The Masquerading Magician (24 page)

Forty-Seven

I called Max to
tell him what I thought was going on with Peter, that the magician had retrieved other items his father had stolen. Max said he'd pass along the information to the investigating detective.

Next I texted Brixton to tell him the news, then drove to his high school, where classes would soon be ending for the day. I had no confidence he'd heed my words and refrain from confronting the magicians.

Brixton rolled his eyes when he saw me, but his demeanor changed when he climbed into the truck.

“I'm supposed to help Mom at the teashop, but I don't feel like it. Can you drive me home?”

“How about we still go to Blue Sky Teas but I join you for a cup of tea first? It might help.”

Another eye roll. “I know you guys think tea solves all the world's problems. But it really doesn't.”

I had a good idea why he was upset. “You're disappointed about Peter Silverman, aren't you?”

“He lied to me, Zoe. He never wanted to help his father's reputation. It was all a lie.” He stared out the window as we drove past rows of blooming spring flowers. “How am I supposed to trust anyone?”

We drove in silence to Blue Sky Teas. When we arrived, Brixton took his mom's place behind the counter without a word, and Heather joined me at a small tree-ring table. Today, the mason jars were filled with a rainbow of tulips, and the whole teashop smelled like a flower garden.

“I'm worried about Brixton,” I said, keeping my voice low. I hesitated. “Can I ask you about his stepfather?”

Heather's eyes lit up. “Abel. He's the best thing that's happened to me since Brix.”

“Brixton seems to idolize him, and I know he gave Brixton that guitar he loves. Why won't he talk about what Abel does?”

“What does that even mean,
what we do
?” Heather studied her paint-stained hands for a moment before she looked back up at me. “Such a loaded expression, don't you think? I mean, am I a painter because I paint, even though I don't make much money at it? Or do I work in a café, since that's what I'm doing for money?”

“I wasn't trying to be philosophical. I'm trying to help Brixton. He's really upset, and I think it has to do with Abel.”

Heather looked to the counter. “He looks okay to me.”

I sighed and tried a different track. “Brixton doesn't have anything to be ashamed of, so why won't he tell me what keeps Abel out of town?”

Heather plucked a yellow daffodil from a braid of her blonde hair and picked the petals off one by one. “It's embarrassing,” she whispered.

“Is he in jail or something?”

She crushed the flower stem between her fingers. “In a way, it's worse. If he was in jail, it wouldn't be by his own choice.”

I wasn't sure I followed that logic, but I went with it.

“He works for Big Oil,” she said, her voice so soft I could barely hear her.

“Oil?”

“Shh. Yes, it's awful, isn't it? I protest them all the time! He doesn't want to do it, but he's great on the oil rig.”

I looked up to the faux blue sky above the weeping fig tree and laughed.

“What's funny?” Heather's face flushed. “See, I'm so embarrassed just talking about it to you. I told Brix it would be better if everyone thinks he's a painter like me.”

“I'm so glad that's all it is. And you've just reminded me how easy it is to be wrong about people.”

I was too tired to stay awake for dinner that night. I didn't fight Dorian when he brought me a tray in bed and put me to sleep.

At midnight I was awakened, I wasn't sure by what. I'm used to the patter of Dorian's feet on the roof.

I got up to walk through the house. I found the source of the noise almost immediately. Dorian had dropped a hefty notepad in front of my door. There was a note on the top sheet.

You are sicker than you will admit. Ivan is in the hospital, so I have taken the liberty of taking my book to his home library. Do not fear, it is not missing. I am a fresh set of eyes (how American I am becoming!) and will return home with new ideas.

I sighed.
A simple life, Zoe. A simple life.

I drove my truck toward Ivan's house. It was walking distance, but the truck would be the easiest way to get Dorian home without him being seen.

A plume of smoke rose in the distance, coming from Mt. Tabor. A bad feeling clenched my stomach. It looked like it was coming from the theater. But unlike the fake fire in the Prometheus and Persephone stage show, this fire was very real. My tires screeched as I turned and headed toward it.

I found Dorian outside the back of the theater, hiding next to a dumpster. His wings flapped in earnest. He was horribly upset.

“I went inside because I thought I heard a voice calling out for help, but it was too hot. I dropped my book! It is inside, burning.”

The sound of sirens sounded in the distance.

“Hide, Dorian.”

“I know!” he snapped. “I hid from the men in the theater last week, as I will hide now.”

He'd “hidden” from Wallace Mason and Earl Rasputin, yet Earl had posters that resembled Dorian. Could it really be that simple?

