer Richardson
This book is for Henry—
my best friend, husband, and partner
in adventure and magic.
“We must be willing to let go of the life we planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”
—Joseph Campbell
Prologue
Thousands of years ago the Gods and Goddesses of Mount Olympus created the first woman and named her Pandora. Each God gave Pandora a magical gift. Aphrodite, Goddess of Love and Beauty, bestowed beauty. Poseidon, God of the Sea, bequeathed black pearls so Pandora would never drown. Haephestus, God of Fire and Metalworking, gave Pandora the ability to create reality from imagination. Apollo, God of the Sun and the Arts, granted her musical prowess. Athena, the warrior Goddess, contributed the ability to kill, and Demeter, Goddess of the Harvest, tempered that attribute with healing powers. The Messenger God, Hermes, gave Pandora the trait of cunning.
Not to be outdone, Zeus, King of the Gods, gave Pandora two gifts. First, he endowed her with curiosity. And, second, he gave her an intricately carved gold box that emanated a soft rose-colored glow as a gift for mankind designed to punish them for accepting stolen fire from Mount Olympus. The box was filled with five Furies: Plagues, Natural Disasters, Hatred, Jealousy, and the most horrific fifth Fury, Annihilation. Zeus reasoned that curious Pandora would open the box and the Furies would be released to torment mankind for eternity. He allowed his wife, Hera, Goddess of Women and Marriage, to add Hope to the box before he closed it, because men would need a reason to live once the Furies had been released.
At the last moment, Hades, God of the Underworld, placed a delicate chain around innocent Pandora’s neck. Dangling from it was a small key fashioned from iridescent onyx. If curious Pandora was cunning enough to close the box before the most devastating fifth Fury escaped, she could use the key to keep it locked away. The Gods added a few more twists and turns to ensure their amusement and then sent their lovely creation and her poisonous gift down to earth.
Over the ensuing tens-of-centuries, the onyx key was preserved, but all memory of its history and of the box faded until only a handful of people knew the truth. Some of those people were innocents, as Pandora had been. Some were devious and lethal when crossed. And some were evil or simply insane.
Chapter One
It was a cold May in the Pacific Northwest, but in one backyard bulbs had already pushed through untended soil and opened their petals, revealing cheerful yellow daffodils and snow-white tulips. In adjacent yards, spring flowers had yet to peek out of soil tilled and fertilized by professional gardening services.
Perhaps the early blooms were what made this particular backyard feel bewitched. Or maybe it was the hummingbirds, which would not be seen anywhere else in Oregon for several months, hovering over honeysuckle that shouldn’t be blooming until July. But the other-worldly effect could simply have been the result of the shadows and weak gleam of moonlight casting a silver net over the premises.
Two men slipped through the backyard’s white picket gate. They were dressed in black and wore woolen ski masks that revealed only the drooping hooked nose of the taller one and the almond-shaped eyes of the second, much shorter, but broader, man. The men moved soundlessly to the pale-yellow house, the taller man inserting a thin rod into the seam of the sliding glass door. There was a clicking sound as the lock opened.
The second man slid a compact gun from his side and released the safety. With his free hand he eased the slider open, then hesitated and looked down at his chest where a red flower suddenly bloomed. His knees buckled and the taller man whirled around to help…but it was already too late. The arc of a curved blade caught his neck just below the ski mask and sliced it cleanly, sending up a spray of fine blood. Hands caught both men before they hit the ground. Silently, they were dragged away.
The only witness to the bloody scene was an orange and white tabby who sat unblinking in the picture window.
Chapter Two
Evangeline climbed a rickety wooden ladder into the hayloft. She wore a cotton nightgown she’d never seen before—ivory-colored with tiny pink roses, long enough to brush the tops of her bare feet…except they weren’t her feet, because they were too small and delicate and the nails were painted cherry-red.
When she reached the loft, she found a lantern on the floor. Raising the glass top, she lit the wick with a match she hadn’t known she carried, and then turned the brass knob. The lantern glowed, illumining lazy dust motes, bales of yellowed hay, and a thick rope coiled in the corner.
Evangeline tossed the free end of the rope over a rafter. She braced herself, leaned out from the ladder, and grabbed the dangling rope. Slowly her hands, which were not her hands because there was a pear-shaped diamond ring on the left ring finger, fashioned the end of the rope into a noose. I don’t know how to make a noose, Evangeline thought as she slid it over her head and tightened it around her neck.
Evangeline watched her pale feet shuffle along the uneven, slatted floor toward the edge of the hayloft. Her pulse raced. This isn’t happening. But she could smell the thick, cloying sweetness of the hay. This can’t be real. But she felt a splinter from the rough wood bite into her heel. Stop! And then she stepped into space, stomach hurtling into her mouth—terror numbing her body—rope tightening—legs kicking…
• • •
Evangeline struggled to consciousness. Her heart thudded painfully and a thin film of sweat coated her face. She looked down—blue flannel PJ’s. No diamond ring. Size ten feet—no nail polish—poking from beneath her down comforter. Her fingers slid along the smooth skin of her neck, feeling for rope burns—none.
