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He thought she was a thief.

Under the circumstances, that made sense—after all, she was not supposed to be in the lab. But that left his own status unclarified. Was he a security guard, or did he plan to steal one of the artifacts himself? If she were a betting woman, she would have put her money down on the latter possibility. She was quite sure she was dealing with a professional thief. He probably saw her as competition and, maybe, a threat.

There was nothing notable about him—nothing at all—and that was precisely what had given her goose bumps. A man like this one ought not be the sort who got overlooked in a crowd, yet that was exactly what had happened out there in the ballroom. He had moved through the throng of well-dressed guests as if he were a ghost.

Not that he went completely unnoticed. On a subconscious, psychic level, people were aware of him. She had watched, intrigued, as individuals moved out of his way when they sensed his aura. A powerful energy field had that effect on others.

As far as she could tell, she was the only one who had really paid attention to him. She was pretty sure there was only one explanation for his near-invisibility—he possessed some serious talent. Yet he was going out of his way to try to conceal it. His ability to do that was even more interesting.

At one point he had cruised past her while she sipped a glass of sparkling water and pretended to admire a statue of the Society’s founder. She’d caught a glimpse of specter-cat eyes behind the lenses of the black-framed glasses and picked up the vibe of his powerful energy field. It would be very easy to underestimate this man. She would not make that mistake.

It paid to be careful around individuals who possessed a serious degree of paranormal power. She ought to know. She was one of those people.

She had to get control of the situation immediately. She could do that. She might be a lowly, untenured assistant professor but she was rapidly climbing the slippery, extremely treacherous academic ladder. One did not survive the ascent unless one could think on her feet. The first rule was show no weakness .

“I assume you are either security working undercover or an antiquities thief,” she said, going for the cool, assured tones she used when she was making a presentation to a room full of other academics. “Regardless, I suggest you get out of my way before I decide to scream. We both know that if I do, a lot of people, including some very real and no doubt very well-armed security guards, will come running.”

“I’m not security. Would you mind lowering the flashlight? It’s hard to have a civil conversation when you can’t see a damn thing.”

She hesitated and then aimed the beam of her light toward the floor.

“Thanks,” he said.

He folded his arms and propped one shoulder against the doorframe. If he was trying to appear nonthreatening, it wasn’t working. His voice was too dark, too compelling, and infused with way too much curiosity. He watched her as if she were a very interesting artifact.

“If you’re not security, that leaves the other alternative, doesn’t it?” She swept out a hand. “Don’t let me stop you. Help yourself to whatever takes your fancy. I’d warn you that the locks on the display cases in the gallery are quite sophisticated, but I’m sure that, as a professional, you’re already aware of that.”

“Evidently the Society’s locks haven’t been a problem for you.”

“I’m not a fan of the Society’s acquisition practices. I couldn’t care less if they get ripped off tonight. They deserve it. But for your information, I’m not a thief. I just want to do the job my boss sent me here to do and then go home.”

“Your boss being Morton Bullinger, the head of the Department of Para-Archaeology at Hollister University.”

Her identity was no secret. Videos and photos of her had been all over the Illusion Town media for weeks after she and two of her colleagues had been kidnapped by antiquities pirates and held captive in the Underworld. Fortunately, the press had quickly lost interest after the dramatic rescue. Nevertheless, she had not yet sunk back into complete anonymity. Her temporary fame was the reason the Society had requested her services tonight.

“You obviously know who I am,” she said. “The least you could do is introduce yourself.”

“Of course. Oliver Rancourt.”

“I’ve never heard of you.”

“That’s not a surprise. I don’t get out much.” Oliver glanced at the empty glass cage with its open door. “Was freeing a bunch of dust bunnies one of the things Bullinger sent you here to do tonight?”

“Nope, that was a freebie. I’m sure Bullinger wasn’t aware that the Society was engaged in illegal research using dust bunnies.”

“Whoever locked up those little guys should be tossed into the tunnels without any nav amber.”

“Well, at least we agree on that,” she said.

“Yes.” He seemed pleased. “Now, I suggest we both return to the ballroom before someone notices that you’re missing and decides to come looking.” Oliver straightened away from the doorframe, took out his phone, and switched on his flashlight. “We can continue this conversation— Huh.”