“Dorian,” I said. “I know what happened.”

Dorian heard the urgency in my voice and stopped.

“They didn't see you in the woods by the cemetery,” I said. “Wallace Mason and Earl Rasputin saw you
in the theater
. Both of them, when they were spying on the magicians just like we were, when they hoped to get inside information about the location of the Lake Loot. That's why Wallace was clutching your stone toe, and why Earl had a knife. They were defending themselves from Baby Bigfoot, and in the confusion and darkness,
Earl stabbed the wrong man
.”

A faint cry of distress interrupted me.

“
Merde
,” Dorian whispered. He gave me one last look, then followed the sound of the anguished cry into the burning theater.

Forty-Eight

england, 1925

The flames crackled and burned brightly.

The cloudy mixture bubbled in its glass vessel. The gray bubbles turned to white. The alchemist smiled to himself. He loved watching his transformations take form. He gained a deep satisfaction that his patience and pure intent could transform impure natural substances into something greater than the sum of their parts.

Ambrose looked up from his experiment as footsteps sounded on the stairs leading down to his alchemy lab. The thick wood sagged under the weight of the hefty man entering the secret laboratory.

“Father?” the petulant voice called out. It would have been excusable in a boy, but the boy was now fifty.

“Percival!” Ambrose stood to greet his son. “Good to see you, my boy. I wasn't expecting you until Saturday.”

“It
is
Saturday, Father.”

“Is it true?” Ambrose extinguished the flame underneath his alchemical creation. All the time and energy he had poured into that vessel, now abandoned at the appearance of his son.

“You forgot about me,” Percival said without humor. “I suppose that means you haven't prepared any food for dinner.”

“Zoe is gone for a few weeks, and I'm afraid the vegetables miss her touch. I've been eating bread and beer. But we can walk down to the pub for something more substantial.”

Percival nodded with approval, his ample chin jiggling as he did so. Even in the dim light from the glowing athanor furnace, the streaks of gray in Percival's hair were apparent. The two men no longer passed as father and son. Percival was now five years older than the age Ambrose appeared to be. In a few years' time, it would look as if Percival were Ambrose's father.

As Nicolas Flamel had warned Zoe Faust many years before, it wasn't possible for one alchemist to transfer their personal Philosopher's Stone to another. Knowledge could be transferred, but transformations themselves were personal. Yet like Zoe before him, Ambrose refused to believe it. He was convinced he could help his son achieve the immortality he craved.

The father and son who now looked like brothers climbed the stairs, then replaced the trap door and rug that hid the laboratory. On the cool autumn day, the cabin was warm with the heat of the burning stove that masked the smoke from the secret athanor furnace of their lab. It was only a short walk from the warm cabin to the local pub.
Ambrose had spent many years in France—and he was thankful he had, for it was there that he had met the love of his life—yet he was happy to be back in England. The friendly people in his native land supported each other, and ubiquitous public houses were their gathering spot. He mused that there must have been one pub for every thirty men. He was happy that he and Zoe could live in this welcoming community for at least a few more years before people began to notice they weren't aging like the rest of them.

In a far corner of the dim pub, Percival shoveled mutton into his mouth while Ambrose drank beer and told his son of his latest alchemical discoveries, which he hoped Percival would try. Ambrose did not believe the longer lifespan granted by the Elixir of Life was essential to have a fulfilling life. Yet he considered the quest for the Philosopher's Stone, the penultimate step to the Elixir, to be rewarding for what it could tell a man about the world, and about himself.

“It's useless, Father. I can't do it without your help—”

“We already tried that,” Ambrose said, the sharpness in his voice surprising himself as much as Percival. “You know how it turned out.”

“You're giving up on me?”

“Of course not, my boy. This very month I found you a new book. An obscure treatise by Roger Bacon. It may help—”

“A book?” the no-longer-young man scoffed. “You think
a book
can help me, Father? Only the apocryphal book you once mentioned could help me. Yet in the same breath you told me it was an unnatural abomination.”

“But Percy, surely it's worth a try—”

“If you really wanted to help me,” Percival hissed, “you'd find that book created by the sect of alchemists who worked at Notre Dame.”

Neither man spoke for a few moments. In their darkened corner, they listened to the boisterous laughter surrounding them, but escaped the attention of the other men.

Ambrose lowered his voice. “I never meant for you to cling to those ideas of backward alchemy. I only mentioned it as part of your education—”

“Then why mention it at all?” Percival straightened his shirt, the buttons straining under his corpulence.

