The Accidental Alchemist (2 page)

two

Being an alchemist isn’t
as glamorous as it sounds. Turning lead into gold? It’s a laborious, utterly draining process that’s incredibly difficult to replicate. Living a longer life? Not without unpleasant consequences, such as outliving everyone you love and feeling the effects of years of unhealthy living.

Alchemy means different things to different people, but at its core it’s about transformation that strives to achieve perfection. It’s a personal journey that involves transforming yourself as you transform plants or metals. Finding the philosopher’s stone to create gold and the Elixir of Life to live forever are the most famous goals of alchemists, but those are only two parts of a much greater whole.

It’s a lonely life. Because there are so few of us who have succeeded in realizing alchemy’s true potential, and because we’ve seen what has befallen alchemists over the centuries, we’re forced to keep the extent of our
alchemical transformations a secret.

It’s not as bad as it was during the Salem Witch Trials, when misunderstandings had consequences much worse than hateful comments on Facebook. Society has come a long way since then, but people are still afraid of what they don’t understand. The people I’ve met in my travels love that I can use herbs to create healthful elixirs that heal what ails them or sell them a decorative alchemical relic. But tell them about my deeper connection to plants, my ability to detect poisons, and the fact that I first did so over three hundred years ago? They’ll get as far away from me as possible and probably call a psychiatrist. I’ve learned not to tell people the whole truth. It’s better for everyone. That’s why I was doubly disconcerted to have a living gargoyle standing in my new home announcing who I really was.

The creature’s eyes followed me as I took a few slow steps backward and leaned against the wall, steadying my trembling legs.

“How do you know me?” I asked. “Why do you say I’m an alchemist?”

Dorian bowed again. This time his wings widened as he did so. They, too, looked visually like stone, but moved like the wings of a bird or a bat.

The rain had stopped, at least for the moment, but a strong breeze outside rustled the branches of the trees in the front yard and they again brushed against the living room windows. Standing in the shadow of the crate, Dorian cocked his head and looked at the windows, his eyes narrowed.

“You will draw the curtains,” Dorian said. “Then we may speak more freely.”

I kept the creature in view as I stood up to close the musty curtains. Part of me thought he’d disappear if I let him out of my sight.

“There is no need to pretend with me,” he said. “Besides, you give yourself away, Alchemist. You seem rather unsurprised to find a living gargoyle in your luggage.”

“You don’t call falling off the couch surprised?”

“You are sitting here speaking with me,” he said. “That is more than most people would do if they saw me.”

“You lucked out and hid in the crate of an open-minded person.”

The gargoyle rolled his eyes. Apparently it was a universal way to express exasperation. Or maybe I really was going crazy.

“Zoe,” he said. “I knew your apothecary shop, Elixir, in Paris.”

“My grandmother’s shop?” Maybe that explained things. Well, as much as things could be explained with a talking gargoyle in one’s living room. “I’ve got a great collection of historical alchemical supplies she left me, as you must have seen from rooting through my shipping crate. I sell things like these antiques to make a living.”

“
Mon dieu,
” Dorian said. “I know that you are the same person as the young woman from a century ago you claim was your grandmother.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I said, hoping my shaking voice didn’t betray me.

“If you are not going to trust that your secret is safe with me, at least you can feed me. Do you have any food?
J’ai faim
. That crate was in transit for much longer than I imagined it would be. I apologize that this is why I searched through your belongings. I was hoping to find something to e
at.”

“You
eat foo
d
?”

“But of course.”

Som
ething about the gargoyle saying how hungry he was made me realize the absurdity of the situation. I glanced around the expansive living and dining room, empty except for sh
ipping crates, a green velvet couch, a mango wood coffee table, and a oak dining table with chairs. I half-expected a Frenchman with a remote control to jump out from behind the couch and tell me this was a practical joke for a reality TV show.

“What are you?” I asked. The gargoyle was even larger that I’d originally thought. He stood three-and-a-half feet tall, two feet shorter than my five-foot-six frame, and looked every bit as real as I did.

