The Masquerading Magician (6 page)

Ten

“Why are you sitting
on the sofa in your
imperméable
?” asked my gargoyle, his dark gray brows drawn together.

“I was all set to go out and confront a problem, until I thought better of it.” I sat stiffly on the green velvet couch, my silver raincoat buttoned over my awkward clothing and the keys to my truck in my hands.

If Peter Silverman was a murderer who was back in town to find the loot he thought was lost, why would he admit to being an alchemist? Even if I could get him to open up to me, was an alliance with a dangerous alchemist worth the risk? I've survived for centuries because I listen to my intuition. And my intuition was screaming at me that I should steer clear of Peter Silverman. But at the same time, if his help could save Dorian's life …

Dorian hopped up on the couch next to me. His feet didn't touch the ground. “I suppose it is too much to ask an alchemist to avoid speaking in riddles.”

“I don't mean to be enigmatic. Take a look at this book.” I lifted the library book from the coffee table and opened it to the bookmarked page.

“The Fire God magician,” Dorian remarked. “Prometheus. I would not have thought him good enough to merit being featured in a book. It is an unflattering photograph, no?”

“Take a look at the title of the book. It's a book about Portland's infamous murderers.”

Dorian's snout twitched as he looked from the front cover to the information about the photograph. “But this is … How is this possible? It says this man was killed by
les flics
in 1969.”

“I think he's an alchemist. A real one who's discovered the Elixir of Life.” Something was wrong with that picture, though. Alchemists aren't immortal. If he was truly dead, as this picture indicated, there were only two ways he could have come back to life. One, he could have faked his death in the first place. Two, it was possible he could have used backward alchemy, the same unnatural alchemy that had brought Dorian to life and was now killing him.

“
C'est vrai?
Is it true? But this is wonderful! You have had such difficulty locating another true alchemist all these months. Monsieur Danko means to help you, yet he is not a true alchemist, and cannot know your true mission. Why is your face grave, Zoe? Working with a learned alchemist who may have been alive longer than you, this could help you decipher my book, no?”

“He's a
murderer
, Dorian.”

Dorian waved his hand through the air. “You fail to see the big picture. Ah! I am settling into American life so well that I am using American idioms! Did you hear?”

I sighed. “I'm glad you're feeling more at home in Portland, but the big picture generally includes staying
far
away
from murderers who the police felt necessary to shoot several times.”

“Yes, but—” He broke off. “
Attendez
. Why did he come back?”

“Look at his name.”

“Franklin Thorne? Ah! He is the man who stole the Lake Loot that has enticed these meddlesome treasure hunters.”

“He would have been forced to leave town quickly at the time, unable to get the loot without being found out. But now that enough time has passed, he most likely wants to retrieve the rest of it before someone else finds it, since part of the stash has already been discovered.”

“
Mais,
why would he care for jewels?” Dorian asked. “He could simply make gold.”

“As you've seen, not all alchemists are good at transmuting lead into gold.”

Dorian frowned. “I thought you were a special case.”

“It's a huge depletion of energy for anyone. It's the level of difficulty to complete the transformation, and how quickly we recover, that's personal. But we're getting off track. Dorian—if he truly died in that shoot-out, and it's the same man we saw on stage last night, he had to use unnatural means to bring himself back from the dead. He would have to be using backward alchemy.”

“That is even better! He might understand my book.” Dorian grinned, his wings wriggling in his excitement.

“If he doesn't steal it first.” My hand flew to my mouth. I hadn't realized the implication of my words until I'd spoken them out loud. There was
another
reason besides the valuable jewelry that could have lured an alchemist who practiced backward alchemy to Portland in the first place. “An immoral alchemist,” I said slowly, “might want
Not Untrue Alchemy
to use himself.”

Dorian gaped at me, his dark gray tongue hanging over his light-gray little teeth. “You think,” he said, “he is here to steal my book?”

