Project Pandora

by Aden Polydoros

  Oh, please, just kill me now, she thought, smiling and nodding, polite as always.

  As the old man ranted, he leaned in closer to her. His breath reeked of gingivitis and brandy, and his gaze never went above her bra line.

  He paused halfway through the conversation to compliment her, as if her appearance had anything to do with the liberal agenda. “Has anyone ever told you that you have beautiful hair, dear? Most people don’t have hair that light, at least not naturally.”

  She resisted the urge to groan aloud. If she wasn’t being complimented on her flaxen hair, it was her blue eyes, or her skin, or her smile, when she knew the speaker was only interested in what lay beneath her silk gown.

  “What I can’t stand is people who dye their hair,” the old man said, lifting his caterpillar eyebrows at her. “It’s such a disappointment when the drapes don’t match the carpet, if you catch my drift.”

  With some difficulty, she managed not to projectile vomit in his face, therefore saving the other guests the trouble of calling an exorcist. Once she thought it polite to do so, she took a step back, only to bump into something hard and unmoving. A hand closed around her shoulder, steadying her.

  “Careful,” said a low, rolling voice, rich with amusement.

  “Pardon me.” She turned to face the man who the hand belonged to—and froze at the sight of him.

  The stranger was not a man at all but a teen who looked no older than her seventeen years. The boy’s face could have belonged to any one of the angels adorning the frescoed ceiling above, if not for his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw. Those feral touches in his skull’s architecture, combined with his ink-black hair, made him seem better suited for the role of Lucifer, post-fall.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, subconsciously aware that she was gawking at him. Even his ill-fitting shirt and dress pants couldn’t conceal the iron hardness of his body.

  The boy favored her with a dazzling smile. “Don’t apologize.”

  The geezer sputtered in outrage, his face growing red. “Miss Hawthorne and I were in the middle of a private conversation.”

  “Your conversation is over now, sir,” the boy said pleasantly, but the warmth was restrained purely to his voice.

  The old man looked like he wanted to argue, then sighed and shambled off, muttering on about the impudence of youth.

  “Thanks for saving me,” she whispered, stepping closer to the gorgeous boy. “I’m Elizabeth Hawthorne. Senator Hawthorne’s daughter.”

  “I know who you are, Elizabeth.” His velvety timbre transformed her name into a lyric. Most people said her name in a hurry, just to get it over with, but he’d pronounced each syllable individually, turning it into something melodic and exotic. Ah-leis-uh-bith.

  She waited for the boy to introduce himself. When he didn’t, she decided to give him a little encouragement. “What’s your name?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  She laughed. “Then what can I call you, oh nameless stranger?”

  “Hades.” He grinned.

  Less than a week ago, she had learned about the myth of Orpheus in her English class, and now she found herself thinking back to the lesson. She recalled that Hades was both the Greek underworld and the deity who ruled it.

  What kind of parents named their child after a god of death?

  Deciding that it would be impolite to ask him about his name’s origin, she held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Hades.”

  He gently took her hand and kissed the sapphire heirloom ring she wore. As his soft lips brushed against her skin, her cheeks burned. She had expected him to shake her hand or just ignore the gesture, as some rude men liked to do.

  As he released her hand, her shock receded into disappointment at how quickly the moment had ended.

  “Do you always kiss the hands of people you’ve just met?” She prayed that her blush wasn’t as noticeable as it felt.

  “Isn’t that how people do it around here?” he asked, earning a chuckle from her.

  “I think you’re a hundred years too late for that. Most people just say hello and stare at their iPhones.”

  As she took a closer look, she realized that his name wasn’t the only thing intriguing about him. His face was memorable, both in its breathtaking beauty and in the unusual sharpness of his jaw and cheekbones. Not to mention those remarkable blue eyes.

  For no reason at all, her stomach fluttered with a sudden nervousness. She was almost certain she had seen him somewhere before, but where?

  “Enjoying the banquet so far?” she asked.

