For a moment, I stared at the sphere in horrified shock. The metal felt almost painfully cold against my fingers and palms, as if it had been sitting on ice. The engravings looked dark against the gray surface in the dim light, and a weird shiver spread up my arms like a faint current of electricity. When nothing else happened, I breathed a sigh of relief.

Then I gasped.

The sphere began to split apart along the lines of the engravings, like the skin of a spiral-peeled orange. Beneath the thin strip of text, a glow like the fierce light of an arc welder shone forth.

Reflexively, I dropped the sphere to shield my eyes, but to my horror the thing seemed to come apart in my hands, the coiled script stretching between my palms like a loose spring.

I screamed as pain lanced through my hands and the script melted into my flesh. It snaked up my arms, burning like fire that raced over my wrists and spiraled to my shoulders. I fell to my knees as it spread across my chest and joined around my throat, cutting off my breath. Black spots and stars exploded in my vision, blinding me, and I fell back into a darkness like deep water at night.

~

I awoke with my eyes still shut, pain beating like a drum in my temples. At first I had no sense of where I was, but gradually memory crept back, starting with the evening I'd spent with Ben.

For a few confused moments, I found myself deep in the past, waking with a hangover after a night of torturous socializing at Ben's side. Then I recalled our dinner, the break-in, Pete's attack, and the sphere.

Reluctantly, I forced my eyes open.

The house was dark and still. I lay where I'd fallen near the front door, artifacts and debris strewn around me. The pale light of pre-dawn shone through the window, and cool ocean air tumbled in through the broken panes.

I sat up, shivering. I had no idea what time the break-in had happened, nor how long I might have been out, but my bare feet and arms were freezing.

I rubbed my hands over them as I got to my feet, caught sight of myself in the shadow-mirrors, and froze.

The script from the sphere was on my skin. It spiraled from my hands to my shoulders, joining around the base of my throat and trailing over my chest and down my back. The markings were white against my bronze skin, like old scars. I stared in mixed horror and awe. In a way, they were beautiful: delicate, intricate, and fascinating. In another, they were terrifying: I had no idea what they meant, or what they might do to me.

I ran my hands over the markings, but the skin felt smooth and no trace remained of the pain I'd felt when the sphere first touched me.

It occurred to me that if I touched it again, the markings might return to its surface. The problem with this idea was that there was no sign of it anywhere.

I searched the floor where I'd fallen, every surface, drawer, and cupboard, and even the storeroom where the sphere's box sat open. Pete had been right, it seemed: the sphere had been the target. But where was it now?

Finally, I gave up. I needed to report the break-in or there might be hang-ups with the insurance company. Upstairs, I plugged in my phone, turned it on, and called 911. Pulling on a sweatshirt to cover the marks on my arms, I returned downstairs to wait for the police. I wanted to start cleaning up, but I figured I should leave things as they were until the cops finished their report.

In the end, it was an anticlimactic affair. Two officers arrived about a quarter-hour later, inspected the premises, declared it clear, and took my statement. Of course, I didn't mention anything about Pete or the sphere, instead saying that the intruder had been scared off by a noise from outside.

They then went next door and spoke to Valerie, who'd come out when the squad cars arrived to see what was going on. Apparently she'd heard nothing unusual and had no useful information to share, but did manage to complain for a good half hour about rising crime rates and the impact on tourism.

Once the police were gone, I dug through Uncle Theo's desk until I found his insurance policy and called the number. An agent would be out within the week, I was informed.

I wandered through the wreckage of the museum, wondering where to begin. Probably collecting all the stuff Pete had thrown outside. On the porch, I bent to pick up a pocket watch, its hands frozen at the time of its previous owner's death, and realized that my own hands were shaking.

Suddenly every feeling I'd been holding back rushed over me like a wave breaching a sea wall. The aftermath of terror and the sense of violation—of my home by the intruder, of my person by whatever the sphere had done—threatened to overwhelm me. I collapsed on the top step, shivering violently and wondering if I was belatedly going into shock, or just coming out of it.

I needed to call someone, I realized—tell someone what had happened. Not just about the break-in, but about the sphere as well. Someone who would know what to do.

The only person who fit that bill was my godmother. Dr. Chissaud had studied magical traditions long enough to know what was real and what wasn't. She was a skeptic and a realist; a scientist who believed the evidence she could see with her own eyes, and she'd seen plenty. She wasn't the most emotionally available person, but at least she'd believe me.

I pulled out my phone and opened my recent calls list. There weren't many, but, even so, my godmother's would be a ways down. I put my finger to the screen to scroll, and accidentally touched Ben's number. My phone instantly initiated a call. Cursing the device to Hell, I dropped it in my haste, and when I snatched it up again I saw with horror it had connected. He'd picked up.

