The Masquerading Magician (8 page)

“My what?”

“I think you'd like something like this.” Veronica moved so we could both see the screen, and showed me an assortment of mobile-friendly websites for merchandise like mine. “Since you've got a bunch of items from China, I could draw Chinese characters that could go next to the English descriptions. And I'll ask my mom to check my work, to make sure I got them right. I think that would look really cool.”

I smiled. I'd probably spent more time in China than Veronica's Chinese-American mother, and I could have checked the Chinese myself, but I didn't like to advertise the fact that I knew as many languages as I did; it invited too many questions. And I was pleased it would give Veronica something to do with her mom. Brixton had told me she was closer with her Italian dad, because of their shared love of soccer. “That sounds great, Veronica. You should pick out something from Elixir to let me thank you.”

I wrote down the login information to get into my website. When I looked up and glanced out the window, instead of seeing Max at the grill and the boys fencing with plants, I saw the three of them gathered around something else:
Dorian's alchemy book.
The dangerous, secret book I could have sworn I'd locked up in the basement that morning before leaving the house. I'd been ambushed.

That was the real motivation for Brixton coming over. He wanted Dorian's book.

Fourteen

france, 1855

The young doctor did not think of himself as anything special. He knew himself to be a competent doctor, a fair man, and a mediocre alchemist.

He had not discovered The Philosopher's Stone, yet his modest laboratory contained herbs he used to heal his wife and son when they were sick. He was not above feeling jealous of the men who had lived in previous centuries, when alchemy was in its heyday. He fantasized that, had he lived then, he might have been honored with a spot in Rudolph II's court in Prague, where men from across the world were said to have been given a stipend to practice alchemy. But the doctor had been born centuries too late for that. Here in the nineteenth century, he had to live out his fantasies through books.

It was this hobby that led to the most improbable day of his life.

Though the doctor and his family lived in Paris, the doctor's wife was originally from the town of Blois. He and his family frequently traveled there to visit her infirm mother. His love for books was well-known to his family, so they thought nothing of it when he spent the afternoon at a local bookshop. In truth, it was his desire to avoid the company of his mother-in-law at least as much as the pull of books that led him to the bookshop that afternoon.

He had learned not to openly express his obsession with alchemy. Even in the modern times in which he lived, alchemy was greeted with suspicion. Therefore he feigned an interest in a wide range of scientific subjects. Once he told the bookseller the range of topics that interested him, the stooped man without a hair on his head nodded and retreated to the back of his shop.

The doctor looked over the books selected for him, then politely asked if the man had anything that was perhaps … older.

The bookseller nodded with understanding. The doctor watched the small, elderly man climb to the top of a ladder, wondering if he should assist the bookseller, lest he fall from the high rungs as he clutched a large book in one hand. Before the doctor could make up his mind, the bookseller was back on the ground, pressing the book into the medical man's hands.

“This is more to your liking, sir?”

It was. The doctor paid more than a fair price for
Non Degenera Alchemia,
an amount that had the bookseller drinking fine wine for months to come. The bookseller was quite pleased, for he had not even purchased the book to begin with. It had been left on the stoop of his shop some years before. At first he thought the anonymous donor must not have realized its value, but when he turned the pages of the book, he guessed the donor's true motivation. A foul odor emanated from the book. When certain pages were opened, the stench grew stronger. But the bookseller was also a book-lover. He could not abandon such a carefully made book. Even after cleaning the book failed to remove the smell, he was unable to part with it. Instead, he climbed to the top rung of his ladder and set the book on top of his highest bookshelf, where the scent would not reach his nose. The scent would fade over time, he imagined. With the book far from his gaze, he promptly forgot all about it—until the day the young man with an interest in alchemy walked into his shop.

The doctor didn't notice anything odd about the scent of the book until he and his family returned to Paris. Was it his imagination, or did the book smell of more than dusty leather and mold? Perhaps one of the items in his medical bag had spilled onto it. He wasn't usually so careless, but with a young son, he was neither as methodical nor as well rested as he once had been.

