The Chalice of Immortality (4 page)

The Globe Theatre, London, England, 1601

William Shakespeare paced inside his office. He owned a stake in the Globe Theatre, and the famous playwright was determined to sell out all three thousand seats for the staging of
Romeo and Juliet
.

But what occurred on the stage each night in rehearsals never quite matched the vision inside his head of what his play should be. He was sure all playwrights felt this way. The disparity between his artistic vision and how the actors on the stage performed his play tormented him and ate away at his soul.

He sighed and sat down, tapping his temple, thinking…thinking. His head throbbed. How could he make the play be more alive, more passionate, more true to what he pictured in his own mind?

Knock-knock.

Shakespeare called out. “Enter!”

In strode his friend and partner, Cuthbert Burbage, along with a man Shakespeare did not recognize.

“My dear Will, may I introduce to you Fyodor, a potential investor from Russia.”

Shakespeare stood, bowed, and nodded his head.

Fyodor, a tall, stalwart man with hair the color of ebony and pale eyes, spoke. “If you would be so kind, Cuthbert, to allow me a moment of the great playwright's time? I wish to make him a proposition. In private.”

Cuthbert nodded, clicked his boot heels, and retreated from the room.

Shakespeare adjusted his doublet. He was not pleased that he would be kept from thinking of the best way to put on the performance. He found this Russian a tad impudent.

“I believe, dear sir, that I know what troubles you,” said the Russian.

“How would you know I am troubled?”

“You would be surprised, William Shakespeare, at what I can discern in the hearts of mortal men. I can see by the expression on your face that you are, indeed, troubled—and surprised that I, a perfect stranger, can know what is in thy breast, hidden from the world.”

“If you believe it is purely a monetary issue, then you would be incorrect.”

“No,” the Russian said, his smile as mysterious and cold as a serpent's. “You are troubled over the final scene—the one inside the tomb.”

“Indeed!” Shakespeare practically leaped to the man. He was startled by the intuitive way this man could read his mind. “I want the audience to shed real tears.”

“At the line, ‘Poi
son, I see, hath been his timeless end…'” offered the Russian.

“Yes!” Shakespeare shivered. It was uncanny! That was the precise point in the play that had troubled him.

“But imagine,” the man whispered, “if you could perform that scene with the real specter of death over the actors. If the deaths inside the tomb were so
real
as to fool every single person who sat in the theater. Imagine the crowd,
weeping
as one, in horror, in shock, believing with every bit of their souls the death of Romeo and Juliet.”

“Yes,” Shakespeare exhaled in awe of the Russian's perception. “That is my dream. I lie awake at night, unable to sleep, knowing the scene falls short of my own demanding expectations. I am unable to draw from the actors the depth of despair I want to see performed on the stage. It nearly drives me mad.”

“I have just the secret for you, William Shakespeare.”

The man reached into a leather satchel and pulled out a golden chalice etched with symbols and a large red ruby on its stem.

“Fine workmanship,” Shakespeare breathed. “Such beauty. I do not believe I have ever seen such a beautiful goblet in my lifetime. I am afraid, however, my good man, that I do not understand how this magnificent chalice will improve my play.”

“Behold the ancient symbols on the chalice. These inscriptions are a powerful spell. Drink of
wine
placed in this chalice, and enter a state between heaven and hell, life and death. Drink of
water
in this chalice, and be restored by a single drop.”

He handed the chalice to Shakespeare. “Feel its heat.”

And when Shakespeare took hold of the chalice, his fingers felt as if they were burning.

“Is this the work of the devil himself?” Shakespeare asked.

The Russian laughed. “Indeed not. Just the work of a magical goldsmith, born in the sands of ancient Egypt.”

Shakespeare put the chalice down on his large wooden writing desk. He faced the Russian, suspicion in his eyes. “Why, my good man, are you so interested in my plays, and indeed, in my worries? Why are you giving me this fine chalice?”

“In return for a favor,” the Russian replied with a deep bow. “I must travel back to my country, but the journey is fraught with dangers, and I might not make it to my homeland alive. I am in dire need of someone who understands the value of the chalice to keep it safely. One day, I hope to return for it.”