She realized he had been distracted. She turned her head slightly and saw that the beam of his light was focused on the Alien artifact in the glass case.

“That looks interesting,” he said.

“Yes, it does. If I’m right, it qualifies as an artifact of unknown power. It should have been turned over to the authorities when it was discovered.”

“I’m shocked, of course, to discover it here in the private lab of an organization run by and for obsessive collectors who will pay any price for AUPs.”

She watched him walk closer to the artifact. “I wonder if they were planning to run experiments on the dust bunnies with it.”

He stopped in front of the case, clearly intrigued. “Think it’s a weapon?”

“It might not have been intended as such, but when it comes to Alien artifacts, who knows? Even something as simple as a child’s toy could prove lethal to humans.”

“True.” With a small sigh of regret, he turned away from the artifact and moved toward her. “Evidently neither one of us is here to take possession of that object. We both have other priorities tonight. We should get back to the ballroom.”

“I’m not arguing.”

Neither one of us is here to take possession of that object ? The obvious inference was that he was here to grab one of the other artifacts. That settled it. Rancourt was definitely not security. He was an antiquities thief.

She whisked through the doorway, the skirts of her gown sweeping around her ankles. Oliver followed her out into the hall, pausing long enough to close the door. She heard the automatic lock click. They both de-rezzed their flashlights.

“The security in this place is very, very good,” Oliver said quietly as they made their way through the shadowed gallery. “I’m impressed that you were able to get into that lab without rezzing alarms. I had no idea lock picking was being taught in para-archaeology classes these days.”

“It isn’t. I was homeschooled in that particular skill. My moms believed in giving their daughters a well-rounded education.”

“Your mothers being the proprietors of Griffin Investigations.”

“You have done your research.”

“You’ve been in the news a lot recently.”

“Who knew that getting abducted by pirates and forced to work an illegal archaeological site would make so many headlines?”

“Are you kidding?” Oliver was clearly amused. “The story had it all. Drama. Danger. Alien archaeology. Artifacts of unknown power. It even had pirates and a heroic dust bunny.”

She smiled at that. “Pretty sure it was the dust bunny that brought in the big headlines at the end.”

“Everyone loves dust bunnies.”

“Except creeps who use them to test Alien artifacts.”

“Creeps like the members of the Society,” Oliver concluded.

“Trust me, I’m going to make sure Bullinger knows what I saw in that lab. The endowment fund and the board will have to sever their connections to the Society.”

“Are you always this optimistic?”

“It’s not a question of optimism. It’s a matter of professional ethics.”

“Uh-huh.”

There was a suspicious note of cynical amusement in his voice. She glanced at him over her shoulder.

“You don’t think the university will act?” she asked.

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

She was about to deliver a short lecture on the rules and regulations that governed endowment funds, but they had reached the door that opened onto the hallway that led to the ballroom. She stopped.

“Why don’t you go first?” she said. “It would probably be best if we aren’t seen coming out of the gallery together.”

“Don’t worry, no one will notice us.”

Before she could ask him what made him so certain of that, she felt his hand wrap around her arm, strong and firm. She sensed a subtle shift of energy in the atmosphere and knew that he had just rezzed his paranormal senses.

He opened the door and steered her down the hallway and into the crowded ballroom.

Not a single head turned. No one appeared to notice them. She was fascinated. Oliver was powerful enough to envelop her in the cloak of his energy field. For all intents and purposes, they might as well have been invisible.

“That,” she said quietly, “is a very useful talent, given your line of work.”

“Comes in handy,” he agreed. “But what interests me is that you saw me this evening.”

“It’s not like you are actually invisible. You’re just very good at fading into a crowd.”

“Not that good, apparently. Everyone else was ignoring me, but not you.”

“Oh, I see what you mean. Well, I knew you were watching me. That made me curious.”

“See, that’s the part that I find fascinating,” he said. “You knew I was watching you.”

She waved that aside. “There’s no mystery about it. I got that vibe you get when you know you’re being watched, that tingle on the back of your neck.”

“Most people would not have gotten it. Not when I’m the one doing the watching.”

“You’re that strong?” she asked, amused.

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” she asked.

Before he could respond, the chandeliers dimmed three times. An expectant hush fell over the crowd.

“Finally,” she said. “That’s the signal. This is the part where I do my job. As soon as I’m finished, I’m going home.”

