The Key

The emergency lights turned everything the color of a bruise. White and harsh one second, then flickering to that sickly amber that made everyone look dead. Someone was screaming. A table went over with a crash that echoed off the rafters. I stood in the middle of it all, the chaos moving around me like water around a stone, and I couldn't stop staring at my own palm.

The key was small. Old. The iron had gone nearly black with age, but the bow was ornate—twisted filigree that looked like thorns wrapped around a crescent moon. It sat in my hand like it had been there forever. Like it had always been there, waiting for me to notice.