“And if you do not?”

“Then it must be safeguarded forever. You, William Shakespeare, will become its guardian, in a long line of trusted guardians of its secrets.”

***

The audience in the Globe Theatre, normally a loud bunch, was silent except for muffled sobs. The young actor portraying Juliet spoke. “What's here? a cup, closed in my true love's hand?/ Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end:/ O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop/ To help me after? I will kiss thy lips;/ Haply some poison yet doth hang on them,/ To make die with a restorative.”

Romeo looked, for all the world, as if he were dead. Shakespeare, disguised as a common man, velvet hat pulled low to avoid recognition, listened around him as people cried, moved by the play. Emotions had risen and fallen like crashing waves. Never, in his history as a playwright, had he so
felt
an audience captured in the palm of his hand, hanging on every word of his play, every nuance of the actors' speech.

He smiled to himself. Never before had a performance at the Globe Theatre been so moving. The death scene of the young lovers in the tomb would transform theater forever, Shakespeare mused.

It was the chalice. The actor sipped wine from the chalice and was rendered a near-corpse, only to be revived at play's end each night. The chalice…the magnificent chalice had made Shakespeare's scene
real
.

We
need
that chalice,” said Theo as the ball clouded over. “It is the only chalice that can undo a Shadowkeepers' corpse spell. It's that powerful.”

“That exact chalice?” Nick asked, still holding his dad's icy hand.

Theo nodded. “And this one is no different from other magical relics. It has changed hands through history, been lost and then found and then lost again.”

“So where is it now?” Nick asked, knowing in the pit of his belly that he would not like the answer.

“The trail has been lost.”

“So it can be anywhere in the whole wide world?”

“Yes. But as in all hunts, we begin at the beginning.”

“England?”

Theo nodded.

Nick looked down at his dad. “Does he look worse to you?” His father's skin was almost translucent. Nick touched his dad's cheek. It was as cold as his hands. “He looks thinner somehow.” Nick brushed at his father's hair, which still had desert sand in it. “How long do we have to find the chalice?”

“Not long. Days. He will remain suspended between life and death, growing thinner and thinner, until…”

“Couldn't a hospital help him?”

“No,” said Theo ruefully. “In a hospital, doctors would search for a cure for something they know nothing about. No, I'll cast a spell to keep him comfortable, and we'll keep him up here on our floor. He needs a quiet room.”

“Give him my room,” Nick said. “It's filled with my mother's things. He'd like that—to be around her stuff.”

“Fine. We'll find another place for you to stay. Maybe you can room with Boris.”

Nick shook his head. “No! I'm going to England. I'm going to hunt for the chalice.”

“Absolutely not!” Theo's eyes sparked angrily. “No. You will stay here, cousin.”

“I can't. I can't stay here while you're searching for the only thing that will save my father. No, Theo.”

“I forbid it. Damian will forbid it,” Theo said, referring to his brother and the leader of the Magickeepers.

“I don't care. If you forbid it, then I'll just follow. You always tell me that I am better off
with
you than doing things on my own. What happened at Madame B.'s proves it. So here I am, Theo. I'm not ever going to do anything behind your back again. But I want to go with you.”

“Me, too.” Behind them, Isabella stood in the doorway. “Oh, Nick, I'm so sorry about your papa.” She walked over to them in her pajamas, her white tiger padding beside her.

Sascha nosed Nick's father's hand. Then she licked his palm. Nick thought he heard the tiger whimper.

“Sascha is sad, Nick,” Isabella said. “I am, too. And if you go to England, I'm going with you.”

Theo stood up and began pacing, pointing at them both. “No, no, no! The two of you get this insane idea out of your minds. I command it!”

Isabella looked up at her older cousin. “You always told me that we were stronger together than any one of us could be apart.”

“But I didn't mean—”

“You didn't mean
children
,” Isabella said solemnly. “But we are as brave as any Magickeepers. Even Boris thinks so.”

