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Oliver waited until he was back in his apartment before he unzipped the pack and took out Pandora’s box. The artifact gleamed in the light. Now that it was once again sealed, it was, to all appearances, a solid brick of high-tech opaque blue-green glass. There was no sign of a seam or a hinge, but he could pick up the vibe of the power locked inside.

He was proficient with locks—it was a useful skill in his line of work—but he did not have Leona’s talent for flatlining sophisticated psi-locks. Few did. There were not a lot of people around who could have opened the artifact without a high-tech tool. It was not simply a matter of raw power. It required a certain delicacy and an intuitive sense of timing to identify the anchor frequency and neutralize it without triggering a potentially devastating rebound effect. In the end, power was useless without skill and control.

He set the box on a table and went into the kitchen to pour himself some whiskey. He took a long swallow, swirled the liquor in the glass, and returned to the table to contemplate the relic. The thought of the ease with which Leona had opened it made him smile. She was probably a double talent, he decided—a para-archaeologist and a locksmith.

Doubles usually tried to keep a low profile for good reasons. People reacted in unpredictable ways to others who possessed a single high-grade talent. Those reactions tended to range from unwholesome fascination to fear and distrust. Things could get downright weird when it came to doubles. Power in any form attracted some and repelled others. The stronger the power, the more forceful the reaction.

Triples, of course, alarmed everyone. They were assumed to be psychically unstable and often wound up spending most of their lives in locked para-psych wards or maximum security prisons. Many died young, often by suicide. The prevailing medical theory was that the human brain was not strong enough to handle the sensory overload that came with three paranormal talents.

But medical theories were subject to change, and there was another factor to consider. If doubles were inclined to be secretive about their para-psych profiles, it was logical to assume that a stable triple would be even more careful to stay under the medical and social psi-dar.

He took another swallow of the whiskey, set the glass down, and got the lock pick out of his pocket. The device was the latest and greatest in quartz technology, fresh out of the Foundation’s R and D lab. It was still in beta testing, but according to Wilkins, the para-engineer in charge of the lab, it should be able to handle an Old World lock, even one that had been installed by a strong psychic talent.

It took a few tries and a bit of time—the quartz lock pick was not as fast as Leona—but the lid eventually opened on soundless, concealed hinges. The combined vibes of the six crystals inside hit his senses like a small hurricane.

Six crystals. Not seven.

The whiskey-yellow pyramid was missing.

He picked up his phone and called the newest entry on his list of contacts. Leona answered immediately.

“Obviously you were expecting my call,” he said.

“I didn’t steal the pyramid. Roxy took it while you and I weren’t looking.”

“Roxy?”

“The dust bunny and I agreed on a name. She showed up on my balcony after I got home and gave me the crystal. She thinks I ought to have it.”

“We need to talk but not on the phone.”

“I know, but you’ll have to get in line tomorrow.”

“What line?”

“I’ve got a busy day. It starts with an appointment with the head of the para-archaeology department. The news of the raid is already hitting the media. Morty Bullinger just texted that he wants to see me in his office first thing in the morning. After that I’ll be joining my moms and my sister at a wedding boutique to choose mother-of-the-bride dresses. I believe I can fit you into my schedule around one o’clock.”

“You can fit me in? I’m supposed to wait until tomorrow afternoon for the return of my stolen property? I thought I made it clear, I’m leaving town tomorrow.”

“Which appointment would you prefer that I cancel? The one that directly impacts my career or the one that is absolutely essential to my sister’s wedding? By the way, in case I haven’t made it clear, this is a Covenant Marriage, not a Marriage of Convenience. Priorities, Mr. Rancourt.”

“Well, shit.”

“Thank you for your understanding. I’ll call you when I’m free.”

“Wait, whatever you do, don’t let the dust bunny make off with the crystal again—”

The phone went dead.