  “I will soon,” Hades said, looking around him. His grin softened into an amused smirk. “It’s funny, isn’t it? A fundraiser for impoverished families, taking place in a venue like this.”

  She wasn’t really sure how he wanted her to answer. It had struck her as ironic, too, but she wouldn’t have imagined voicing her thoughts aloud.

  “I really don’t see what’s so special about it,” he said. “I just don’t see it.”

  She was accustomed to people talking about themselves to her, so the fact that the conversation was one-sided didn’t surprise her. Usually, she knew when to interject with a polite question or a sympathetic nod. Not tonight.

  “I’m hungry,” he said suddenly. “Are you hungry?”

  “I’m fine,” Elizabeth demurred. “I already ate.”

  “You’re hungry,” Hades decided.

  She laughed. “No, really, I’m fine.”

  “You just nibbled your lip. And now you’re doing it again.”

  She was mortified that he had noticed. Her mother always chastised her for the bad habit.

  “Are you a mind reader?” she teased.

  “No, but I’m good at reading people.” Then he turned and started walking, and like a marionette whose strings he had looped around his fingers, Elizabeth followed.

  She didn’t know why she felt compelled to go with Hades. There was just something about him. He possessed a magnetism that drew her in and kept her bound to him.

  At the buffet table, he surveyed the vast array of dishes.

  “I have no idea what any of these are,” he admitted, offering her another charming smile.

  “Well, that’s called a crostini,” she said as he picked up one of the toasted open-faced sandwiches. “And that chocolate-covered ball right next to it is a cream puff. I had one of those earlier. They’re really good.”

  Suddenly, she realized he wasn’t dressed like any of the other guests in attendance. His buttoned shirt was expensive, but it fit poorly, too tight around the shoulders and neck, as if it had been tailored for someone else. As for his pants, they weren’t dress pants at all but black denim. He wore heavy tactical boots crusted with mud.

  He didn’t belong at the banquet. How had he gotten in here without an invitation?

  “These are pretty good, even if they’re just toast,” Hades said, sampling the crostini. “Try one.”

  He took another crostini from the display and held it to her lips, breaking about ten rules of conduct in a single instant. She should have politely declined but instead found herself leaning forward and taking a bite out of the crostini. He was just too alluring to refuse.

  When there wasn’t enough bread left for him to hold without being bitten, he handed the appetizer to her. Aware that she was drawing attention to herself, she finished it off in tidy bites, cupping her hand under her mouth to catch any stray crumbs.

  Hades laughed. “Do you always eat like this?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “You’re so elegant,” he said. “It’s almost forced.”

  “I just don’t want to make a mess.”

  “Who cares about that?” he asked, taking a bite of a cream puff.

  As he licked the whipped cream from his lips, Elizabeth found her gaze drawn to them. They were almost as full as a woman’s lips, with an elegant cupid’s bow.

  She wondered what it would be like to kiss them.

 
As if sensing her train of thought, an amused smirk flitted across those irresistible lips. “Nobody’s even looking at us. Why come to a party if you’re not going to enjoy yourself?”

  “It’s a fundraiser,” she said, deciding not to point out that more than a few women in attendance were currently checking him out.

  “Does this look like a fundraiser to you?” he asked.

  “You have a point,” Elizabeth said. “Hades isn’t your real name, is it?”

  “Who needs names?” Hades leaned in closer and lowered his voice to a soft, seductive murmur, as if sharing an intimate secret with her. “They’re proof of ownership, you know.” Staring into her eyes, he brushed a strand of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear. In the process, his fingertips stroked against her cheek.

  He was close enough now that Elizabeth could smell him. His woodsy cologne only partially camouflaged his own natural scent—a hot, smoky fragrance like burnt spices and autumn bonfires. And spent gunpowder.

  For some reason that aroma, when paired with those intense, almost violet eyes made her feel at the edge of a precipice. Nostalgia. A great revelation.