“I will have to think about this.”

“Aren't we safer with
you
than being here?” Nick asked.

“I am going to cast a spell to make you silent, the two of you. Stop arguing with me before you give me a headache. Come, let's move your father.”

Theo levitated Nick's dad, and his body floated down the hallway to Nick's room. As Theo led the way, all of his Russian relatives opened the doors to their rooms and stood, heads bowed in respect, as Nick, Theo, Isabella, and Nick's dad moved down the hall. Nick heard them murmuring, “
Sozhaleju, ochen zhal
.” They were telling him they were sorry for his situation as he passed.

When they reached Nick's room, Damian was already waiting. He helped them place Nick's father on the bed sheets, which were embroidered in gold with the family crest. Nick walked over to his dresser and picked up a silver hairbrush that had been his mother's. He returned and gently brushed his father's hair. Strands fell out, as if he were melting away from inside.

Nick looked up at Damian. His older cousin had a tendency to be really bossy, but not tonight.

“Kolya, you have my word,” Damian said. “We will use all the powers of the entire clan in order to find the chalice.”

“I want to go with Theo. To England.”

He expected Damian to yell at him. He expected Damian to tell him no in his usual imperious way. Instead, his cousin wrapped an arm around Nick's shoulder. “Theo and I have never told you the story of our own father and how he was slain by Rasputin,” he said, referring to their family's mortal enemy and leader of the Shadowkeepers. “We were little boys—much younger than you are. But had we the opportunity, we would have chased him to the four corners of the earth and beyond, to Sanctuary, to the far reaches of magic, and we would have tried to avenge our father's death. And nothing could have stopped us. Let me speak with Theo in private. We will see.”

If Nick hadn't been seeking the chalice, hadn't been so worried about his father, he would have been excited to be standing with Isabella, Boris, and Theo outside Lady Daphne's Sausage and Tea Shoppe in Stratford-upon-Avon, England. After long discussions, Damian and Theo had agreed to allow him—and Isabella—to go, on the condition that they travel with Boris and obey Theo at all times.

“This shop,” Theo whispered, “is owned by a Magickeeper. Now, when we are inside, keep your voices low. Pretend we are tourists.”

Nick looked at Boris, who stood about six-foot-six and wore an eye patch that covered an angry, starfish-shaped red and purple scar. “Sure. Boris looks like a tourist.”

Theo waved his hands, and he spoke some Russian words. In a flash, Boris was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that read
Bald is Beautiful
. A camera hung round his neck.

“That's so much better,” Isabella said teasingly. “He doesn't stand out at all.”

“Well, it's the best I can do for right now. Come along.”

They walked into the sausage shop, a red brick building that looked as old as the lopsided side street on which it sat. A green awning hung over the picture window, which was filled with sausage and hanging meats. A little bell rang over the door.

Inside, Nick smelled meat and a hint of mint. He looked around the room at the assortment of small tables, where people sat eating scones and biscuits and drinking pots of tea. In the corner, a woman studied them. She had short, light brown hair and the weathered face of someone who had perhaps spent her life in the sun and wind. A long, white silk scarf wrapped around her neck. When she caught Nick staring at her, she glanced away.

“Is that Lady Daphne?” Nick asked Theo, nodding his head toward the woman in the white scarf. She certainly looked mysterious.

“No,” Theo whispered. “Lady Daphne is over there.” He jerked his head to indicate the woman behind the counter.

Lady Daphne stood very short and plump, with a large green apron on and snow-white curly hair. Her cheeks were ruddy, and she had bright, robin's-egg blue eyes. Nick thought she looked like a kindergarten teacher or a grandmother—except her apron was covered with blood and sausage bits. She also carried a giant meat cleaver that Nick was certain could chop his head off. Nick decided then and there that he would not want to cross Lady Daphne and her sausages.

Theo said, “Sit down at that table over there. We'll order some bangers and mash and wait until she can come to the table to talk to us.”

They all sat down at a round table with a green and white checkered tablecloth. “Bangers and mash?” Nick asked.

