I chose the latter, even though my brain and blood sugar would hate me in the morning. It was the one option that would allow me to evenhave a next morning. I reached blindly into the broken case to my right, and grabbed the first object my hand landed on. Fortune was on my side, it seemed, and I was thankful as I pulled a large shield from it. That was the best object I could hope for, really, but its historical significance was too powerful and my mind slipped into a series of visions as I struggled to control my powers.

It was 1934 and a handsome philanthropist was handing the shield over to the museum’s collection. The shield was shaped like a reverse tear-drop and was damascened in gold and silver. The director of antiquities thanked him for his most generous contribution. Time bent further into the shield’s past.

Now it was the fifteen hundreds, and I was a man working diligently on the shield between fits of coughing. He was slowly dying from the large quantities of silver dust than had accumulated in his lungs over his short lifetime. The images carved into this shield would be the culmination of his life’s work. Time bent again.

This time I was another man, a French king no less, suiting up to do battle against the threat across the English Channel. I felt pure awe when I realized I was Henry the Second, and watched as he strapped the shield to his arm as the final touch. I felt the weight of his people, of his kingdom, and felt his conviction that with God on his side, Henry would prove victorious.

Disoriented, but feeling somehow strengthened by my last psychometric episode, I came out of the vision and found myself curled under the shield, weary from the transference of power, but somehow fending off Cyrus’s wild swings. Chaos had broken out all around us. Much of the crowd from the temple area had pushed their way into the makeshift Ghostsniffing production area, and I could see members of Shadower making a dash for the casks while Connor barked instructions at them. The Inspectre, despite being surrounded, was holding his own and swinging the hubcap on the end of his scarf in a circle around him in an effort to keep the crowd at bay. We were seriously outnumbered. In my weakened condition, the shield I was turtled under was getting heavier and heavier.

I scrabbled to my knees and then my feet. I was quite impressed that I had continued to keep Cyrus at bay even though he had gone wild-eyed in pirate mode.

“Simon!” Jane cried. I turned my head toward the sound of her voice. She had ditched the mask and was struggling with a mob of her own at the far end of the room. She pushed them away and balled one of her hands inside the other and swung with all her might at one of the display cases, causing glass to fly everywhere. I winced in sympathy pains as she did it. I was surprised how quickly everything had escalated and even more surprised when I saw Jane grab a sword from the case and toss it toward me. I moved the shield firmly between me and Cyrus and grabbed for the sword, no longer caring what touching it might do. I had just been Henry the Second, for God’s sake. What did I have to fear?

I caught the sword at the same time Cyrus rushed me. His sizable frame drove me back across the floor, but before anything else could happen, I shifted into another psychometric vision. Already I could tell things were different-having been King for even a brief moment and bearing the weight of an entire kingdom on my shoulders somehow made the drain on my powers feel like less of a burden.

In my vision it was the sixteen hundreds. There were letters on a desk before me, all addressed to a Juan Martinez, renowned for his working of Toledo steel. All of Spain, all of Europe, demanded his craftsmanship. But he had merely been the blade master on this sword.

Time slipped and I became the sword’s hilt maker, a crafter of bronze-gilt, paste jewels, and pearls. None of these visions felt particularly helpful, although the kingly burden I had felt seconds earlier lingered. Before I could give it another thought, I was pushed forward through time once again.

The next vision came on stronger, and was far more recent. I was one of the night watchmen for this wing of the museum. The case Jane had just smashed was whole in the vision, and the watchman took a quick peek around to make sure no one was looking before removing the sword. He had handled this sword before. He moonlighted as a stage actor. But most importantly, he had stage combat training. As him, my limbs were full of the physical memory of that training. I realized as I came out of the vision that my body had retained it.

When I came out of the vision, I felt strangely, miserably drained. Then I noticed warmth running down the right side of my chest. Cyrus’s cutlass was digging against the exposed whiteness of my ribs. Maybe it was the shock of seeing that, or the adrenaline, or simply the fact that I might die, but the watchman’s training kicked in. I pushed Cyrus’s blade away using an effortless enveloping technique and then assumed a defensive posture.

A thought occurred to me. I didn’t have to fight Cyrus to beat him. I was only fighting to keep him from killing me, and with that in mind, I started to back my way toward Jane. I chanced a look toward the swirl of spirits and was relieved to see that they were dispersing in greater numbers as Shadower team finished covering the last of the casks.

“Hello, Marilyn,” I said to Jane. Her Monroe dress was a mess from the struggle and covered in spattered blood, but it still worked on her.

“Hola, Seсor Zorro,”she said. The costumed fray was still in full swing around us.

I pushed away one of the many Dalнs attacking her while keeping Cyrus at bay, but more baddies pressed into the room. They didn’t seem deterred by the continuing sound of the alarm going off. It would be only a matter of time before we were overtaken. Despite our valiant efforts, things had gotten more extraordinary than the Department of Extraordinary Affairs was capable of handling.

Several cultists had finally disarmed the Inspectre and were shoving him around the room. Some of the Shadowers were still holding their own, and Connor was standing in the remaining swirls of mist, shouting. The deceased and crossing over were his domain, and I imagined he was working overtime in that department right now. Despite Connor’s efforts, though, three cultists grabbed him and wrestled him to the ground.

Feeling helpless, hopeless, I did my best to parry the incoming attacks. With one arm I countered every strike and with the other I kept Jane safely behind the shield. It was really only a matter of time before Cyrus wore me down, though. If it weren’t for the adrenaline rush, my body would have already collapsed from the energy expenditure of the visions, not to mention my blood loss. With the repeated blows of Cyrus’s sword, however, that rush was waning and the odds seemed insurmountable. Jane was doing her best to help hold our shield in place, but she looked exhausted.

My eyes caught a whirl of activity from within the spirits. They rose in a column above the casks, breaking free from the last of their restraints. They now rose wraithlike, swirling high overhead.

The sound of exploding glass rang out as every display case in the room shattered simultaneously, shards of glass flying everywhere. Luckily, the shield kept most of it from harming us. Then I watched in awe as the contents of every case sprang to life.

The released spirits began manifesting themselves in the same way Irene had done when she turned my bedroom into a whirlwind of emotional destruction. Full suits of armor broke free of their supports inside the cases. Each of them lurched off menacingly into the crowd, grabbing for the nearest weapon they could, and started singling out the Surrealists and cultists.