“Need a ride?”

“No, thank you,” she said, aware of a small pang of regret. It would be interesting to see what kind of car an antiquities thief drove. Actually, it would be even more interesting to spend a little more time with this particular thief. “The Society booked a limo for me.”

“You can tell whoever asks that you made other arrangements.”

She thought about that. “I suppose I could. On the other hand, if you get caught tonight and I happened to be with you, my entire career would explode in my face.”

“You already risked your career once this evening by breaking into the lab and freeing the dust bunnies.”

She winced. “There is that.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t get caught.”

She was about to point out his faulty logic—there was no way he could know for certain he wouldn’t get caught—when a tall, lean thirtysomething man in an elegantly tailored tux loped easily up the steps at the side of the stage and stopped in front of the curtain. He did not have to introduce himself. Everyone in the room knew who he was. Preston Tripp, wealthy tech-bro entrepreneur, the founder and CEO of a wildly successful start-up focused on gaming apps.

“Good evening, members of the Society,” he intoned. “I am honored to act as your master of ceremonies tonight. In that role, I am pleased to announce that we have come to the moment everyone, especially the candidates for membership in the Society, has been waiting for—the judging of the submissions.”

A ripple of anticipation and applause interrupted him. When the room quieted again, he continued.

“As you know, each candidate has offered an artifact for consideration. The objects have all been deemed authentic and of extraordinary rarity by our own museum curators. But in order to confirm their opinion and reassure everyone involved, the board requested that Hollister University provide us with an expert from their academic staff.”

Oliver leaned in very close to Leona and whispered in her ear. “How did you get so lucky?”

“Haven’t you heard?” she muttered. “I’m temporarily famous.”

“Not just any expert,” Tripp continued, “but a very special member of the Department of Para-Archaeology, none other than Professor Leona Griffin. You will all recognize the name. Dr. Griffin was one of three scientists on the ill-fated Hollister Expedition. She is credited with protecting her colleagues and a cache of unique artifacts while they waited for rescue.”

There was a round of polite applause. The audience was getting impatient. Leona gritted her teeth. Not much longer.

Tripp smiled down at Leona and gestured toward the steps. “If you will be so kind as to join me on the stage, Dr. Griffin?”

“Wish me luck,” she murmured to Oliver.

“You’ll be fine,” he said.

She started toward the steps but hesitated when she felt his hand on her elbow. For a chaotic few seconds she wondered if he was planning to make both of them invisible again.

“What are you—?” she began.

But Oliver did not rez his talent. Instead, he escorted her to the bottom step, released her, and stepped back. When she made it to the stage she glanced back. He had not exactly vanished into the crowd, but those around him were ignoring him. He really was the perfect thief, she thought. You would never see him coming.

Once again she had to remind herself that she was a trained para-archaeologist, dedicated to the preservation and study of important artifacts. People in her profession did not admire antiquities thieves. On the contrary, they helped the authorities catch them whenever possible.

There was no more time to contemplate her mixed feelings about Oliver Rancourt, because Tripp was greeting her and signaling to the stage crew.

“The curtain, please,” he ordered with a dramatic gesture.

The heavy amber drapes slid aside, revealing five transparent display stands. An object draped in black cloth was positioned on top of each of the stands.

“Uncover Submission Number One,” Tripp commanded.

Two people—members of the Society’s staff, judging by their formal attire and white gloves—stepped forward to raise the first black cloth. A large, round, elaborately faceted gray crystal was revealed.

“If you please, Dr. Griffin?” Tripp urged.

She stepped forward, kicked up her senses a little, and confirmed what she had already concluded with an initial visual exam.

“A fine example of crystal unique to the Ghost City ruins,” she said, automatically sliding into her authoritative academic voice. “Alien tuning. There is definitely power locked inside. Purpose unknown.”

She did not add that Hollister’s museum had a dozen similar objects securely stored in the basement vault—which was where this one should be. True, objects of power that had been engineered by the Aliens were notoriously difficult for humans to activate. That was a good thing, because such artifacts were inherently unpredictable and dangerous. Still. They should be in safekeeping. There were laws.

But everyone knew the laws were routinely flouted and ignored by collectors. Artifacts judged to contain any degree of energy were sought after on both the legitimate and the black markets.