  Feeling self-conscious for no reason at all, she looked down to avoid meeting his unwavering gaze. She noticed a black mark on the inner wrist of his left arm that his shirtsleeve partially concealed.

  “You definitely don’t belong at this party,” she said, smiling.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Your left arm.”

  He looked down, then chuckled and drew back the sleeve. “Oh. You mean this?”

  The mark she had seen was part of a larger tattoo that consisted of clusters of small black lines arranged in a row. For every group of four vertical lines, a single horizontal line cut through them.

  “Are those tally marks?” she asked.

  “Something like that.”

  She counted them. There were three of those five-line clusters, and two vertical lines set apart from the rest. Seventeen tallies total.

  “Why seventeen?” she asked.

  “It’s the number of people I’ve killed,” Hades said with a warm smile.

  Elizabeth laughed. “Funny. Let me guess, one for each birthday?”

  “I am seventeen, but that’s not the right answer.”

  As he reached for a second cream puff, she noticed a second tattoo, this time on his right wrist.

  “Wait, what’s that one supposed to be?” she asked.

  He glanced back at her. “What?”

  She took his right arm, turned it upward, and tapped a finger against his smooth white skin. Like the other tattoo, this mark was rendered in black ink, small and inconspicuous. She had to turn her head to read it. A-02.

  “An epitaph,” Hades said.

  Just as Elizabeth was going to ask him what he meant by that, a phone rang. He paused, then retrieved a black cell phone from his pocket. It surprised her to see that he used a cheap flip phone, when nobody she knew carried around such an ancient relic.

  “Pardon me, Elizabeth,” he said, flipped open the phone, and lifted it to his ear. His gaze flickered past her, around the room, then back again, and his smile faded into a cold line.

  “One second, sir.” Hades lowered the phone, pressing his palm against the speaker to shield it from sound. “I need to take this call. Is there somewhere quieter?”

  She led him through the crowds of people and under the ballroom’s massive crystal chandelier. Watching him from the corner of her eye, she noticed a peculiar quirk about the way he walked. While he allowed his left arm to swing freely, he kept his right arm at his side, steady, as if prepared to reach for something at his waist. She wondered if he suffered from an injury that restricted his mobility.

  She walked through a pair of French doors and stopped at the balcony that overlooked the golfing green. The night air was crisp and cool, seasoned with the aromas of freshly cut grass and the roses that grew in terra-cotta urns along the balcony’s edge.

  The ballroom chatter was just a murmur now, softer than the sound of the water sprinklers below.

  “I’m still here, Zeusy,” Hades said, raising the cell phone to his ear once more. He rolled his eyes at something the caller said. “Don’t have an aneurysm just yet. I’m listening. Philadelphia?”

  When she turned to go back inside, he gently touched her wrist and shook his head.

  Stay, he mouthed.

  She leaned against the balcony, waiting for him to finish the call. A light breeze nipped her bare shoulders, and she rubbed her arms to warm herself.

  “I see,” Hades said. “Is he part of the project?”

  As he listened to the person on the other line, there was a subtle change in his expression. His thickly lashed eyes narrowed, and his lips parted to reveal a hint of milk-white teeth. His smile became something different, something dangerous.

  It was the smile of a panther on the prowl.

  Goose bumps rose on Elizabeth’s arms. She had a feeling the chill she felt wasn’t just from the wind.

  “I love sending messages,” Hades purred, resting a hand on the balcony’s edge. “Yes, I understand. I’ll pick it up and leave immediately.”

  He hung up the phone and returned it to his pocket. As he turned to her, she found herself fixated by his gaze once more. There was a coldness in his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before.

  “I need to go,” he said.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked, wondering what kind of message he was supposed to deliver.

  “It’s fine.” The iciness in his gaze thawed, and his smile warmed again. “I wish I could stay longer, but my presence is needed elsewhere. It was a pleasure meeting you, Elizabeth Hawthorne.”