“It was only a nightmare,” Evangeline whispered. But it had felt incredibly real and it took some time to slow her pulse and banish the strange dream from her mind. And that’s all it was, she told herself, sitting up and wiping her face—just a stupid dream.
Rolling out of bed, she shuffled down the hall. She walked through her mom’s bedroom with its queen-sized bed covered with the hand-made quilt of yellow and orange squares that her mother’s agent, Samantha, had given her. She sidestepped the rocking chair and her mom’s beat-up guitar, and passed an antique bureau topped by an oval mirror whose gold border framed glass hazy with age.
Stepping through the open door of the bathroom, Evangeline watched her mom brushing her teeth. Olivia Theopolis, dressed in a paint-splattered T-shirt and worn Levis, had probably already been working for hours on the new painting she’d refused to show her daughter. Evangeline couldn’t help noticing that her white-blonde hair was perfectly smooth and straight compared to her own shoulder-length locks that always curled out of control. Self-conscious, she tried to press her hair down and her mom noticed her rumpled reflection in the mirror.
“H-phy-b-fdy,” she said, before spitting out a mouthful of toothpaste. “Evangel—” Suddenly, her mom’s knees buckled and she grabbed the edge of the pedestal sink to keep from falling. She leaned forward, peering into the porcelain bowl.
“Blood,” she whispered, confused. And then she looked into the mirror, mouth open wide, shaking fingers running over her teeth. “My teeth—”
The back of Evangeline’s neck prickled. “Mom?”
Her mother turned—her flawless skin pale. “I don’t understand. My teeth are falling out and there’s blood in the sink.”
A chill slithered down Evangeline’s spine as she walked to the sink and peered nervously into it. The porcelain was pure white with a few rivulets of the aqua-colored toothpaste her mom had spit out moments ago. No blood—no blood anywhere. What is she talking about?
Evangeline released the breath she’d been holding. “Mom, I don’t understand—there’s nothing in the sink but toothpaste.” She looked at her mom’s frightened face and suddenly she was scared. “Your teeth are all there,” Evangeline said and gently turned her mother around to look.
Slowly the color came back to the woman’s cheeks and she was again Evangeline’s beautiful, young mother. The mom all the boys in her class stared at when she picked up E from school. The one who made them all whisper about how the apple had fallen so far from the tree. And it had. Olivia had bowed pink lips, stunning sky-blue eyes, the body of a gazelle. Evangeline was a giraffe—long neck, gangly limbs, eerie blue-black eyes, and an impossibly wide mouth.
“E, I’m sorry,” her mom said. “I must’ve still been half-asleep.”
Evangeline tried to shake off the sticky residue of fear. “It’s okay, but I think—I mean, I don’t want to bum you out, but it’s not the first—”
“I’m fine,” her mom interrupted. “Really, I just need more sleep.” She smiled and took her daughter’s hand, leading her out of the bathroom.
“Where are we going?”
“Your room.” Her mom flashed a secretive smile. “Check under your pillow.”
Evangeline ran down the hallway. She raced to her bed and tossed one of her pillows onto the floor—nothing. Beneath the second pillow, which was still indented from her head, was a gift-wrapped box.
“Happy sixteenth birthday, Evangeline, my not-so-little-girl.”
Grinning, Evangeline picked up the package, which was wrapped in hand-painted purple-flowered paper that must’ve taken her mom hours to make. For a moment, as she ripped open the paper, she thought she smelled floral perfume, but neither of them wore perfume, preferring the fresh scent of soap. Evangeline hoped that this gift was the iPad she’d been wanting so badly. Inside the box was a second box, also wrapped in hand-crafted paper decorated with small white and yellow daisies. The cloying sweetness of torn stems seemed to fill the air as Evangeline tore open the paper. Maybe, she thought, your sense of imagination gets better with age. Or maybe mom and I are both losing it.
Not that her mom was crazy or anything. It was just that, for the past month some weird stuff had been happening. As far as Evangeline could recall, her mom had never had a cold, let alone a headache. But lately she’d been having migraines that made her too nauseated to eat. And then there were the dreams that punctuated some nights with screams so loud Evangeline had to rush to her mom’s bed to wake her. Her mom never remembered the nightmares, which seemed weird considering how violently she reacted to them. Two nights ago Evangeline had found her mom sitting on the bedroom floor holding her hairbrush.
“What’re you doing, mom?”
“I can’t brush my hair. It keeps falling out.” Olivia had stared up at her daughter like a little kid, eyes brimming with tears. And then she’d pointed to what she’d said were bare spots on her scalp.