"Ari?"

"Uh, hey, B-Ben," I stammered.

"Hey! What's up?" He sounded pleased I'd called.

"Um...n-nothing." My voice shook. "Actually, I d-didn't mean to—I mean, I..." I took a breath.

"Are you okay? You sound funny."

I waited too long to answer.

"Ari, what's wrong? Did something happen?"

"S-someone broke into my house last night. Well, into the museum," I said.

"Oh my God! Are you all right?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine... Actually, I d-didn't mean to call you. I accidentally touched your n-number and the phone j-just..."

"Hey, no, it's no problem. I'll come over."

"What?" I panicked. "No! I'm fine, really. There's no need—"

"Wait—I'm serious. You're alone there, right? And I'm done with the conference anyway. I'll be right over."

"Ben—" He'd hung up. I stared at the phone's dark screen, thinking it was more trouble than any cursed object. At least the accidental call had distracted me from my imminent breakdown, and I felt able to stand and continue collecting objects off the porch and the front lawn.

I'd gathered most of the silver spoons, the cricket ball, the watches, and a dozen tiny antique keys by the time Ben's ride dropped him off. He walked up the short path, took one look at the broken window and busted doorframe, stepped up to me and took me in his arms.

The gesture was so sudden, so unexpected in its warmth, that I found myself struggling to swallow back tears. He felt me shudder and pulled back, holding me at arm's length.

"Hey, you sure you're okay? You're not hurt?"

I shook my head, mortified as I lost the battle and tears spilled down my cheeks.

"Let's go inside." He took my elbow and led me into the foyer, stopping in his tracks when he saw the destruction. "Jesus! What the hell?"

"To be fair, Pete did most of this," I said, wiping at my face with my sleeve.

"Pete?"

"The poltergeist, remember?"

Ben had been a staunch skeptic when we'd first met, and exposing him to the various paranormal realities housed in my uncle's museum had been both a challenge and something of a pleasure. He'd never been entirely comfortable with any of it, though, and I still didn't know if he believed me that Pete was more than just old plumbing and drafty windows.

He cast me a sidelong look. "Oh, right. I remember." He stepped over the pile of broken glass below the window, inspecting the empty panes. Turning, he ran his hand over the split frame and the broken front door. "Pete did this, too?"

"No...that was the burglar. Well, and me. And Pete."

Ben raised a quizzical brow, lips twisted in a wry grin. "Sounds like quite the night." When I didn't laugh, his expression softened. "Want to tell me about it?"

I didn't, and I did.

"Actually...I haven't eaten anything since last night," I said. It was almost noon, and I realized part of my emotional fragility might be due to low blood sugar as much as trauma, at this point. "Are you hungry? Let me make us some sandwiches first."

"Good idea," he said. "But I'll make the sandwiches. You just sit."

We went upstairs to the kitchen. At least no trace of the disturbance had reached this part of the house, and I relaxed.

"Wow, this is nice," Ben said, looking it over.

We'd remodeled the year before, putting in a deep porcelain sink, blue granite countertops and dining bar, and white glass-faced cabinets. A large Wedgewood stove occupied one side, and a collection of antique cast iron skillets hung on a rack above. It was a pleasant mix of antique and modern, certainly not up to Valerie's standards for authenticity, but comfortable and elegant. Uncle Theo had left the design choices to me, and I was somewhat proud of the result.

"You still like grilled cheese?" he asked, taking down one of the skillets.

"Of course," I said. One does not simply stop liking grilled cheese.

"So, what happened?" he asked, opening the fridge and rummaging for the butter and sliced cheddar.

I told him. It was actually easier to talk while he was busy, turned away towards the stove or leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, spatula in hand. I hesitated when I got to the part with the sphere, but then decided not to hold anything back. Ben's eyes widened when I described blacking out and waking up covered in strange markings.

"Shouldn't you have gone to the hospital, or—or, I don't know, a witch doctor, or something?" he asked.

The sandwiches were finished, and he set mine in front of me on a plate, the golden-brown bread cut diagonally, the way I liked.

I couldn't help but laugh. "I don't know any witch doctors," I said, "and I don't know what a regular doctor could do, since I'm not really injured." I picked up my sandwich and took a bite. It was delicious, made more so by my acute hunger, and I finished it in under a minute.

"Can I see?" Ben asked.

The markings, he meant. I hesitated, then shrugged. "Sure, if you want."

I stood and pulled the sweater over my head, revealing the sleeveless tee I wore beneath. He swore at the sight of the lines of strange script encircling my arms, tracing them with a light touch that made goosebumps rise on my skin.

"These look like scars, or burns." He pulled up his own sleeve to show me a crescent-shaped scar below his elbow. Like my markings, it was starkly white, but didn't show quite so lividly against his already pale skin. "I got this when I was a kid, from a hot pan."

