Pandora's Key by Nancy Richardson Fischer

and ancient scrolls, had led him to a different conclusion. And now that truth was going to set Malledy free.
    Unbeknownst to the rest of the world, Pandora’s Box not only existed, but it wasn’t empty. It contained a fifth Fury that the cunning Pandora had managed to trap inside the box: Annihilation. And once Malledy acquired the box and the artifact that was required to open it, he believed that fifth Fury could be manipulated to obliterate his disease.
    Malledy picked up the TV remote control and turned on CNN: “A seven-year-old girl in Detroit was found in a dumpster behind her apartment building, beaten, raped—” Malledy changed the channel to Fox: “Hamas has claimed responsibility for a bombing in a popular restaurant in Israel that has killed twenty and left fifteen more men, women and children critically wounded.” Malledy turned to NBC: “Iran claims to be well on their way to developing a nuclear weapon.”
    Disgusted with the brutality and stupidity of mankind, Malledy threw the remote at the TV so hard that it cracked the plasma screen. “If you have absolutely no morals and can’t handle freedom,” he grumbled at the broken television, “you shouldn’t be allowed to govern yourselves!”
    Turning to the window, Malledy gripped the wooden sill wishing he could just tilt the world, shake it, and Pandora’s Box would slide from its hiding place into his hands. “Patience,” he reminded himself. Juliette could lead Malledy to Pandora’s Box. And if possessing the box and wielding its power didn’t heal him, then he would force the girl to save his life.
    Malledy went to his desk and opened his laptop. His screen came to life showing the Google Earth photo of the pale-yellow house. Two figures had been caught in the satellite shot. Their faces were blurred, but both had blonde hair and one was quite tall.

Chapter Thirteen

    Evangeline sank lower in the bath until her hair fanned out in the water and bubbles scented like freesias brushed her chin. The heat felt delicious. She began to sing one of her favorite Italian arias. She was a soprano and her voice was pitch-perfect. The song filled the large bathroom, swelled, dropped, and caressed the white marble.
Italian? I don’t even speak Italian.
Evangeline sat up in the bath and looked down at her perfect, size C-cup breasts.
Those aren’t mine
! She sank back beneath the water in embarrassment.
    “Kiri?” Evangeline’s English was inflected with an Italian accent. “The water is cooling. Bring me a towel. Kiri?”
Why do I have a maid if she’s never around?
“
Merda
. Stupid girl. I will have Dimitri fire you!”
But then, where would the poor thing go? A towel isn’t so important.
    There was a towel beside a radio set on a wide shelf a few feet above the tub. Soft music was coming from the silver box. She reached up to tug the towel free…and the radio came with it, tumbling toward the sudsy water.
Get out!
Evangeline wanted to scream. But the woman just watched the radio spin through the air, holding her breath as the silver box, still playing music, splashed into the water.
    Nothing happened. And then a jolt of electricity ran through the woman’s feet and arced like lightening, bending her voluptuous, naked body forward, then back, screaming through her legs, pelvis, torso, neck, brain. The woman exhaled one word: “Penelope.” She was dead before her body sank beneath the water’s surface. And Evangeline couldn’t breathe…
    • • •
    Evangeline awoke abruptly because her hands were clutching at her own neck. She greedily gulped air.
What the hell is going on?
    “What’s going on,” Evangeline asked aloud, but she was alone in her dark bedroom, the comforter twisted tightly around her body. Sitting up, she felt a rivulet of cold water run down her back. Evangeline touched her hair—it was soaking wet.
    How?
Maybe she was still caught in the tangled web of her nightmare. But she knew she wasn’t. Samantha was asleep