Evangeline had helped her mom to her feet and led her to the mirror where they’d examined her mom’s hair together. It still fell in a perfect sheet of platinum to the edge of her square jaw. Her mom had smiled and said she must’ve fallen asleep getting ready for bed and had a bad dream. “At least this time I remembered it,” Olivia said with a brittle laugh.
“Yeah, that’s something,” Evangeline had replied, but what she’d really wanted to say was: Please stop freaking me out. This woman who’d never been sick couldn’t imagine that something might be wrong with her. Evangeline didn’t think it was anything serious, but the idea of her mother losing it in any way made her feel off-balance, like the world was threatening to start spinning in the wrong direction.
Evangeline tossed the daisy wrapping paper only to find a still smaller box covered in paper dotted with hand-painted orange, yellow, and red trees. For a brief moment, their leaves fluttered in an invisible breeze. Evangeline quickly looked away and tore off the wrapping, opening the box. Inside was a violet-colored silk bag. The bag gave Evangeline a strange sense of déjà vu even though she’d never seen it before. Easing open the drawstring, she spilled the contents onto her palm. It was a necklace. The delicate silver chain gave off a soft glow. Dangling from it was a small black key carved from some luminous stone. Evangeline again felt a sense of déjà vu.
“Mom?” she asked, glancing at her mother’s bare neck and then meeting her eyes.
“It’s a tradition in our family, E. I don’t know who started it, but my mother, and her mother before her and on and on gave this necklace to each of their daughters on their sixteenth birthday—or so the story goes.”
“I’ve never seen you take it off.” Evangeline traced the outline of the key in her palm.
“I never have.”
“But you love this necklace.”
Her mom smiled. “That’s why I want you to have it.” She took the necklace from Evangeline, undid the clasp, and placed it around her neck.
“Do you know what the key was made to unlock?”
“I asked my mother the same thing, but she had no idea. Maybe it was just meant to be pretty.”
Evangeline looked down at the key resting between her collarbones. Heat seemed to emanate from it and the feeling washed over her skin like warm water, along with a tingling sensation and a strange shift—a feeling of total comfort that she could only describe as her body finally fitting into its own skin. Stop imagining things. But there was no question that the key somehow belonged around her neck, along with the accompanying sense of warmth.
Evangeline looked into the mirror above her dresser. When she was younger, she’d dress in her mom’s clothes, blur her eyes, and pretend she was the glamorous Olivia. And suddenly now with the key her mother had always worn resting around her own neck, it somehow made her feel like she looked different, better—well, less like Big Bird. At least her eyes didn’t seem quite so enormous and she could differentiate the gloomy-blue of her irises from her black pupils, which looked iridescent. Is this possible? The smooth black key appeared almost liquid against her pale skin—fluid and incandescent.
“Thanks so much mom—I really, really love it.”
Her mother pulled Evangeline into a hug, holding on for a few seconds too long. “Good. You deserve it.”
Pulling free from the embrace, Evangeline headed toward the hall. “How about I make us waffles,” she offered, because when they’d hugged, she’d felt her mother’s sharp shoulder blades and couldn’t help but notice that her mom’s jeans hung off jutting hipbones. When did she lose so much weight?
They made breakfast together in the cozy kitchen of the bungalow they shared with their orange and white cat, Jasmine. They moved through their tasks, making coffee, pouring OJ, cutting grapefruit—in the seamless rhythm of two people who had forever shared their lives.
“Yuck,” Evangeline said, pointing to the sliding glass door that led out into their backyard. It was splattered with what looked like dried blood.
“Must’ve been a bird,” her mother said, frowning, because she was a freak about loving animals, even mice. She pulled the slider open and looked down in the grass. No bird. “Well, either Jasmine got the poor thing or it flew away.” She turned to the tabby, scratching behind her ears. “Which is it, Jas?”
Jasmine looked over at Evangeline without blinking. “If she knows, she’s not telling,” Evangeline said. She gave her mother the first waffle, poured batter on the griddle to make another, and then bent down to look at the bottom of her foot because it was stinging. “Huh.”
“What?”
Evangeline peered closer. “I just have something in my heel…got it.” She pulled out a rough, wood splinter—which was weird because the floors in their house were polished bamboo.
Chapter Three
Malledy shifted on the crinkly white paper-covered exam table so he could see Mount Hood out of the tenth floor window. It wasn’t awe-inspiring like the mountains around his home, but it was a jagged symbol, at least to him, of hope.
Malledy had come to Portland, Oregon, for two reasons. The first and most important reason was to meet with Dr. Aali. One of the leaders in his field, Dr. Aali was extremely busy, so even after countless scans, blood draws and myriad tests, Malledy had been forced to nervously wait seven weeks for a face-to-face meeting.
The second reason Malledy had come to Portland was to acquire an artifact for a client. He’d not yet told Juliette about the assignment nor that he was getting close to finding the ancient talisman. This acquisition might be his last success and he wanted to surprise Juliette—give her a moment of joy and pride, should Dr. Aali prove to be a literal dead-end.