  Hades leaned forward, and this time she was prepared for what he intended to do. His lips brushed against her cheek in a kiss that was even briefer than the one he had planted on her ring finger. Again, she detected that irresistible aroma of his, like smoke and fire. By the time the fragrance faded from her nostrils, he was gone.

  ...

  The jostle and bump of tires against cobblestone shook Elizabeth back into reality. Realizing that she had dozed off in the backseat, she yawned and wiped her eyes, sitting up. “Are we home yet?”

  “Yes,” her father said curtly from the front seat.

  She squinted through the window, watching as the house emerged from the darkness. The brick walls were pale yellow in daylight, but the moon drained them of their pigment, leaving them the color of sun-bleached bone. The lawn was a pitch-black sea.

  As she stepped down from the car, she winced at the ache in her feet. She couldn’t wait to get out of her heels and take a nice, hot shower.

  She didn’t make it more than ten feet into the house before her mother and father confronted her simultaneously.

  “We need to talk, Elizabeth,” her mother said, crossing her arms.

  “About what?” she asked.

  Her mother spared a fleeting glance at her father, as though they were about to have a long talk and she wasn’t sure how to bring it about.

  “I saw that little display of yours tonight, Elizabeth,” her father said bluntly.

  “Display?”

  “So, who was he?” he asked, crossing his arms. He had gelled back his brown hair, but a few stiff curls refused to be tamed; they hung over his narrowed eyes like the tails of dead mice.

  “Who was who?” she asked, baffled.

  With a frustrated sigh and a quick head flick to stir the hair from his face, he said, “Who was that boy you went off with?”

  Elizabeth winced. She never should have waited outside with Hades. She hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but now she realized her absence had been noticed.

  “I don’t know his name,” she lied. The last thing she needed was to get him into trouble, especially if he was actually on the guest list. “It’s not like we did anything. He needed to make a phone call, so I showed him where the balcony was. That was all.”

&nb
sp; At the memory of his teasing smile and smoldering gaze, she felt a stirring in the pit of her stomach. She squeezed her thighs together and crossed her arms.

  “What have I told you about behaving yourself in public?” her father asked, and she resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

  Whenever her parents had the opportunity to, they would remind her to behave. Be polite, be kind. Carry herself like the daughter of a senator, as if that really meant anything.

  Behave. Behave. Behave. Repeated so many times, over and over, until whenever she did something, she involuntarily thought, Is this how a senator’s daughter is supposed to act? Is this how I’m supposed to behave? Am I doing it right? Will this cause a scandal?

  Elizabeth hated it. She hated being saddled with her parents’ expectations. She hated the mask she had to wear wherever she went and the smiles that looked real but rarely felt real. Most of all, she hated the fear that someday she would mess up, do something wrong, and not even realize it until it was too late.

  “How many times do I have to tell you?” she asked. “We didn’t do anything. What do you want, Dad? You want me to never talk to guys? I’m not a nun!”

  “There’s only a month left until the election,” her father said. “One month. Do you realize how important it is that I present the image of a clean, wholesome nuclear family? Do you?” He gripped her by the shoulders, fingers digging deeper with each question. “Answer me. Do you? I mean, seriously, how stupid can you be, sneaking off with some boy? Do you understand why you’re here? What you’re supposed to do, how you’re supposed to be? How you’re meant to behave?”

  “Larry, let’s not get into this now,” her mother said, shifting timidly from foot to foot. “It’s been a long night.”

  “No, she needs to understand this.” His hands tightened, and his nails bit into her skin. “What there is at stake. We’ve given up so much for this. I’m not going to let her ruin it.”

  “Larry, you’re just tired,” her mother stated.

  “Let go of me,” Elizabeth demanded quietly, anger welling up inside her.

  “What did you say to me?”

  “Let go of me!” Her hands shot out of their own volition, shoving him away from her. She’d never raised her voice to either of them before, and she could tell just by looking at them how shocked they were. She didn’t care.