I shook my head, shaking free of my confused thoughts. “I can't see how it's possible. Even if he knew of the book's existence, there's no way for him to know it's here.” Alchemists can't sense each other from afar. Up close, there are subtle cues, mostly inadvertent slip-ups that show we were alive during periods of time we couldn't possibly have otherwise experienced. It's not like we're surrounded by an aura that other alchemists can see.

“The scent of the book is most strong,” Dorian said. “Could he have sensed it that way? I have never smelled anything like the strange scents in this book. And as a chef, I have smelled many things.”

“The sweet scents in the book aren't unique. It's only odd that they're coming from an antique book.”

“I believe you are correct,” Dorian said. “I cannot imagine my book is what drew him here. ”

“The much more plausible explanation,” I said, “is that he's simply here to find the rest of the jewels that washed up in that mudslide along the Willamette.”

“
Alors
,” Dorian said, purposefully widening his liquidy black eyes so he looked like a teddy bear gargoyle, “he is merely trying to find what is rightfully his. That does not sound like such a bad man.”

“Dorian!”

“Yes, yes, the murders he committed—”

“Sounds like it was only one accidental murder.” I cringed. Was I trying to excuse him?

Dorian's wings slumped. “I am sorry to pressure you into speaking with the alchemist, my friend. I wish for no harm to come to you. Yet if there is a way this man can help me without hurting yourself, do you not wish to explore it?”

“Of course.”

“
Bon.
We can at least hear his side of the story.”

“
We?
”

Dorian looked up at me with innocent eyes. “Alchemists who have discovered the Elixir of Life would not be afraid of me. I am going with you.”

Eleven

An hour later, I
dropped a hefty duffle bag at my feet and glanced around.

We would have been there sooner, but Dorian insisted on cooking us an early lunch to “keep our energy up.” I didn't object as soon as I tasted his newest version of macaroni and “cheese” made from cashew cream.

“We're alone,” I said as I unzipped the duffle bag. Sweat trickled down the side of my temple. That gargoyle was heavy. “But you should hurry.”

“
Mais oui
.” Dorian stepped out of the bag, asking for my assistance with his left foot, then got straight to work on the lock in front of us. He had it open in less than a minute.

“
Merde
,” he whispered. “I do not think I will be able to relock this door from the inside.”

“As long as we can get back out, that's fine with me.”

I grimaced at the sound of the door's screaming hinges, even though rationally I knew that we didn't need to be quiet. Not yet. The front of the theater was locked up. The staff and performers hadn't yet arrived to prepare for that evening's performance. I'd had Dorian pick the lock of the side door, located on a deserted alley that led to a backstage area.

With the dexterity of Dorian's clawed fingertips, it was like having my own personal locksmith. I thought of him as a “locksmith” rather than “burglar” because my intentions were pure—I wasn't planning on stealing anything. I wanted to take a look around to see if anything suggested these magicians were more than they seemed. Before confronting a potential murderer and showing that I knew his secret, I insisted we do reconnaissance. This was a long shot, since alchemists know how to be careful. But at the same time, since nobody expects alchemy to be real, it's tempting to let your guard down. That's what I was hoping Prometheus, aka Peter Silverman, had done.

Dorian could see in the dark, so he didn't need to turn on any lights. I, however, did. At least, if I was going to be of any use. But I found there was already a light burning.

“Zoe!” Dorian whispered in the deep, gravelly voice he erroneously believed was quiet enough not to be overheard. “We are not alone!”

“It's okay, Dorian. It's a Ghost Light.” I pointed at the solitary bulb on a standing lamp in the center of the stage. It didn't mean someone was inside the theater. The theater tradition was an old one. The solitary burning bulb was meant to ward off ghosts. Or to protect the safety of anyone working late. The rationale depended on who you asked. The point was that it was an old tradition no longer needed with modern lighting. A few theaters still used it, but it would be second nature to someone who had worked in the theater a hundred years ago.

Dorian didn't notice my worry. He got to work exploring the theater by the light of the unadorned, ghostly bulb.