“Que penses-tu?” Juliette asked.
Malledy turned to face his mentor, trying not to notice how the past four months had aged her. There were gray strands in her auburn hair and deep lines around her intelligent lime-green eyes. She was only forty-four, but today she looked sixty—and scared. For a split-second Malledy was annoyed that he needed to worry about Juliette when he was the one truly suffering. “I was thinking about home,” Malledy said, trying to smile reassuringly because none of this was Juliette’s fault.
“We can go back there soon.”
“Do you think my mother knew that I’d get sick?”
“Non, mon cher. I think she left you because she could not be a mother.” Juliette had long ago told Malledy that he should accept that he would never know anything about his biological parents. There simply was no information—no leads to follow—because Malledy had been abandoned as an infant on the doorstep of Castle Aertz, high in the mountains of northeast Italy.
For a brief time when he was nine, Malledy had sought to learn more about his birth mother. He’d questioned people living in the mountain villages closest to the castle, and searched hundreds of parish records for leads. In addition he’d badgered every occupant of Castle Aertz for memories of his arrival but found that a baby abandoned on a doorstep had left little impression and was seen only as a momentary distraction. It became clear that the trail leading to his birth mother was ice cold and Malledy had been forced to swallow his desire and move on.
Malledy looked down at his right hand—it was flopping on his thigh like a weak fish. The current diagnosis for his tremors was “chorea,” which basically meant uncontrolled, involuntary movement. He was taking Paroxetine—a tranquilizer to quell the spasms. It was obvious that whatever was wrong with him was getting worse and he needed a higher dose of the drug. In the meantime, if he gripped something when the spasms hit, or crammed his hands into his pockets, he could still the tremors, which so far were the only outward signs of his illness.
“Would you have wanted a different life?” Juliette asked, holding tightly to Malledy’s right hand until the spasm relented.
Malledy gave the answer he knew Juliette wanted to hear. “Of course not.” The voice in his head said something different: I would’ve liked a choice. Malledy had grown up the only child within the castle. The original owner of the castle, Baron Aertz, had been a scholar in the 1600’s who was obsessed with uncovering the mysteries of the world. He’d bought the remote castle and created a clandestine Order called the “Archivists.” Those men and women worked in secret for patrons who included a King, a handful of Popes, and other nameless powerful men and women all of whom had three things in common: great wealth, the ability to locate the well-hidden Archivists, and the intelligence to keep the Archivists’ secret. Telling tales about the Order meant certain death no matter how rich or important the client might have believed himself to be.
Archivists were recruited for their brilliance and not allowed to have children, who would both distract them and make them soft. They worshipped the God of Knowledge and there were no rules save that the end always justified whatever means necessary to acquire a priceless morsel of information or talisman. Malledy had been the only exception to the Archivists’ policy of no children and he was grateful that for some reason they’d decided to allow him to stay at the castle until his tenth birthday. If he’d not proven himself worthy to become one of them by then, he would have been removed.
No one ever defined “removed” for Malledy. But given the secrecy surrounding the Archivists, he’d come to understand that it meant not leaving a young boy alive to talk about a hidden castle high in the Dolomite Mountains containing discoveries powerful enough to topple governments, religions and the very definition of Gods.
Most of his life, Malledy now realized, he’d felt like he was part of a giant chess game, moved around at random by the Archivists. For brief moments, he was allowed to be the player—the hand that shifted certain pieces—instead of a pawn. But those moments were mostly an illusion because the Archivists ultimately made the rules that governed the game and his only choice was to either play by them or be knocked off the board. And now? Now an even more potent force had taken charge of his life and he was at its mercy.
“Thank you, Juliette,” Malledy said softly.
“For what?” she asked, shifting her lithe frame to a more comfortable position on the vinyl chair.
“For being my mentor.” Juliette had raised Malledy, taught him six languages, and instilled in him the desire to learn more on his own. She’s made certain he could debate in ancient Greek, grasp advanced physics, navigate philosophy, and understand complex scientific principles. She had shown him how to dig into any field and parse through thousands of pages of research that might include paintings on cave walls, stolen diaries, and symbols thousands of years old burned into animal hides. She’d been a surrogate mother, tucking him into bed each night and comforting him when he was afraid. Most importantly, Juliette had given Malledy the skills to ultimately find and acquire artifacts for clients so that he might be able to save his own life when his tenth birthday tolled—six long years ago now.
There was a knock on the exam room door. “Entrée,” Juliette called, and Dr. Aali walked in carrying Malledy’s thick medical chart.
Dr. Aali was a skinny man with rectangular glasses too wide for his narrow face. He was only five-foot-four and with his wiry gray-hair looked like a wise, old man in a child’s body. He shook Juliette’s hand and then patted Malledy on the shoulder. “Nice to see you,” he said, sitting down on a stool and rolling forward until he was perched in the space between Malledy and Juliette.
“You’ve reviewed my MRIs and the new tests?” Malledy asked.
