Grim

At the start of time, or more appropriately, at the first moment time mattered, there was a box.

Pandora remembered it as a jar—a jar blown of glass—welding together colors of ice and fire, sunsets and twilights. It was the most gorgeous sight her eyes had ever seen and when she held it in the palm of her hand, she heard it whisper.

She could no longer remember the words it had said; she only knew the rampant desire that gripped her chest for the intangible treasures from which she was barred. All she knew was suddenly her fingers were peeling back the top of the jar as a howling wind emerged from inside.

Pandora hadn’t known it then, but the gusts of air pushing past her were evil in degrees and levels she had never contemplated.

Greed. Cruelty. Vanity. Malice. Vengeance. Death. Countless rivers of despair.

Her fingers, curious and foolish, had released them all. And now all these years later, every evil of that forsaken jar haunted the earth. They possessed and twisted mortals into beings that could never die. They wielded their darkness to poison even the purest of hearts.

For millions of years, they infiltrated camps, villages, cities, and offices. Then one night, Death found a new home.

The likes of which Pandora had never seen before.

Helston, England

December, 1864

By the way the moon’s glow split across her face, he knew he was losing time. There was no rushing the night, though. It would pass and end on its own timetable, leaving Cambriel Callahan its reluctant witness.

As her voice softly carried across the table, he studied the living room where portraits of family members cluttered the mantlepiece. The white lights of a Christmas tree reflected in the glass of a framed picture, its glare so magnificent that he could barely see the middle-aged couple depicted in the shot.

It turned quiet.

When he looked back to her, she smiled.

He mimicked her expression. “Supper was great, thank you.” Past her left shoulder through the window, the silhouettes of bare tree branches scratched at the moon.

“I am glad you enjoyed it.”

What was her name? He blinked. Catherine.

He could faintly tell she was beautiful and regretted he couldn’t enjoy the sight. Long, wavy light brown hair, just a hue darker than blonde, cascaded down her back. Light blue eyes—sky blue to be exact—glanced at the maroon tablecloth. And her heart, beating through her black dress…

He sighed impatiently.

She leaned forward, tucking her hands underneath her chin. “I must allow myself to admit I am relieved that Mrs. Norfolk has not returned.”

“For all we know, she is on her way.”

Laughter jumped along the air. “Oh, not yet!”

He narrowed his eyes as he studied her, trying his best to recall the letter that arrived at his flat just days earlier: The girl was twenty-two. Her birthday was to be on New Year’s Eve, just three weeks away. Her parents, as he had hoped when he had coerced her into inviting him to dinner, were out at a social event. For everything to run smoothly, being alone was imperative. It was always the hardest demand to fulfill. Cambriel was so rarely alone.

“I cannot believe we talked for so long,” he heard himself say.

“I know.” She glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. “Three hours.”

“And I really should be going. Any longer and I shall be missed.”

Lie.

She leaned back in her seat. “Oh.”

His lips curved into an easy smile as he stood. His right hand shoved inside his pocket, clacking coins together.

“Apologies for being so forward, but…are you doing anything next Friday night?” she asked, slowly standing. She tucked her hair behind her ear, cocking her head slightly to the right as she waited for his answer.

“I cannot say. Should I be?” Her smile at his small banter sent the ghost of a shockwave rolling in his stomach. He blinked and the feeling was buried. “Next Friday. I shall take you out.”

Another lie.

A small blush flashed across her cheeks and nose.

How strange that heat should touch her now, he mused, when already the ice that was about to consume her already stirred in her heart.

“Well, Catherine,” he said softly as he made his way to the door, slipping on his jacket and throwing his scarf around his neck. “Have a good night. And good luck.”

The girl began to smile just as an incomprehensible look drowned her face.

Without much effort at all, he dipped low and caught the girl, her limp form like putty in his arms. His hand stroked her hair as he held her close, just another still body cooling on a winter’s night.

With a throat that hadn’t scratched with tears in centuries, he swallowed.

Finally, he pulled his hand from his pocket. In his palm, sat two silver coins.

He placed them over eyes that could no longer see.