“Thank you, Dr. Griffin,” Tripp said. “Candidate Number One is hereby accepted into the Society.”

More applause.

The drapery was removed from the next pedestal, revealing a brilliant quartz mirror. In spite of her desire to finish her job and leave, she could not resist a smile of appreciation.

“Very nice,” she said. “Definitely of Alien origin. There is some power inside. As usual, purpose unknown.”

“Candidate Number Two is hereby accepted into the Society,” Tripp declared.

There was another wave of polite applause.

The drape was removed from the third pedestal. Leona took one look at the very charming blue amber necklace and winced.

“A pretty piece,” she said. “But it is, to put it politely, a reproduction.”

“A fake,” Tripp stated.

“I’m afraid so.”

Tripp looked pleased. “Your opinion confirms that of our in-house experts, Dr. Griffin.”

This time there was a roar of laughter from the audience. She sighed. Obviously the fake relic had been inserted into the lineup as a test to see if she knew what she was doing. If she hadn’t already been pissed off because of the captive dust bunnies, the disrespect would have triggered her temper. She reminded herself that her job was to finish the authentication process and go home—in a limo that had been paid for by the Society. Maybe she would dismiss the ride and accept Oliver’s offer.

She dealt with the fourth submission—a decent example of dreamstone sculpture—and moved to the last pedestal.

She sensed the vibe before the drapery was removed. There was only a thin trickle of energy, but when she rezzed her talent, the frissons struck her senses like small shocks of lightning.

Whatever was under the drape was Old World in origin, not Alien. It was also powerful.

As badly as she wanted to leave, she knew she could not have walked away from object number five without satisfying her professional curiosity. She had to know what was under the drape.

At Tripp’s command, the attendants removed the cloth. Whispers of surprise followed by astonishment swept across the audience. She did not blame the onlookers for being startled by the sight of the seemingly unimpressive artifact. She was, too.

At first glance it looked like a solid brick of opaque blue-green glass. Approximately ten inches long, perhaps six inches wide, and three inches tall, the object reflected light in a way that made it difficult to see the subtle wavelike pattern in the stone.

Not a glass brick, she thought. A glass box. And not just any box.

A thrill of knowing dazzled her senses. Fortunately her back was turned to the audience. That gave her a few seconds to get her expression under control.

“Well, Dr. Griffin?” Tripp prompted.

She made a show of walking slowly around the pedestal, examining the relic from all sides, giving herself another moment to decide just how much to say. She was fairly certain that the individual who had submitted the box knew its true value. She had to assume the Society’s experts had also identified it, so there was no point trying to pretend it was an unimpressive artifact.

“A most unusual object,” she said in her best lecturing tones. “Old World origin, not Alien, of course.”

Tripp’s eyes glittered with anticipation.

“Can you offer any further information on the object?” he prompted.

He sounded impatient. That confirmed her conclusion—the higher-ups in the Society were well aware of the true value of the box. There was no point finessing her professional opinion.

She turned to face the audience. Time to go for the drama. That was, after all, what everyone wanted from her.

“I must congratulate the Society,” she said. “Candidate Number Five has presented you with a truly remarkable Old World artifact, the object known as Pandora’s box. Circa the early twenty-first century, Old World date.” She smiled a cool smile. “Not the box of the ancient myth, of course. This is most certainly an example of human engineering, but it is a legend in its own right.”

Stunned shock froze the audience for a couple of beats. But Tripp’s expression was one of cool satisfaction.

“Nice work, Professor,” he said under the cover of applause.

“It belongs in a museum,” she snapped.

“Agreed. Don’t worry, it will be safe inside the Society’s vault.”

“Where no one except members of the Society can see it or study it.”

Tripp pretended he hadn’t heard her.

“Can we discuss provenance?” she asked sweetly.

Tripp ignored her again.

While she waited for the crowd to settle down, she glanced toward the side of the stage, looking for Oliver. She was interested to see how he was taking her verdict.

He was nowhere in sight.

She heightened her talent again, trying to pick him out of the throng of excited people near the stage. He was not in the vicinity. He truly had vanished.

It occurred to her that a smart thief would probably take advantage of the distraction caused by the crowd’s excitement to return to the gallery and help himself to whatever he wanted to steal. That, she thought, was what she would have done—if she were an antiquities thief.

