The Chalice of Immortality (7 page)

Damian's library was the first room Nick had ever seen when he first arrived at the Winter Palace. On the night of his thirteenth birthday, which had been eight long months ago, his cousin had kidnapped him from his tiny little bedroom at the rundown Pendragon Hotel and Casino and brought him here. Since then, life had never been the same. Before he came to live with his Magickeeper family, he skateboarded, ate junk food, and tried to decipher algebra. He knew the world wasn't always a good place or a safe place—you only had to look at the news or the Internet to know that. But it was just the regular old world.

When his cousin brought Nick to the library that night, he showed him magic.
Real
magic. The snow that perpetually fell on the Winter Palace Hotel and Casino—in the desert—was real snow, not from a snow machine. His cousin really levitated. Crystal balls really filled with images and spoke from the magical realm.

But learning real magic came with a price. There were Shadowkeepers, and they had black hearts and hideous souls. The battle lines for good and evil were more real in the magic world than even what he had seen in his old life.

Damian's library stood at least two stories tall, and it contained books as old as magic itself—books written on papyrus, and even carved stone tablets. Some books were written with invisible ink. Some were in ancient magic languages. There were blank books that Damian would breathe on to make letters form—like the Magickeepers map. Some books talked. And every single book was on magic.

Way up high, the ceiling moved—clouds gently floated along in a mural as if blown by a breeze. It looked like a real sky up there. This was Damian's private sanctuary. Like Theo, Nick knew Damian spent his free time studying the ancient arts. He was the world's greatest magician. He was famous in the real world, but he was even more revered in the magical one. Magickeeper clans and families from around the globe acknowledged him as one of the leaders of the magical realm.

Nick found his cousin sitting with Boris, Isabella, and Theo at a wooden table. They were eating ice cream out of large bowls, and a five-gallon container with a big scoop was in the center of the table.

“Want some?” Damian asked.

Nick felt a spark of anger in his stomach. His father was dying, and they were eating ice cream? Ice cream?

Damian held up his hands. “Those eyes always tell me what you are thinking. You must learn to guard them better if you are ever to defeat the Shadowkeepers. Do not be mad, Kolya. The ice cream is a clue. Have a bowl.”

Considering that most of the time, he barely tolerated the food his family served, Nick's mouth watered.

“What kind?”

“Banana ripple.”

“Figures. You finally serve ice cream, and it can't be chocolate? Or chocolate chip? Or even vanilla? It has to be banana ripple?” Nick laughed despite himself. Banana ripple would probably be the
last
flavor he would choose, unless, of course, knowing his family, they invented caviar ice cream. Or beet-flavored ice cream. Or cod-flavored ice cream.

“This ice cream is a clue.”

“You said that already. A clue, huh?” Nick raised one eyebrow. “This I have to hear.”

Isabella looked up, whipped cream forming a mustache above her lip. “No, the banana ripple.
That's
the clue.”

Nick scooped four rounded mounds from the giant container of ice cream into a bowl that had the family crest on it. He grabbed a spoon and sat down. “All right.
Banana ripple
…how does it lead to the chalice?”

“Better to see for yourself,” Damian said. He waved his hand, and a giant crystal ball floated over and hung in the air. Nick saw sand swirling inside it. Then Nick dug into the ice cream as he watched the sand settle to the bottom of the ball, and a strange man came into view.

***

The Desert Inn, Las Vegas, February 1, 1970

Reclusive billionaire Howard Hughes sat in a giant king-sized bed, sheets messy, watching the movie
Ice Station Zebra
for the hundredth time. The movie ran on an endless loop from a projector to a blank wall, and no one knew why Howard Hughes liked it so much.

The famous man hadn't left his bed in days. He hadn't left his hotel suite, on the top floor of the Desert Inn, in
years
. In fact, he
bought
the hotel just so he could live as he wished.

The room was dark and dirty. It smelled. Hughes had made one of his assistants tape all the curtains closed. In this dark cocoon, silent save for the movie, the once-great genius had descended even further into madness.