He had a small collection of alchemy books, which he kept in the midst of a much larger collection of literature and scientific volumes.
Non Degenera Alchemia
was unlike any other alchemy book he'd seen. The transformations pictured were all wrong. Indeed, once he was back home in Paris, the doctor was no longer sure it
was
a real alchemy book. The tiny bookshop had appealed to his
romantic tendencies. Perhaps he'd spent his money more on an idea than the book itself.

Now, it looked as if he wouldn't have a chance to find out. His wife insisted he remove the book that smelled like it had been stored in a stable of animals. He couldn't argue with her, and not only because she won every argument. In this case, he believed she was right.

He no longer knew any alchemists who might want to buy the book. He had once tried to join a secret society of alchemists in Paris, but he found them to be a very silly group of men. None of them had discovered alchemy's secrets, but all of them delighted in deciphering riddles.

Thus, with a heavy heart, he tucked the book under his arm and set out to find a bookseller who might pay him a few francs for it. Before leaving, he sprinkled a few drops of his wife's perfume onto the spine, hoping to mask the other odors. He hated to damage the book, but who would buy it in its current state?

His actions were for naught. A few steps out the door, the odor of the book returned. The perfume must have dispersed quickly in the dry air. Perhaps he could find a bookseller with a stuffed-up nose.

The doctor followed the path of the Seine River, the pleasant day balancing out his feeling of foolishness for his hasty purchase. As the spires of Notre Dame Cathedral came into view, the smell of farm animals dissipated, replaced with scents of the forest. So shocked was the doctor that he tripped. The book flew out of his hands, landing a few feet in front of him. He dusted off his trousers, which thankfully had not ripped, then lifted the book. Memories of childhood Christmases flooded through his mind as fragrances filled his nostrils.

Was he going crazy? Or could this be true alchemy?

Fifteen

“What's the big deal?”
Brixton said. “I was just showing the alchemy book to Ethan because he took Latin in private school before he moved here. I thought he could help translate some of the crazy stuff in there.”

“It's a valuable antique,” I snapped. “It shouldn't be outside. The spores from the garden will ruin it.” It was true, though that's not what I cared about.

“Is that why it smells so weird?” Ethan asked.

“Mold?” Max chimed in. “I met a book restorer a couple of years ago, on a case. He might be able to help.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking the book from Ethan's hands. “I'll keep that in mind.”

“I'm the reason you got the book back, you know,” Ethan said.

My shoulders tensed, but I kept the book firmly in my hands. I'd never asked Ethan to buy the book from the innocent rare books dealer, but I was thankful
Non Degenera Alchemia
hadn't gotten caught in police red tape as I fought to have it returned to me after it was stolen in a break-in a few months ago. Ethan's family was wealthy enough that the charge on his father's credit card hadn't been a problem. I wondered if he'd even noticed.

“You know I'm grateful, Ethan. And I'm working on paying you back—”

“Whatever. I just thought it would be cool to see what all the fuss was about. After all, this is the book Brix made up all those stories about. Like how it's what brought your shy French friend to life. Nice one, Brix.”

Brixton became suddenly interested in a wild maze of mint leaves that were snaking their way up the fence. He knew why he couldn't tell them the real reason I needed to decipher the book, but I hadn't realized just how much he'd told his friends shortly after meeting me.

“Are we going to eat or what?” Ethan said.

I took the book inside, not trusting myself to speak to Brixton while the others were around. I knew what he was doing, and he meant well. He saw that Dorian was dying and knew that my own efforts weren't working to save him. Since Ethan read Latin, it was a natural leap for Brixton to think Ethan might be able to help.

I trusted Brixton's intentions, but he was fourteen. In my youth, that age was considered nearly an adult. But a teenager today wasn't an adult. I couldn't assume that Brixton was. I'd become too careless in what I shared with him.

He would never
purposefully
reveal my secret and Dorian's, but his actions could still lead to dangerous situations. I wasn't worried about Brixton slipping up, or even purposefully telling anyone about me and Dorian. When he did so shortly after we first met, nobody believed him. People see only what their worldview enables them to see. It's like we're all walking around with x-ray glasses set to different frequencies. When most people are told about a living “French gargoyle,” their imagination conjures the image of a disfigured Frenchman who was self-conscious about being seen, not a stone gargoyle who'd accidentally been imbued with a life force when an unsuspecting stage magician had read from the pages of a book he never suspected contained actual magic. The few people who'd seen Dorian move when he was hiding in plain sight assumed it was a trick of the light or that they'd had one too many pints of Portland's exquisite beer.

