Death and a Phantom

Every Universe moved at its own rate. Different ages and positions within Creation meant that “past” and “future” were often a dimensional hop apart. Not that any but she or her sister could manage it with any kind of regularity.

Paris was always beautiful; and here, at this time, in this center of art and music, it was almost breathtaking. She glowed with pride in the mortals, even if these were not her mortals. She loved them regardless; their innovation and creativity and perserverance and stories. 

And what stories! Decked out in her emerald green and black lace gown, she looked like a woman in the high society, and had heard whispers from the similarly-dressed mortals of a most interesting interruption of their opera going experiences. A ghost, apparently, had been savaging the actors and audience and even the opera house itself.

A knowing, sly grin stretching her glossy black lips, she swept passed the mortals who crowded the theater door; unconsciously, they all pulled back, tossing out a few words about the new, unsettling stranger before returning to their own affairs. She merged with the crowd of actors and dancers and officials that swarmed through the doors, and, looking around the bustling building with a wide grin, sent her thoughts out for traces of the specter. 

Up in the rafters she felt the shifting consciousness of something human, but warped by darkness and pain and a certain odd mysitcism. It was moving, and would soon be gone. Deciding to abandon her playing at full humanity, she melted into a nearby shadow, and, with a flick of her thoughts and command of magic, was up in the rafters above the stage. 

The odd presence was close. She leaned against a beam, opened her mind and played with her magic so as to allow herself to see things beyond the spectrum of human vision, and waited.