“I found the Elixir by immersing myself in every aspect of alchemy.”

“I don't believe you. When you told me of backward alchemy, it was only when that woman was away.
You didn't want her to know
.”

“Zoe is a pure soul.” Ambrose's voice was barely above a whisper now. “She wouldn't have understood.”

“You don't trust her?”

“It's not about trust. Zoe didn't need to be burdened with this dark knowledge I learned of. She had already discovered alchemy's secrets when I met her.”

“Which she didn't share with us.”

“You know she couldn't.”

“Do I? If you choose to believe that … ”

“You'd fare better if you believed it too. Then you would be free to gain your own understanding. You could write your own translation of the Emerald Tablet, as every alchemist must—”

“I disappoint you because I'm not a scholar.”

Ambrose knew his son had never possessed the temperament to be a scholar, yet he refused to give up on him. If Percival gave up on his futile quest for the Elixir of Life, Ambrose believed his son could enjoy his remaining years on earth by gaining a greater understanding of this miraculous, interconnected world. But if Percival insisted on seeking out immortality, his father wouldn't deny him. He would simply guide him in the right direction. Wasn't that what a parent was for?

“Knowledge is never a bad thing,” Ambrose said. “It gives you the tools to choose what's right.”

“More knowledge doesn't always work out for the best. It led to you choosing that foul woman. She ruined our lives the day she forced her way in.”

“That's enough,” Ambrose snapped.

Percival hefted himself up from his seat. “I need another pint of ale.”

Ambrose wondered where he had gone wrong with Percival. The boy's mother had died in childbirth, so he lacked a mother's love. Ambrose had tried to make up for that, but had he gone too far and spoiled him? When Percival was a child, Ambrose hadn't denied his son any comfort he could supply. And as an adult, Percival's indulgent lifestyle was only made possible with alchemical gold from his father.

That was all in the past. Ambrose had to decide what to do about Percival in the present. He knew more of the dangerous backward alchemy book than he'd spoken of. A book created in France, many centuries before, that told of death and resurrection not through the true alchemical process of natural rebirth, but through an unnatural fire that ignored the world around it and quickly created artificial ashes.

Unnatural fire and ash went against everything true alchemy stood for. But it was knowledge nonetheless.

Percival returned to the table.

“My son,” Ambrose said. “I have something to tell you.”

Forty-Nine

“Can you tell me
anything?” I asked the firefighter.

“Everyone got out safely.” His face was coated in soot, and his kind eyes showed relief. “Whoever you're worried about, they got out and were taken to the hospital.”

I knew the fireman believed he was speaking the truth, but there was no way paramedics had taken a gargoyle to the hospital. I'd been waiting on the outskirts of the blaze, and I hadn't seen Dorian through the thick smoke. Had he made it out? If I sifted through the rubble, would I find the charred remains of a stone statue? I might be all alone in this world once again.

“Zoe!”

I turned and saw Max running toward me. He swept me up in his arms and held me in a comforting embrace. I didn't want to let go, but after a few moments he stepped back and looked up at the smoky night sky.

“Why doesn't it surprise me to find you here?” He took my hand and pulled me farther from the smoldering wreckage. “Are you all right? You look like someone died. It's okay. I heard on the scanner that everyone got out.”

“Death and destruction follow me,” I whispered.

“Don't talk like that. We've both had our share of—”

I stopped his voice with my lips. He didn't object. Across the street from the glowing ashes, I let myself exist purely in the moment. For a few minutes, I lost myself in the kiss, enveloped in a combination of warmth, caring, and the scent of vanilla.

It was the scent that shattered the dream and brought me back to reality.

“Whatever happens in the future,” I said, pulling back, “I want you to know that's how I feel about you.”

“What do you mean,
whatever hap—
hey, where are you going?
”

I slipped out of his arms and backed away. “I need to check on something.”

I didn't trust myself to drive, so I ran home on foot. I heard Max calling after me, but I didn't turn back. With my silver raincoat billowing behind me, the rows of shops and houses passed by in a blur.

I'd traveled around the United States for decades, all alone in my truck and trailer with my window box plants as my only living company. I'd been foolish to think I could stick around Portland for a while, no matter how much the city and its people spoke to me. If Dorian was dead, being back on the road would make it easier to hang onto my fond memories of him, and of Brixton, Max, and the other friends I'd made here.

When I reached my front lawn, I wasn't sure if my heart was pounding so hard from physical exertion or from the fear of returning home to an empty house.