Dr. Aali nodded and opened Malledy’s file, scanning it quickly. “Your original physician, Dr. Cantori, diagnosed you with Huntington’s disease four months ago based on a genetic test combined with emerging symptoms. But your own research led you to believe you’re too young to contract the disease so you came to me for a second opinion.”
“That’s right.” Malledy nodded. “Symptoms usually occur after age thirty-five. In addition, I’ve had none of the typical warning signs that usually accompany the disease.” His heart was beating so hard against his chest that the sensation was painful. This is what hope feels like.
“Yes,” Dr. Aali said, momentarily distracted as he flipped through his notes. “It’s always important to get another opinion—especially when facing this sort of diagnosis.”
“Has there been some mistake?” Juliette asked, leaning forward, her hands gripping the edge of the chair. Again Malledy felt irritated. Juliette’s fear and need to help both embarrassed him and made him feel guilty. She cares, Malledy reminded himself. She’s the only one who ever has.
Dr. Aali met Malledy’s gaze with compassionate brown eyes. “I’m very sorry,” he said.
Malledy’s stomach cramped violently, and then dropped. His body felt unbearably heavy, weighed down by those three words: I’m very sorry. Malledy had known, hadn’t he? Of course he had. After all, his fellow Archivists considered him a genius, and they, themselves, had staggering IQs. Strange, Malledy thought, how he’d spent his entire life unemotionally evaluating facts but when they were personal he’d lost all perspective. Why did Juliette allow me on this wild goose chase? Because she didn’t want to see clearly either.
“The original diagnosis was correct,” Dr. Aali continued. “You have early onset Huntington’s disease. While it’s rare in a teenager, it’s not unheard of. And it progresses much more rapidly in the young. Unfortunately, despite my own and others’ research, we still have no cure for the disease.”
Dr. Aali closed Malledy’s file. “You are clearly a thoughtful young man. I’m going to be straight with you because knowing what to expect will make this process easier. Your chorea will lead to weakened muscles until you’ll be unable to walk, talk, or swallow. At some point, the disease will attack your brain causing hallucinations, delusions, and violent outbursts.”
Dr. Aali took off his glasses and folded them. “Malledy, you and your mother will need to prepare for the latter stages of this disease because you’ll require full-time care. There are also groups that can provide counseling and I’ll prescribe drugs to ease the process.”
Ease the process—he means drugs to help me die. For a split-second Malledy imagined swinging his right fist and connecting with Dr. Aali’s stubby nose, watching the blood splatter across the exam room’s bright walls. This isn’t a violent outburst. This is a normal reaction to a horrific death sentence.
“I don’t want to take any more drugs until I need them,” Malledy said with forced calm, trying to ignore the fact that Juliette was crying. “Can we increase the dosage of Paroxetine?” The doctor nodded.
Kneeling beside Juliette’s chair, Malledy said gently, “It’s okay—it was a long shot. We’ll get through this together.” Don’t make this any worse. Please stop crying.
Malledy stood and reached out to shake Dr. Aali’s hand, making sure his own grip was firm. “Thank you for your time,” he said, his throat tight with emotion.
“I’m honored, young man. Now, I’d like to put you on a specific diet. Sometimes eliminating certain food groups can slow the course of the disease. We can monitor you—”
“We’ll be going home now,” Juliette interrupted, wiping her tears and squaring her shoulders, once again all Archivist.
“No,” Malledy said. “I want to stay in town and be treated as an out-patient by Dr. Aali. For once I’m going to choose how I live…and how I die.
Chapter Four
Evangeline and her best friend, Melia, walked down a tree-lined sidewalk. Bare branches covered with buds still hid tender leaves from the crisp spring air. Evangeline wore her usual school outfit—an oversized sweatshirt, loose Levis, and black Adidas with white stripes. No sense advertising the fact that I have no curves, right? Melia, on the other hand, was wearing a jean skirt, tight cashmere sweater that accentuated her 36C’s, and black leather knee-high boots.
They passed Evangeline’s favorite house—a light-green cottage with pale-blue trim around the windows. The white fence surrounding the cottage was made from wooden slats in all widths and heights that looked like crooked teeth. Evangeline had always assumed an artist lived there because the mailbox was hand-painted. Last year the occupant had depicted Mount Hood, Mount Adams, and Mount Saint Helens on the dented metal. It was a view only the rich people who lived high in the hills of Portland could afford. A few months ago the scene on the mailbox changed. Now it depicted a dense forest of emerald-green ferns and an aquamarine waterfall cascading onto shiny stones.
Evangeline paused to look at the scene on the mailbox—it seemed three-dimensional and so real she could actually see mist rising from the water tumbling over the edge of the rocks. And she could hear the sound of the rushing water pounding the receiving stones. Evangeline looked up at the sky—blue with fluffy clouds.
“E, what’re you looking at?” Melia asked.