Hughes, a world-famous aviator, film producer, and industrialist, was wealthy beyond anyone's wildest imagination. But he was now a mere shadow of his former handsome self. On the dresser stood a framed picture of him next to his favorite plane, the
Spruce Goose
. Made of birch, the plane was a beauty, with a wingspan over 320 feet across. The Howard Hughes in the picture smiled, his dark hair falling across his forehead slightly. He had a trim mustache, in the style of the day. He wore a dark fedora, with the brim at a jaunty angle, and an aviator jacket. One hand was on the wing of the
Spruce Goose
. His eyes sparkled.

That Howard Hughes, the man who had courted starlets and beautiful women, the man who had made movies and cut such a dashing figure was no more. Now, Hughes only cut his hair and nails once a year—maybe less. His long, gangly frame had wasted away until he resembled a living corpse, ribs protruding, skin like crepe paper. His graying hair straggled down to his belly, unwashed and greasy. His nails were six inches long and curled around. He was terrified of germs—ironic since he lived in squalor—and rolls of paper towels were scattered on the floor so he could use them if he touched anything.

Hughes heard a knock on the door but said nothing, staring instead at the flickering movie, mouth agape.

After several minutes and no answer, one of his financial advisors entered, an impeccably dressed man in a crisp, freshly dry-cleaned black suit and black tie, with perfectly clipped hair and a pristine, starched white shirt. “Mr. Hughes, sir, would you like some banana ripple ice cream? I can have the kitchen bring some up.”

Hughes did not respond. He didn't even blink.

“Sir? We know how much you like banana ripple, but the flavor is being discontinued.”

Still, Hughes did not respond.

“We were concerned. Very concerned. We felt like we had to act in your best interests.”

Still, Hughes remained catatonic.

“So we contacted the manufacturer, sir. We asked them the minimum order we could place for your favorite ice cream to ensure you had a supply. We've had 200 gallons shipped here! We thought you would be very pleased, sir. You can have banana ripple whenever you want.”

Hughes moved his lips, but no sound came out. His eyes were utterly vacant.

“Sir?” The man leaned closer.

“I…”

“Yes, sir?”

“I…”

Each word was more like a breath, an utterance, an exhaling.

“I…”

“Yes?”

“I…now hate…banana ripple.”

The man in the tailored black suit frowned. His mouth formed a circle. “Oh.”

Hughes continued staring at the movie.

When it became apparent that Howard Hughes would say no more on the matter of the 200 gallons of banana ripple ice cream that the man and his team of assistants had worked so frantically to secure, the financial advisor said, “Then we shall give out free banana ripple to all the guests of the Desert Inn.” He turned to leave, muttering, “Of course, it will take us ten years to give it all away.”

He exited the room. When he was gone, Howard Hughes's head lolled to one side. He no longer stared at the screen.

Instead, he started at a golden chalice on his dresser. It stood, alone, like a silent sentinel. Stretching his hand toward it, Howard Hughes breathed one word: “Immortality!”

So Howard Hughes ended up with the chalice?” Nick asked as he ate banana ripple ice cream—which he had to admit was not that bad. “Is what happened to him what would have happened to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?”

Isabella added, “It's so sad.” She put the rest of her ice cream down on the floor, and Sascha lazily licked the bowl.

Damian spooned some ice cream into his mouth, swallowed, and said, “Yes. Eventually. Magickeepers' relics must avoid human hands. Even in our care, they are dangerous. But in regular human hands, it is far too easy for people to succumb to madness. History is full of such tragic tales.”

Theo, at the word
history
, held up his hand as he counted off examples. “Joan of Arc, Pythagoras…”

“The guy from math? That Pythagoras?”

“Wait,” Theo teased, “you actually remember something from math class?”

“Yes,” Nick said. “Sometimes, I pay attention, you know.”

Theo nodded. “Yes, that Pythagoras. He was terrified of beans.”

“Magic beans?”

“No. Ordinary beans. He held onto an artifact for too long. It manifested into an obsession with…beans! Anyway, it was good that Harry Houdini took the chalice when he did, or we would have heard some sad tale of what became of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

“Maybe he would have been afraid of brussels sprouts,” Nick joked, thinking of his least favorite vegetable.

“So what became of the chalice after Howard Hughes had it?” Isabella asked.