“Mon amie!”
Dorian called out as I closed the front door. He flung his arms around my waist, and curled his wings around me. “When you did not return home immediately, I was afraid you had followed me into the theater when I went in because I heard Earl Rasputin's voice. With so many onlookers, I could not return.”

I hugged Dorian back, glad he couldn't see the tears of joy in my eyes. “That was brave of you, Dorian. I think you saved his life.”

“
Oui
. It is true.”

My immodest friend led me to the dining room table, where he was eating a large dinner after exerting himself, and told me what he knew. Earl had indeed been trapped in the theater. But either from the effects of the smoke or from seeing a heroic gargoyle, Earl passed out before he could tell Dorian anything.

“I left him in the back alley,” Dorian said. “I could not find you, but I watched until I saw the ambulance. I knew, then, that he would be safe. As for my book—you will see if there is anything that can be recovered?”

“There are too many people there tonight, but as soon as I can, I'll search every inch of the ashes for what we can save. Whatever happens, I'll do whatever I can to save you.”

Dorian blinked his liquid black eyes at me. “I know this, Zoe.”

I didn't dare tell Dorian I was convinced we wouldn't find anything. As I'd experienced that very evening with Max, living in the moment, however temporarily, could be a wonderful thing.

Now that I knew Dorian was safe, I wanted to return to the theater to get my truck and drive to the hospital. I've always been uncomfortable inside hospitals, because of what they used to be like many years ago with treatments that often did more harm than good, but I wanted to visit Ivan and find out what had happened to Earl. I checked the clock—I had less than an hour before visiting hours ended.

The optimistic gargoyle insisted that I eat something before leaving the house. I wasn't sure I could stomach anything, so Dorian fixed a delectable consume with freshly toasted croutons.

I hugged Dorian and kissed the tip of his head between his horns, causing his cheeks to turn dark gray with embarrassment, then grabbed my silver coat and slipped out the door.

My own cheeks flushed red when I found Max at the hospital. He didn't bring up my confusing actions from earlier that night, but simply led me to the hospital café. As we drank tepid peppermint tea, he filled me in about what he'd learned.

Earl was awake and recovering. Thankful to be alive, he confessed everything that night. As I'd suspected, he admitted to accidentally killing his friend. The two of them had broken into the theater to spy on Peter Silverman, and Earl spotted a Baby Bigfoot hiding in the shadows. Wallace didn't believe him, so Earl snuck away from his friend in an attempt to find the creature. When Earl felt a hand on his shoulder, he was frightened it was Baby Bigfoot attacking him. He lashed out, only to realize too late that it was his friend.

Earl had spent time in a psychiatric ward in his youth, so he was afraid of what would happen if he came forward with the truth. I thought back on Wallace Mason's obituary, which had mentioned how he took in troubled souls, and how Earl had told me about his rough times Wallace had helped him through.

Earl and Wallace had figured out that Peter Silverman was really the son of thief Franklin Thorne, and they thought he'd have the inside track to recovering his father's lost hoard. Seeing us all at the cemetery, especially with a detective, had spooked Earl. He thought there was additional evidence he'd left behind that the police would put together with him. He set fire to a portion of the theater to cover up his crime, but the blaze got out of control. Earl hadn't realized the flames in the show were fake and that the theater wasn't specially equipped to handle a contained fire.

Earl maintained it was Baby Bigfoot who saved him from the fire. The doctors chalked up his overly active imagination to a near-death experience.

I would have laughed, but I wanted to cry. Dorian's book, and the secret to save him, must have burned down with the theater. It didn't matter that I'd photocopied and photographed the pages. As I'd learned since then, the pages had a life of their own through backward alchemy. It was the book itself that mattered.

“You look exhausted, Zoe,” Max said. “Can I drop you at home?”

“I've got my truck here, but thanks.”

We walked to the parking garage together, and Max kissed my cheek before he got out on his floor. I hesitated for a moment, then pushed the button to return to the hospital.

It was now the middle of the night, certainly not visiting hours, but I wanted to at least try to look in on Ivan. Max had mentioned where his room was located, so it was worth a shot. I expected I'd find his door closed, but it was ajar. I poked my head inside.

“Zoe, is that you?”

I stepped inside the narrow private room. “I'm sorry to have woken you. I wanted to see how you're doing.”

“It's real,” he wheezed. “Isn't it?”

“Yes, I'm really here. You're not dreaming. But you should go back to sleep.” I moved back toward the door.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“Tell you about what?”

“About alchemy.” His voice rattled. “That it's
real
.”