“Everything is locked!” he declared indignantly.

“Isn't that what I brought you along for? It was difficult lugging you inside that bag. I think you've been eating too many of the pastries you're cooking for Blue Sky Teas.”

Dorian wrinkled his snout at me. “An important role of the chef is to taste his own creations! How else would culinary progress be made? Especially with these complicated vegan rules you impose.”

“How can you say the rules are complicated? The only rule is no animal products.”

“Semantics,” Dorian mumbled. “
Alors
, these are locks beyond what my claws can unlock. I cannot imagine what foul magic lurks beyond these chains.”

I knelt down to inspect the chain wrapped around a traveling trunk, then eyed the dramatic little gargoyle. “They're performers, Dorian. You know very well from your father that stage magicians are careful to protect their illusions. All this tells us is that they're magicians who create their own illusions. Which we already knew from seeing their show.” I wished I was as confident as my words indicated.

I walked around the trunks, crates, and cabinets that had been locked with complex sets of metal chains. They were perhaps a bit on the paranoid side, but nothing out of the ordinary for stage magicians.

In the 1800s, several famous magicians stole cutting-edge acts from each other. Many magicians filed patents for their inventions, such as the Ghost, but spies infiltrated crews to gain enough knowledge to pretend they'd invented similar illusions on their own. I must have been lost in my memories, because I didn't hear anything until a voice rang out.

“Who left the lights on?” A deep female voice echoed through the theater.

“Perhaps it was the ghost,” a male voice answered.

Dorian and I slunk into the shadows at the back of the stage as Prometheus and Persephone, sans costumes, strode down the center aisle toward us. If they turned on any spotlights, we'd be seen. I pulled Dorian behind a section of curtain and opened a fold just enough to peer out.

“Very funny, darling,” Penelope said.

Peter shrugged. “I don't remember doing it, but you're right. It was probably me. Old habits … ”

I felt my heart racing.
Old habits
.

“I thought you were over the need to leave a light on for the ghosts of the theater.”

The two magicians hopped up onto the stage, just a few yards away from us. Though they were both dressed casually in paint-stained jeans, their hairstyles were already in place for their characters that night. Penelope's highly stylized curls pressed along the sides of her face, and Peter's flame-inspired spikes were stiff enough to impale someone.

Peter ran his hand across the edge of a beaten-up trunk wrapped in chains. “Being back in Portland has brought back a lot of memories, Pen.”

Dorian tugged at my hand. The magicians were close enough to us that I dared not whisper a reply, or even shift to look at him.

“Nobody has messed with these locks,” Penelope said. “I don't know why you insist on locking up
everything
like this. It takes so long to open.”

“You know why.”

“I swear,” Penelope said, “I'd like to clock the person who started that damn rumor about ‘The Scottish Play' being cursed and Gaston Leroux for writing
The Phantom of the Opera
.”

“Right. Let's focus. We don't have much time. The crew will be here soon. Let's get this trunk open and get out of here.”

So Peter didn't trust the crew. I thought about the illusions the magicians had performed. Though the tricks were detailed and involved precision, they didn't require many players to implement them. I'd learned from Dorian (who'd learned from his father) that there were many ways to perform the same trick. Instead of using complicated rigging as some performers did, the illusions I'd seen the previous night involved ingenious tricks of light. The magicians hadn't used real fire, so they could have made do with one or two local stagehands.

Penelope opened two combination locks that held the chains in place around the storage trunk.

“Just one more—” Peter broke off. “Did you hear something?”

“The ghost, perhaps?”

“I'm serious, Pen. I think I heard something.”

“I wish you didn't have to be so secretive.”

Peter stood still for a moment, listening, then sighed. “You're right. It must be getting to me. I must have imagined the sound.”

Only he hadn't imagined it. Dorian pointed up toward the catwalk above the stage. Two figures, barely visible in the shadows, were making their way across the walkway that held the stage lights.