Considering the fact that many of the items in the Society’s museum had been acquired under suspicious circumstances, she felt no obligation to alert Tripp or the security guards.

Tripp took charge of the room, gradually bringing things under control.

“Thank you for confirming the analysis of our in-house experts, Dr. Griffin. The Society is delighted to accept the Old World object known as Pandora’s box into our collection, and Candidate Number Five is hereby admitted to our organization.”

“Happy to have been of service,” Leona said through her teeth.

She turned to make her way off the stage. She had done her job. Now she could go home. For some ridiculous reason she found herself wondering where Oliver Rancourt called home. Common sense warned her that it was probably not a good idea to indulge her curiosity about him, but curiosity was one of her defining personality traits. Everyone in her family said so.

“One moment, please, Professor,” Tripp said. “We’re not quite finished.”

Reluctantly she stopped at the top of the steps and looked back at him. “What now?”

“To celebrate the occasion and to thank you for your professional opinion, Candidate Number Five requests that you have the honor of opening Pandora’s box for us.”

An icy chill stopped her breathing. This was not good. She was not certain what was happening but her intuition was slamming into the red zone. Not many people knew she had a talent for locks. It was not the sort of skill you advertised.

“I appreciate the gesture,” she said. “But while that artifact is Old World in origin, it’s sealed with a rather sophisticated psi-lock. I’m afraid you’ll need a quartz-tech lock pick to open it.”

Tripp chuckled. “Which I just happen to have with me.” He plucked a pen-shaped device out of his pocket and held it aloft for the crowd to see. There was a roar of appreciative laughter and applause. “If you please, Dr. Griffin.”

Anger flashed through her. She thought about the dust bunnies in the cage and the illegally acquired antiquities in the Society’s collection and then she gave Tripp an icy smile.

“Open it yourself,” she said.

She turned and went quickly down the stage steps before anyone could react. Her intuition was flashing warning signs. She needed to leave. Immediately.

Her instinct was to run, not walk, to the front door and escape in the limo. She had a fleeting vision of herself fleeing down the steps, long skirts whipping out behind her as she dashed to her carriage before it turned into a large orange squash. But that particular scenario required a Prince Charming standing in the doorway of the castle, a high-heeled crystal shoe in his hand.

Mentally she stomped on the romantic scenario she had conjured. Her Prince Charming tonight was an antiquities thief. People in her profession did not have romantic fantasies about antiquities thieves.

The sensible thing to do would be to slip through the crowd while it was paying attention to Tripp and then exit through a side entrance.

A few heads turned her way as she reached the edge of the crowd, but most of the audience was focused on Tripp.

“I have just been informed that Candidate Number Five, who presented us with Pandora’s box, will not be going through the ceremony with the others,” he announced. “The individual has retracted the application for membership and has withdrawn the artifact from consideration. Therefore, Pandora’s box will not be opened.”

There was an audible gasp from the crowd, followed by a tide of disbelief.

Okay, that was weird, Leona thought. Membership in the Society was highly coveted in the collecting world. But everyone knew collectors were frequently off-the-charts eccentric. She hated to see the box vanish back into someone’s private vault, but if the Society had taken possession of it, its fate would have been the same. It would have ended up in a private vault.

She took one last look around to make sure no one was paying attention to her and then slipped into the shadowed hallway marked Restrooms . Earlier, when she had used the facility to freshen up, she had noticed an emergency exit sign at the end of the corridor. She would override the alarm system long enough to slip outside without being noticed, make her way around to the sweeping driveway in front of the mansion, and locate the limo that had been booked for her.

She reached the end of the hallway, turned the corner, and saw the exit. There was a large sign. Opening Door Will Sound Alarm.

She was almost at her destination when she saw the stream of blood on the floor.

Stunned, she stopped short and traced the crimson river to its source. It was seeping out from underneath a closed door. She stilled. The very last thing she wanted to do was open the door. But she had no choice. Someone was inside, someone who desperately needed help.

Trying to keep her shoes out of the blood stream, she gripped the handle and opened the door. She found herself gazing into a large vintage pantry. There were no canned or packaged goods on the shelves, but there was an array of dishes, kitchen utensils, and cutlery.

The body of a woman was sprawled on the floor. She was wearing a caterer’s uniform. A bloodstained knife lay nearby.