“Um…I think I hear rain or something,” Evangeline said. She heard it again—a gurgling gush—and looked down. The toe of her sneaker was wet. Water-wet. Evangeline brushed her fingers over the waterfall, wondering if the clear finish the artist had used was dripping, but all she felt was dry paint.
“It’s a sunny day! Quit daydreaming—we’re gonna miss the bus.”
“Sorry.”
The girls moved past an old brick clock tower connected to a crumbling rectangular building. The clock chimes began to play a song Evangeline knew she’d heard before, but couldn’t quite recall.
“So,” Melia teased, “what about Raphe?”
“We’re just friends,” Evangeline said for the millionth time. Melia had boyfriends on the brain. Evangeline was sixteen and had never been kissed because who’d want to kiss some big-footed giraffe? There were only a few boys in her class tall enough to reach her lips—she was already five-foot-ten and still growing. Her best guy friend, Raphe, always said she’d grow into herself, but she knew he was just being nice.
Raphe’s awkward days were long past. He was almost six feet tall with amber-colored eyes framed by dark eyelashes and an olive complexion that flattered his dirty-blonde hair and dimples. Raphe wasn’t in any clique or on a sports team, but everyone liked him anyway because he was simply cool. Evangeline had a secret crush on Raphe that she hadn’t told Melia about because she knew, without a doubt, that Raphe wouldn’t be interested. Plus, there were very few people Evangeline wasn’t shy around and Raphe was one of them. Why make a friendship I cherish awkward by sharing my feelings?
“Just friends,” Evangeline repeated.
“Un-huh.” Melia shrugged, flipping her shiny dark-brown hair over one shoulder. Evangeline noticed her friend was toying with the silver bracelet she always wore now, the one with an oversized ruby in its center—probably made of plastic. At the core of the dark-pink stone were thin veins of purple in the shape of a starburst. Melia’s boyfriend, Tristin, had given it to her when they’d gone to the spring formal and she never took it off, even though the silver was leaving greenish tarnish marks on her wrist. “Well, I’m totally into Tristin—we’re not just friends.” Melia grinned like the cat that’d swallowed the canary.
“Understandable,” Evangeline said, kicking a fallen branch off the sidewalk. Tristin Quin was a transfer kid from the Midwest. He was really good-looking—tall, wavy brown hair, and gorgeous hazel eyes. He hung out with the lacrosse jocks, fascinated with the sport (even though he didn’t know how to play), and he was really popular. He’d needed tutoring in math and Melia was a math whiz, so Mrs. Cranmar had asked her to tutor the kid. One thing had led to another. Melia said Tristin told her it was a turn-on that she was so smart. And it was obvious why her best friend liked Tristin. Who wouldn’t?
Evangeline was the first to admit that she was more than a little jealous. Melia was super-cute with all the right curves. Boys loved her and although part of that was because she was a huge flirt, most of it was because she was pretty, funny, and smart. Evangeline and Melia had known each other since they were little kids; sometimes Evangeline wondered why Melia had ever stayed her best friend once they got older and Melia became so popular.
“Hey!” Tristin called. Carrying a lacrosse stick one of his buddies had loaned him so he could learn the game, he loped across the street, and casually draped his arm around Melia’s waist, hand sliding into her jeans pocket. The trio continued to walk toward the bus that would take them to Jefferson High School.
“It’s E’s sixteenth birthday,” Melia told Tristin.
“Sweet—what’d you get from your folks?”
“It’s just me and my mom,” Evangeline said. Tristin raised an eyebrow. Evangeline’s words began to tumble out before she could stop them because that’s what happened when you were bashful and you held all your words in—sometimes they just escaped in a messy, embarrassing jumble: “My mom got pregnant young and the guy split. I never knew him.” She finally paused, her cheeks burning.
They reached the bus stop and Tristin flicked stones across the street with the lacrosse stick. “Don’t you ever want to try to find your dad?” he asked.
“She asked her mom about him once,” Melia said, over sharing, “but she doesn’t know where he is.”
Evangeline looked away. What Melia didn’t know was that her mom had looked so sad that she hadn’t had the heart to ask for any details. Her father’s name was Richard—that’s all she knew or was ever likely to know.
“Dads are overrated,” Melia said.
Easy to say when you have one, Evangeline thought. Not only didn’t she know her father or his family, but there was no one left living in her mother’s line. Her mom’s own mother had been a famous prima ballerina named Cleo who’d died in a car accident when her mom was seventeen. It turned out that Cleo had spent much more than she’d ever made and owned none of the extravagant jewels she wore or mansions she lived in. The expensive boarding school Olivia was attending kicked her out when she couldn’t pay the tuition. The bank took Cleo’s clothes, furs, and cars to pay back some of what she owed them—although they generously allowed Olivia to keep her mom’s cat.