“We're not sure. He was the temporary owner,” said Damian. “Like all our relics, it seems they pass from hand to hand. Sometimes, they are hunted—like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle pursued the chalice from the grave robbers' heirs. And sometimes, I like to think the relics change hands purposefully, as if they wish us to play an old-fashioned game of hide and seek.”

“So do you think it's still here somewhere? In Las Vegas?”

Damian nodded. “I do. I have studied every clue I can, conjured conversations with Magickeepers from across the globe. I've asked Madame B. to use her skills. The trail turns cold here. So this is where we will search. I feel it in my soul. I've called a family meeting for an hour from now. We're going to—every last one of us—search for the chalice. Those who work in the hotel will remain here for our guests, but the performers will go in search. We're canceling the show through the end of the week.”

“What?” Nick's mouth dropped open. In the history of the show, it had never been canceled. Damian was a
legend
. He was the most famous magician in the entire world. He was on television. The president was a fan! The show was sold out years in advance. Damian
never
canceled a show. Not even when Nick's mother died.

Damian looked him in the eyes. “This is your father, Kolya. We will do what it takes.”

***

The news that the show at the Winter Palace Hotel and Casino was canceled due to its star “having the flu” made headlines in Las Vegas. It also meant the entire performing family could search for the chalice. Many of them had never left the premises of the casino, and though the reason behind the hunt for the chalice was sad, Nick felt their excitement as they stood in the theater listening to Damian.

Damian paced on the barren stage, houselights up. “The rules are, you dress like tourists.”

Nick smirked. Even Damian—who seemed very fond of his shining black boots, long black velvet cape, and Russian folk costumes—was dressed like a tourist. He wore jeans and sneakers. Damian in sneakers, Nick decided, was one of the funniest things he'd ever seen.

“Use the cell phones I gave you—no crystal balls. You may
not
use magic in front of any other people. Try to act
normal
. I realize that is…a tall order.” He looked over at one of the sword-swallowers, who had a habit of sword-swallowing at the breakfast table. “I've given you each money. I've assigned you different places to look. Museums. Hotels. Travel by
cab
.”

Damian looked at Nick. “And remember, this search is for Kolya. He was lost to us for many years, and now he has been found. We must do this for him, to right the wrongs done to his mother…and now to his father. Be tireless. Be fearless.
Oberezhnyj scheet predkov hranit menia
.”

Damian's words were a spell of protection based on the circle of family. He repeated them three times, as was the way.

“
Oberezhnyj scheet predkov hranit menia
.
Oberezhnyj scheet predkov hranit menia
.”

“All of you, repeat the words as one,” he commanded. The theater rang out, voices together. “
Oberezhnyj scheet predkov hranit menia
,” they repeated.

Damian walked to Nick. He pulled a baseball cap out of his back pocket and put it on his own head. “I can't be seen out in public if I have the flu.” He pulled the brim low.

“I think I need to take a picture of you in jeans, sneakers, and a baseball cap.”

“No pictures. It's bad enough I have to wear these peasant clothes. They make me itch.” He shook his head. “Come. Let us go.” Then he, Nick, and Isabella walked out of the theater, through the lobby, and to the curb outside the hotel.

A yellow cab pulled up—and there was the unmistakable Igor, his bald head shiny, tattooed from his knuckles to his neck, behind the wheel. They climbed in, and he winked at them.

“Where to, tourists?”

“The Liberace Foundation warehouse,” Damian said. “And no magic. Drive like a normal cab driver.”

“In this traffic? Come on! Just a little magic?”

“No.”

“You won't be able to tell. I can just make all the lights turn green.”

“No. Not taking any chances, Igor.”

The bald-headed cabbie sighed. “All right. Have it your way.”

The cab inched along in traffic.

“Nick…how is your father?” Igor asked.

“Not good.” Nick sighed. “That's why we're out searching. We're looking for a relic.”

Igor nodded. As the cab pressed on, Nick asked Damian, “So who was this Liberace guy?”

“A Vegas institution. His name is synonymous with this town—or at least, at one time, it was. He was a piano player, an entertainer,” Damian said. “A showman. And that's sort of an understatement.”