"Yeah," I agreed, "but I got these hours ago, not years."

He turned his attention back to me, pulling the neck of my shirt down to observe the trailing lines around my throat. I felt his breath on my neck as he leaned close, inspecting the marks. "Can you read them? I mean, they look like some kind of writing. Is it like, Arabic, or something?"

I shook my head. "Not Arabic, or any other script I know. I actually...I was going to call Dr. Chissaud when I, er, called you instead. I thought she might recognize it."

"I'm glad you called me," he said, letting go of my shirt and stepping back a pace. "Even if it was by accident. I wanted to see you again, after last night."

My eyes widened in surprise.

"Not like that," he assured me quickly. "I mean, I'm hoping we can be friends again and, well, the fact that you even agreed to talk to me was more than I'd hoped. I didn't tell you this last night, but I'm not just in town for a conference. I accepted a transfer to the San Francisco offices, and I've just leased an apartment about halfway between here and there. I just didn't want to spring too much on you at once, especially if you never wanted to see me again."

"What about, er, Matt?" I asked.

He chuckled. "Matt's ready to move. He's been applying for jobs in this area, and he just got a great offer from a firm in the Bay Area. He won't be joining me for a few more weeks, though."

"Oh. That...that's great news." I didn't know exactly what else to say.

His smile faded. "Are you sure you're okay?" he said. "I mean, not just with me, but like... Do you want me to stay with you tonight? If your house has been broken into twice now, I don't like the idea of leaving you alone here."

I blinked at him dumbly.

He hurried on, hands spread wide. "Or is there someone else you can call? Another friend?"

I swallowed, considering my options and what to say. He was right—I didn't want to be alone, and there was no one else to ask. My one good friend was on the other side of the country, and I had no others. At least, none close enough to ask to spend the night. "I'd...I'd like you to stay," I said. "But what about your work? Don't you have—"

He waved a hand, cutting me off. "Don't worry about that. The conference is over, as far as my involvement is concerned. No one will miss me. To be honest, I'm glad for an excuse to get out of the awful dinner they have planned. It's one of those 'networking' things, where you have to go out with a group of people you don't know. You'd hate it." He grinned.

"It sounds terrible," I agreed.

"Great. I'll help you clean up and then go get my stuff from the hotel. I'll grab us some take-out, and we can watch a movie—just like old times."

I nodded, a smile I hoped looked real stretching my lips. "Yeah, just like old times," I said.

~

It took us the better part of the afternoon to put the museum back in order. By the time the last haunted doll was settled on its shelf, and the final antique key had been discovered lodged in the mailbox post, it was after four. Ben surveyed the results of our work when we finished. A plastic sheet was taped over the broken window, and the door still didn't shut quite right, but, otherwise, we'd managed to restore things to their proper order, such as it was. Even Pete's bowling ball rested unmoving on its stand.

"Not bad," Ben said approvingly, hands on his hips. "For a creepy murder museum."

"It's not a 'murder museum,'" I objected automatically. "It's a museum of haunted objects and cursed artifacts."

Ben laughed. "I know, babe. I'm joking."

I said nothing. He seemed unaware of his slip, calling me that. Finally, I said, "Where were you staying, again?"

"Oh. The Marriott. Nice place, but this will be, er, cozier." He cast a wary eye at the shadow mirrors.

I winced but pressed on. "There's a good Mexican place on that side of town," I said. "That sound okay?"

"Sure. Call in whatever you want and I'll pick it up."

"Okay," I said.

He turned towards me, a smile on his lips. "Ari...I'm glad you called me," he said. "Of course I'm not happy about this," he gestured broadly at the room, "but...well, it really is good to see you again."

"Me too," I said, and I wasn't lying. It was good to see him again, even if under circumstances that were strange, and out of my control.

"I'll see you in a bit." He waved and trotted down the stairs and along the path to the sidewalk, just as his ride pulled up. I watched as he hopped in, exchanging some laughing comment with the driver. They sped off, vanishing down the hill and swerving onto a cross street and away.

I let my head roll back on my shoulders and sighed. It had been a long day, and as much as I didn't want to be alone, I also just...wanted to be alone. I turned and went back inside. As I closed the door and slid the bolt home, an odd shuffling noise at my back made me turn.

I spun around and found myself face to face with an old man. Tall and cadaverously thin, he was dressed in a faded black suit. Wispy white hair was plastered thinly over his mostly bald head, and eyes like endless tunnels of night fixed me with a stare that seemed to stop my heart.

"Who...are you?" I asked breathlessly.

"Don't you know me, Master Ari?" His voice sounded like something wet dragged over rough stones.

I shook my head slowly,

"Why, it's me, of course. Pete."