True, my life would have been easier if I didn't have to pretend I had a shy friend from France, but I didn't fault Brixton for trying to be understood. The problem was when he acted recklessly by taking matters into his own hands. When he did so, I couldn't anticipate all the unintended consequences.

After taking the book to the basement bookshelf, I carried statue-Dorian to the basement. Between gardening and taking long walks, I've never been a gym person. Honestly, the whole concept of a gym that doesn't involve competitive sparring baffles me. Doing unproductive physical work within the confines of a dark building, as opposed to working up a sweat in nature? But as I hefted Dorian into my arms, I realized that perhaps lifting weights wasn't such a bad idea.

I set him down at the bottom of the basement stairs, feeling a twinge in my lower back. After locking us into the basement, I told him it was safe to wake up.

“I can see that.” He stretched his neck, flapped his wings, and flexed his fingers. Moving his hips as if he was playing with an invisible hoola hoop, he frowned at his legs. They were taking longer to regain movement than the rest of him.

“You heard what happened?” I asked. He hated it when I fussed over his condition.

“Of course.” He shook his head sadly. “I can see and hear very well when I am trapped in stone. I saw the food preparations being made. Such poor cooking technique! You did not wait nearly long enough for the coals to heat properly to grill the vegetables.”

“Dorian—”

“And I have the perfect recipe for a tarragon sauce to accompany asparagus, but I cannot show myself to prepare it—”

“Dorian!”

“Yes?”

“I was talking about whether or not you heard that Brixton showed Ethan your book.”

Dorian narrowed his eyes. “You are trying to change the subject because you have never liked tarragon.”

“I like tarragon just fine, as you know full well. I don't grow it myself because it doesn't have as many healing properties as other herbs.”

“It is the King of Herbs, Zoe. The King of Herbs.”

“Would you please focus? I need to go back upstairs in a minute.”

“Yes, yes. I heard you confront the boys. I was confused as to why you stopped Ethan from looking at my book.”

“He's a
kid
, Dorian.”

“Yet he is the one who enabled us to get it back.”

“I remember, Dorian. I remember.” When all this was over, I needed to work on creating enough gold to pay Ethan back. “But knowing how to type your wealthy father's credit card number is completely different from knowing how to comprehend an ancient and dangerous
text.”

“Fresh eyes. Is that not the expression?”

“Yes. He's a fresh set of eyes. But he's fourteen. And he doesn't know about alchemy. And did I mention he's fourteen! Look, I really need to get back. Lock yourself in here. Don't let anyone in. Don't let anyone besides the two of us look at the book.”

“You show Ivan—”

“That's different. He's a scholar—”

The gargoyle threw his arms into the air in exasperation. “No
ham
,” he muttered. “No
butter
. No showing my
own personal possession
to whomever I wish.”

I sighed. “Do you really miss ham?”

He scowled at me. “No, I do not. But that is not the point.”

“I give up. Stay here, Dorian. I'll make sure everyone leaves before too long.”

Getting rid of my guests proved more difficult than expected. It was such a gorgeous afternoon for a barbeque that my outburst hadn't dampened the fun. When I stepped into the backyard five minutes after I'd left to deposit Dorian and his book in the basement, Max, Brixton, and Ethan were sitting in folding wood chairs in a semi-circle around the grill while Veronica flipped pieces of asparagus.

None of them seemed to notice my foul mood. Dorian was right that I was failing in my own attempts to decipher his book, so it was no wonder he agreed with Brixton that any help was welcome. A kid who'd studied a little bit of Latin wasn't going to help. But an old alchemist was another story. Now that I knew Prometheus's true identity, I was eager to attend the
Phantasmagoria
magic show that night.

Since none of my guests were picking up on my impatient mood and suggesting they depart, it was time for another approach. I picked a stalk of ragweed to force myself to sneeze repeatedly. With a red nose and eyes, it was much easier to wrap up the barbeque. With my overzealous inhalation of ragweed, I was certain I didn't look like someone Max would want to spend the evening with, leaving me free to get ready for the magic show. I hated the continued deception. It never got easier.