Boris looked at the menu. “Bangers and mash are sausages and mashed potatoes. We can get them with onion gravy. I am very hungry.”

Here Nick thought he had escaped Russian food—the hideously salty caviar, cod soup (
ukha!
), borscht (what were his ancestors thinking when they decided on blood-red soup made of
beets?
). Now—bangers and mash for breakfast!

Nick shuddered slightly.

A short time later, Lady Daphne came over, wiping her hands on her apron and streaking it with crimson stains.

“Well, call me gobsmacked. 'Ello, Theo!”

Theo smiled at her. “Lady Daphne, we're here
sightseeing
.” He winked at her. “I'd like it if you could bring us each some bangers and mash. Your finest! And a pot of tea. Dark Russian tea, if you have it.”

“'Fraid you'll 'ave to settle for English breakfast tea. But the rest? You won't be sorry! Comin' right up.” She smiled at him and winked. Then she walked behind the counter and into the kitchen. A short time later, she returned with plates of thick mashed potatoes piled with sausages and then slathered in dark brown-red gravy and onions. Nick was so hungry that he dug in, even though this was the least-appetizing breakfast he'd ever seen.

Lady Daphne pulled up a wooden chair and plopped into it. She was so short that her feet barely touched the ground when she was sitting in it. “I 'ear you seek the chalice,” she whispered.

Theo nodded. “We do.”

“The trail is cold, but I suggest starting at Henley Street in Shakespeare's boyhood home. Then see where it leads you. You'll have to go at night, after it's closed.”

“Have you seen signs of the evil ones about?” Boris asked.

“I see shadows. After nightfall. Beware. For tonight, I have a bed and breakfast on the edge of town—a place that,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, “caters to our kind. You may stay the night.”

***

Later, near midnight, after the real tourists had gone, Theo, Boris, Isabella, and Nick stood in the silence of Shakespeare's boyhood home. They were invisible to any security cameras, shielded by one of Theo's spells. Isabella whispered, “It's creepy in here.”

The windows were a thick, leaded glass that didn't allow any moonlight into the room—and though the moon was full, it was as dark as a coffin inside.

“Come on,” Nick breathed. He walked through the rooms downstairs while Theo went up the creaking steps to the top floor. Each of them touched the walls, touched objects, hoping to feel some connection to the place where Shakespeare was born. Nick hoped for a clue to the chalice's whereabouts.

But he came up with nothing.

“I don't get it,” he said to Isabella and Boris. “There's nothing here.” He looked at the desk, at the chair, at framed objects on the wall. In the quiet, he heard the tick-tick-ticking of a clock.

“Then obviously,” Isabella said, “he never brought the chalice here. This is his
boyhood
home. In the crystal ball, he was already grown. He must never have come back here with the chalice.”

“A dead end. So now what?” Nick exhaled in frustration. “Do we go to every home he ever lived in? That will take too long.” A vision popped in his head of his father lying on the bed, the spell's cold paleness rendering him a shadow of his former self.

Theo descended the staircase and stood with them. “I detect no clues here. Let's go to Lady Daphne's bed and breakfast.”

Isabella shuddered. “I'm afraid she might turn me into a sausage.”

Boris let out a loud guffaw. “A sausage?”

“Yes. Did you see that cleaver? She scares me. And all that blood on her hands! She might put me through a meat grinder!”

Boris continued laughing as they walked out the back door of the house and down quiet moonlit streets toward the bed and breakfast.

Lady Daphne's special bed and breakfast for Magickeepers was on the very edge of town. Illuminated by the moon, the inn had a thatched roof that made it look like it had been built in Shakespeare's time, Nick thought. Maybe it had. Unlike Las Vegas, everything in this part of England seemed
old
. Flowers surrounded the inn, growing in shades of purple and red and pink. The wind rustled the hedges. A full moon looked like a perfect white wafer cookie in the sky.

Nick was tired and frustrated. He just wanted to go to sleep and start looking for the chalice tomorrow.

And then he heard it.

The unmistakable mournful howl of a wolf echoing through the air.