All that was left to Evangeline’s mom from some distant and long-dead aunt was a small bungalow in Portland, Oregon, so she moved there right after her mother died—alone, and with only $9000.00 and a beat-up guitar to her name. A week later, she discovered that she was pregnant. She tried to contact her boyfriend (the owner of the guitar), but it seemed his dad had been transferred to Europe and the kid hadn’t even bothered to tell her he was leaving school or give her an address or telephone number or anything.
It was pure luck that Samantha Harris, a local Portland art dealer, discovered Olivia at a Saturday Market where she was desperately trying to make some money to support herself and her new baby. She’d resorted to painting flowers on glass bottles she’d fished out of recycling bins. Olivia sold them as vases and people lined up to buy them. Samantha saw something unique and marketable in the young woman’s work and became her agent, providing Olivia with canvases and quickly selling several small pieces.
Those early sales made it possible for Olivia to have the heat turned on in the bungalow and to buy necessities for the baby. For the next sixteen years Samantha had shepherded Olivia’s painting career, turning her into a sought-after artist whose work sold for a lot of money. Sam was also a big sister to Olivia and godmother to Evangeline; they both loved her fiercely.
“So what’d you get?” Melia’s question snapped Evangeline back to reality. She unzipped her hoodie to show off the chain and key. Melia’s eyes widened. “No way! Your mom never takes that off.”
“I know. But she said it’s a tradition in our family. Every daughter gets it when she turns sixteen.”
Tristin looked up. “Why?”
“She doesn’t know, but since we don’t have any relatives or other traditions it’s important,” Evangeline said, then felt idiotic for sounding so serious and added, “to her.”
Tristin flicked a stone at a stunning gold and orange butterfly fluttering by and the insect dropped to the pavement by Evangeline’s sneaker, one wing torn. “Damn—I didn’t mean to hit it,” Tristin said, looking at the insect struggling on the concrete.
Evangeline crouched by the butterfly, watching as it tried in vain to fly. Gently she picked it up and smoothed its delicate wing. Not that it would help any, but she needed to do something for the poor thing. Unconsciously, she found herself softly humming a snippet of a song she didn’t know the words to, and had never heard aloud, but that often floated through her mind. Suddenly the butterfly flew off.
“Whoa,” Tristin muttered. “How’d you do that?”
“Magic,” Melia said with a grin, leaning in to give Tristin a kiss that lasted longer than was comfortable for Evangeline.
The bus arrived and they all got on. Raphe had saved Evangeline a seat. “Happy birthday!” He held up a frosted pink cupcake.
Evangeline couldn’t help noticing that the morning light brought out the gold flecks in Raphe’s brown eyes. He smiled and the dimple in his left cheek winked at her. He’s nice to everyone, Evangeline reminded herself. Don’t take it personally cause it doesn’t mean anything.
“You look different today,” Raphe said.
Evangeline shrugged. “Same old me.” But she saw a few of the boys on the bus looking at her and self-consciously tried to smooth her wild curls.
“Quit it,” Raphe said, pulling her hand down. “It looks cool—like a lion’s mane.”
Evangeline took a bite of the cupcake. The frosting came off on her nose and they both laughed.
“What’re you gonna do for your birthday?” Raphe’s hand still rested on Evangeline’s wrist. She knew it was just a coincidence that he was still touching her, but regardless, she didn’t want to move.
“Mom’s making lasagna and we’ll have carrot cake for dessert. Then we’re going to watch “Talladega Nights” for the fifth time.” Evangeline rolled her eyes because she knew she sounded pathetic. If she was cool, she’d be having a big party to celebrate her sixteenth; if she was even cooler, someone would’ve thrown a party for her at a house where the parents were out of town and there was a keg.
“Can I come over?”
“You don’t have to do that,” Evangeline said. “Not even Melia wants to come over.”
“I’ve only seen that movie seven times. I hear the eighth is the best.”
Raphe finally moved his fingers off her wrist and Evangeline felt…disappointed. “Um, yeah, okay. I guess.”
On a whim, Evangeline untied her right sneaker, even though she was certain she was imagining things, and pulled out her foot. Her sock was soaking wet.
Chapter Five
Malledy settled into a chair in the living room of the townhouse he and Juliette had rented in The Pearl District of Portland and opened his book. The letters swam out of focus. He rubbed his eyes, but the words remained slightly blurry. It was a side effect of the higher dose of Paroxetine, but worth it to still the tremors. He closed his eyes for a moment to rest them, thinking back to the past…
• • •
Malledy was ten years old and walking through a stone hallway on the lower level of Castle Aertz. His fingers brushed along the gorgeous silk tapestries lining the walls: hunts with horse and hound and smartly-garbed lords and ladies; the ancient Greek boy, Icarus, flying too close to the sun; various religious scenes including the Last Supper and Madonna and Child; the poet, Dante, his face fearful seeing the ferocious monster who guarded the gates of Hell. Stopping, Malledy stared into Dante’s face. “I know how you feel,” he told the terrified mortal, because he was afraid, too.