“Was he…you know…one of
us?
”

Damian laughed. “No. Not one of us. Though,” he smiled, “when you see some of his artifacts, you might just wonder.”

Eventually, Igor steered their cab to a massive warehouse, quiet and abandoned in the noonday sun.

“Liberace used to have a museum—in his memory. But it closed. Now there is talk of a traveling exhibit of his things. But inside this warehouse—” Damian smiled. “Well, rather like magic…you have to see it to believe it.”

Damian spoke a spell over the warehouse door. Magically, the door opened, and they stepped inside the cavernous building. After his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Nick decided he had never seen so much glitz and glitter in his life. And he had lived all his life in Las Vegas. It was dizzying! Sequins, glitter balls, silver candelabra, mirrored pianos that were blinding! As they walked through the warehouse, he couldn't help but stare.

“
Look
at these costumes!” Isabella said.

Along one wall, behind a brass rail, hung costume after costume, most with long feathered capes and sequins, some with headdresses and sparkling turbans.

“He played the
piano
in those costumes?” Nick asked. “They look like something a show girl might wear. Well, except…you know, show girls sometimes wear less clothes! But those feathers!”

The fluffy feathers were shades of turquoise, yellow, red, and purple. Some were iridescent and seemed almost alive, shimmering like the scales of coral-reef fish or the plumage of jungle parrots.

“Indeed. He was an interesting man who loved all of this lavishness and sparkle. And in 1954, he actually met Howard Hughes.”

“So
that's
why we're searching here.”

Damian nodded, and he strolled slowly through the warehouse, inspecting every single item and artifact. He cast spells, opening boxes and crates. “Yes. Throughout history, lives have intersected. We search for the connections, and eventually, we will find the chalice.
Someone
has it.”

Nick looked at picture after picture on the walls of the warehouse. The flamboyant piano player certainly wore strange costumes, and he always had a wide smile on his face—his teeth looked like they were from a toothpaste commercial, practically sparkling.

“Was he ever sad? Or in a bad mood? I've never seen someone smile so much.”

Damian shrugged. “Most people have a public face and a private one. Who knows what anyone is like in their most private moments? It is the blessed man, the blessed person, to have those two faces be the same.”

“Was he a good piano player?” Nick asked.

“He was a performer. That's different.”

“What do you mean?” Nick stared at the smiling man in the black and white picture on the wall.

“He could have played classical piano just the way that Chopin or Beethoven wanted it to be played. But instead, he would do things like stop and talk to the audience. Or tell jokes.”

Nick stopped in front of one picture. “Damian, Isabella—look.”

The picture was a color photograph of Liberace's master bedroom in his Las Vegas mansion. The ceiling was painted like the Sistine Chapel.

“Oh, my,” Isabella said. “Can you imagine staring up at that ceiling while you tried to go to sleep? That bedroom would give me nightmares.”

“No, no,” Nick urged, putting his face inches from the glass. ”You two, look at the clouds.”

Damian and Isabella leaned closer. “So?”

“Now look at everything else in the picture.”

The entire picture, blown up to nearly the size of a poster, was crisp and clear. The colors were a little overwhelming. The bedroom was an array of gold—it covered chairs and was inlaid into furniture. But the clouds were blurry.

“It almost looks like the clouds were”—Isabella pointed—“moving?”

“How can that be?” Nick wondered aloud.

“I know how,” said Damian. “The clouds could be that way if the painter of my library and the painter of Liberace's bedroom were the same Magickeeper. He fancies himself a Michelangelo—I'd know his work anywhere. His name is Vadim, and if I get my hands on him, he will be worse than a flea on a baboon's behind. He will be a flea on a flea on a baboon's behind.”

“But…the painter never should have done that. He shouldn't have painted magic on the ceiling—should he?” Isabella asked.

Damian sighed. “No, he shouldn't have. But anything is possible. Look at Sergei. He is trying to sell a chess-playing platypus, for goodness sake.”

“Damian.” Nick's throat went dry. “Look at that side table.” He pointed at the picture.

Damian looked. “We have a new connection, a new trail,” he said.

For on the side table, among gold decanters and other items, stood the Chalice of Immortality.