I froze in the doorway, half of my body in the gloomy darkness of the room, half in the fluorescent light of the sterile hallway. Shivers ran down my spine to my toes. “You're dreaming, Ivan,” I said. My voice shook.

“The more I thought about what you did to that book, the more I saw—”

“You
are
dreaming,” I whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

Ivan sat up in the hospital bed. “Turn on the light.” What his voice lacked in strength it made up for in severity. This was a command I couldn't ignore.

I turned on the light and walked to his side. “Whatever you think you saw—”

“You know how I got involved in the study of forgotten alchemists?” Ivan asked sharply.

“You were a professor of chemistry. Alchemists were early chemists.”

“I understand chemistry. Science. What you did to that book, at my home, defied the natural order.”

“The ashes,” I whispered, closing my eyes. After Dorian's disappearance, I'd been so desperate that I'd slipped up and let Ivan see what I was doing. I'd been too upset to think about acting secretly.

“Why didn't you tell me?” The edge was gone from his voice. In its place was disappointment.

“Would you have believed me?”

“If you had showed me—”

“You would have thought it was a magic trick,” I said. “People have never been ready—”

Ivan snorted. “You think of me not as a friend but a mindless member of the public?”

“It's because you're a friend that I didn't want to burden you with the truth.”

“A burden? You think the Elixir of Life would be a burden to a dying man?”

Now I understood. “I don't know how to find the Elixir of Life, Ivan. I wish I did—”

“But you did find it once, didn't you? You're not simply an old soul, as you always joke with me. Your body is old too.”

As much as I wished it were Max who was ready for my secret, it was Ivan who was more than ready to believe me. I nodded slowly. “I don't know how I found the Elixir, though. It was an accident.”

“Surely your notes—”

“They're gone.”

The look of desperation in his eyes pained me. I didn't know what I could say that would comfort him.

“
Non Degenera Alchemia
,” Ivan said. “You're deciphering it to find the knowledge you once lost?”

“Not exactly.” I couldn't tell Ivan about Dorian. That wasn't my secret to reveal. “Backward alchemy is dangerous, and I want to understand what's going on with this book—but
not
use it.”

Ivan's eyelids drooped. He nodded. “I must sleep, but when I'm released from the hospital, you will come see me, to tell me what you know?”

“I will,” I promised. “But Ivan—”

He chuckled sleepily. “I know what you are going to say. The world has never been ready for alchemy. This is what the alchemists have said for years. Don't worry. I will not speak of this to a soul.”

I slipped from the room and flattened my back against the hallway wall. How could I have been so stupid? I had behaved recklessly after Dorian was confiscated, and now Ivan knew my secret. If I thought it could have helped him, I would have told him before. I worried that I'd given him false hope. But maybe, just maybe, false hope was better than no hope at all.

Fire crews were still at the site of the theater fire, so I couldn't yet search for the charred remains of
Non Degenera Alchemia
. Dorian wasn't at home, and after finishing off the last of my solar infusion in the kitchen, the large house felt eerily empty. I tried sleeping, but the stressful events of the day prevented me from nodding off. I popped my “Accidental Life” cassette into the car stereo, and drove around the city that was beginning to feel like home.

Shortly before dawn, I saw that there was no one left at the theater. I parked on a side street and snuck into the wreckage, clinging to my own false hope. A fragment or two of the book might have survived. I didn't care if the roof fell on my head. My best friend was dying.

As I stepped through the smoldering wreckage, the scent of honey wafted through the soggy, charred remains. Was it only my imagination? I followed the scent to its origin in a lump of ashes. Reaching into the sodden mess, I pulled a book into my hands.

Non Degenera Alchemia
was intact. It hadn't burned.

It had seemed too much to hope for. A gasp of joy escaped from my lips before I tucked the book under my coat and retreated to the safety of my truck.

I opened the book. It fell open to the page it always did. The scent of honey and cloves overwhelmed my senses so much that I nearly shut the book again. Only one thing stopped me. On the melded cathedral illustration were details that hadn't been there before.

The fire had done more to the pages than the ashes I'd used. Background details appeared on the page, giving life to the cathedral. The intricate stained glass rose window. The island. It was the Île de la Cité. This was Paris in the 1500s. This was Notre Dame de Paris.

And rising up from the cathedral was the outline of a fierce phoenix flying upward, away from the flames. Death and resurrection.

The difference between Dorian and the garden gnome and Buddha statues wasn't their different materials. It wasn't intent. The difference was that Dorian himself was connected to Notre Dame. That was the key.