Climbing carved stone steps Malledy passed stunning stained glass windows that filtered the last rays of sunlight and painted the walls amber, ruby, and sapphire. His footfalls were muted as he tread along Persian and Turkish carpets.
“Where am I going?” he asked aloud. But he already knew the answer. He was going to the bonsai garden where his fate would be decided.
Malledy noticed several things when he entered the garden. The ornate bonsai trees were dusted with a light snow. Juliette was standing in the front row of the gathering, her green eyes hopeful, and her breath making tiny puffs of white that evaporated in the cold air. Ninety-three Archivists ranging in age from twenty-eight to ninety-seven were gathered beneath the purple sky that preceded darkness, ready to rule on whether the ten-year-old would become one of them or be removed from the Order.
Otto, the Elder who led the Archivists and Juliette’s former lover, nodded to Malledy. A reed-thin man with a perfectly manicured salt-and-pepper goatee, aquiline nose, and deep-set hazel eyes, Otto was known for his brilliance and his unwavering determination to fulfill a client’s desires at any cost. He gestured to the gathering. “It’s time to make your case, boy.”
Malledy walked slowly into the circle of Archivists. Instead of telling them that he was fluent in nine languages, including Clickita, an all but lost African dialect he’d managed to teach himself, or that he could grasp advanced physics, calculus, chemistry, biology and philosophy, he pulled a small, intricately-stitched leather pouch from his pocket.
It had taken Malledy the better part of a year to locate the artifact inside that pouch. After exhaustive research and countless dead-ends, he and Juliette had ended up on a boat through the frigid Pacific Ocean to Easter Island. Once on the island, Malledy had discovered the artifact by following a map chiseled into a flat rock owned by a Mapuche shaman who’d disappeared without a trace. The map had led him to an enormous toppled stone head carved by ancient Polynesians. Inside the head, he’d discovered the leather pouch said in ancient lore to have been a gift from Zeus to his followers.
The discovery should have been reported to the antiquities department of Chile, where it would be catalogued and end up on display in a dusty museum. But that was never going to happen because it now belonged to an Archivist and, ultimately, his paying client. Should anyone have disagreed, Juliette and the other Archivists would have changed their minds—permanently.
Standing among the silent Archivists, Malledy withdrew from the pouch a perfectly smooth, oblong black rock. In its center was a jagged white-marble streak. Mouth dry, uncertain if this talisman would be enough to save his young life, Malledy had held it in his palm and spoken a phrase in ancient Greek. He repeated his words again and again, each time louder, until they began to tumble into each other with force.
The white vein in the rock’s center pulsed and started to glow. Malledy looked up to the heavens. Suddenly a fierce lightning bolt ripped the cobalt sky in two. Long after the lightning faded, Malledy’s eyes still registered its intensity. Angling the rock in his hand, he boomed the words again. The iridescent silver lightning slashed across the sky like a knife and struck a large bonsai tree twenty yards away from the group, instantly incinerating it. The air filled with the stench of sulfur and burned wood.
“The client,” Otto said, taking the rock from Malledy, “will be pleased. What did you learn from this talisman?”
“That rock,” Malledy replied, “means there are real forces in the world—different Gods—and a piece of their power can be acquired.” What he didn’t say was that for a few moments, while he’d been speaking in Greek and felt the rock react to his words and summon a deadly lightning bolt, he’d experienced something he’d never felt before. To the Archivists, he was a mere child—a helpless orphan whose fate rested in their hands. But when Zeus’ lightning blazed across the sky, Malledy had been transformed… he’d been mightier than all of them.
“Malledy, do you understand that the acquisition of artifacts is everything? We live to pursue knowledge. We live to acquire talisman. Nothing—no man, no woman, no child, no God—stands in our way.”
“Yes, I understand,” Malledy said, trying to keep his voice from shaking because Juliette had told him that no matter what happened, he should show no fear.
“Even if I’m removed?” he’d asked his mentor.
Juliette had looked away. “Even then.”
Otto looked around the gathering of scholars. None spoke. “Then it is decided. Malledy is one of us.”
And so he was. The decision to become an Archivist hadn’t been his own, but it was all he had, as there was no family history, parents’ footsteps to follow, or other options available. So Malledy relentlessly chased a future devoted solely to research and acquisitions.
When a client decided to pursue seeds from a magical pomegranate, Malledy, by then eleven-years-old with a particular fascination with Greek mythology, was the Archivist for the job. He knew from studying ancient myths that Hades, God of the Underworld, had stolen the lovely Persephone from a meadow while she’d been picking flowers, and raced by chariot down to his dark kingdom with her. Despite Persephone’s protests, Hades had forced her to marry him. But there was a twist to the story. If Persephone didn’t eat anything in the Underworld, then she’d be permitted to return to earth. Sadly, Persephone did eat some seeds from a pomegranate and once tasted, the seeds made it impossible for her to ever return to earth, ensuring that she would remain Hade’s wife for eternity.