I counteracted the effects of the pollen by taking a bath with chamomile bath salts, then dressed in an oversize black blouse far too long for my arms, and black leggings that left nothing to the imagination. In simple black, I hoped I'd blend into the background.

I arrived early and got myself a glass of red wine at the lobby bar. At least two dozen attendees were there ahead of me, holding drinks and chatting with friends. I smiled but didn't strike up any conversations. I was there to see what else I could discover.

While I looked around the wood-paneled lobby, I sipped the wine. The spicy and sweet flavors of cloves, pepper, and black currants danced on my tongue. I've never been a big drinker, since my alchemically-trained body experiences heightened effects of every
thing I put into it. But I enjoy the complex characteristics in wine. And unlike coffee, which can keep me up for days, too much wine puts me to sleep. After one more sip, I abandoned the half-f wine glass on the edge of the bar.

The lobby was filling up, providing the cover I needed. Mirroring the authority of the magicians in the illustrated
Persephone & Prometheus's Phantasmagoria
poster next to me, I walked purposefully to the closed doors that led to the seating area. Unfortunately, they were locked. That wasn't uncommon, and I should have expected it. Stage magicians wouldn't want anyone seeing their setup. I wished I knew how to pick locks as deftly as Dorian did with his claws. I had to wait until the audience was let in, which happened a few minutes later. I lingered next to the doors, so I was one of the first members of the audience ushered inside. I spotted two staff members dressed in black. One was in the sound booth, and one stood at the side of the stage, guarding the curtains from curious patrons who might be tempted to peek. To me, neither of them looked much older than Brixton.

Instead of finding my seat, I walked to the front row and caught the eye of the staffer hovering in the wings.

“This is a wonderful old theater,” I said. “Have you worked here for long?”

He grinned. “Two years this May, when I graduated with a degree in theater.”

“What about the guy in the sound booth?”

His grin faltered. “He's been here a little longer, but I know a lot about this place. Listen, I've got to finish setting up, but do you want to grab a beer after the show? I can tell you all about it.”

The revealing leggings had definitely been a bad idea. I politely declined his offer. He'd told me what I needed to know. Peter and Penelope hadn't brought their own crew with them. They were working with locals.

At this Saturday evening performance, there were a few empty seats in the theater, but not many. I was heartened to see that people were still interested in attending a classic magic show. I wished I could enjoy it.

The lights flickered, signaling that the performance would begin shortly. I was seated in the back row, and I watched the stage carefully.

The curtains opened slowly, revealing a dark stage. A glimmer of light bounced off a piece of glass. I was surprised at the sloppy setup. The night before, it hadn't been immediately obvious that the fire was an illusion.

The magicians must have realized something was wrong too. Instead of the swell of music that had kicked off the previous night's show, the curtains began to close again.

But at the same time, something was happening on the stage. As my eyes adjusted, I made out the form of a tall cabinet at the side of the stage. It had been there the previous night, I remembered, but it hadn't been used. At least not in a way the audience could see. This time, though, the door of the cabinet was slowly opening. There was someone inside. He held himself stiffly, almost as if he was playing the part of a dead body.

This was definitely in keeping with the
Phantasmagoria
's theme of death and resurrection, but I was surprised that the magicians would change their act so drastically between performances.

The curtains continued to close, but the heavy fabric moved slowly. I could still see the middle of the stage. And I recognized the man inside the coffinlike cabinet.

It was the Floating Lady volunteer I'd seen at the theater earlier that day. What was he doing there? Had he stayed at the theater to spy on the magicians and hidden in this cabinet, not knowing it would be used on stage? He was a little late to be sneaking out unnoticed.

Right before the curtains closed, my breath caught. Wallace Mason
wasn't
trying to hide. A dark patch of red stretched across his chest.

He tumbled out of the box just as the two sides of the curtains came together with a crash. Of course it wasn't the curtains making the noise. It was the sound of his dead body hitting the stage floor.

A murmur of voices echoed through the theater, as audience members turned to one another, presumably wondering about the strange opening of the show. Though magicians love morbid imagery, the scene on the stage had none of the previous night's dramatic flare. This was no act.

The magician had killed again.

And without revealing who I was, there was nothing I could do about it.