“I would think that was evident,” he said. “
Je suis un gargouille
—a gargoyle. As I said, my name is Dorian. I am no less alive than you.”

The hilarity I felt a moment before drained from my body, replaced by fear.

“You’re a homunculus,” I whispered. I no longer cared about w
hat I said in front of the creature, even if it meant admitting I was a practicing alchemist. Keeping my secret was now the least of my problems. Having such a creature in my home was far more dangerous than the most advanced robot—because he had a mind that was controlled from afar. A homunculus could not be deactivated or killed by anyone besides the person who created him.

There were rumors of alchemists who had succeeded in creating a homunculus—a living being created out of an inanimate object—but none of the rumors had ever been proven true. They were either stories told by men who wanted to appear more powerful than they really were, or legends created to make people fear alchemists. It couldn’t be …

“My father did not think so,” he said casually, as if this was a normal conversation.

“Your
father
?”

“The man who raised me and cared for me. That is what one calls a father, no?”

“Yes, but how—”

“There is much to tell, but I am hungry,” he whined.

“But why are you here in the first place?” I asked. “What were you doing in my moving crate?”

“You visited Paris so briefly,” Dorian Robert-Houdin answered, looking up at me. “You were there only to pack up your storage unit. That did not leave me time to speak with you about my book.” He held up the antique book clutched in his clawed hands. “I assure you I am no homunculus. I have a mind of my own, you see. You have nothing to fear.”

Though I wasn’t sure how much better it made me feel to know that he had a mind of his own, I didn’t have time to give the matter more thought. A crash sounded from the direction of the kitchen. The swinging door burst open and a scrawny boy fell to the floor.

Dorian’s black liquid eyes bulged and he scampered back inside his crate.

Sprawled on the hardwood floor was a boy who looked about thirteen or fourteen years old. Curly black hair stuck to the sides of his face, messy from the earlier rain. He met my gaze as he pushed himself up. His hazel eyes resembled those of a cornered animal—defiance masking fear.

Instead of anger at the realization that he’d been spying on us from behind the swinging kitchen door, my first thought was concern. A large streak of blood covered the boy’s forearm.

“You’re hurt,” I said.

“I’m fine,” he stammered, his voice breaking as he held his bleeding arm.

“Let me get something to bandage that. Then you can tell me why you were
in my house
eavesdropping—”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, “and I didn’t see anything.” He stood still for a second longer, then bolted back toward the swinging kitchen door.

He was fast, but Dorian was faster. The gargoyle jumped out of his crate and grabbed the boy’s leg.

“Don’t hurt me!” The boy tried to shake free of Dorian’s grasp, but the little creature was strong.

“
Mon dieu
,” Dorian said. “We are not going to hurt you. But you must give us your word of honor you will not speak of what you saw.”

“I swear I won’t say anything.” The boy kept squirming, but Dorian’s grip was unrelenting.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

The boy glared at me.

“What do you think you saw?” I asked. “I was unpacking my robot—”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “I didn’t see anything.”

“The boy is not stupid,” Dorian said. “It is evident I am no robot.”

“I’m not a boy,” he said, jerking his arm away. This time Dorian let go. “I’m fourteen. And I’m just leaving—”

“Let me clean your cut,” I said.

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” I said. “You’re also breaking and entering.”

His face paled. “You can’t call the cops. This place is abandoned. I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“As you can see,” I said, spreading my arms and looking over the room from the velvet couch to the crates, “I’m the new owner. How did you get in?”

He looked at the floor.

“Watch him,” I said to Dorian.

I poked my head into the kitchen. One of the windows had been forced open. A smear of blood covered the rusty latch.

“There’s no way that window latch is sanitary,” I said to the boy. “Let me clean that cut.”

He crossed his arms and glowered at me, but didn’t attempt to run.

“I’ll be right back,” I said.

I went to my trailer to find an antiseptic salve and a bandage. It took me a few minutes, and when I returned, Dorian and the boy were sitting cross-legged in front of the brick fireplace. They watched each other skeptically, apparently having reached a détente.

“Let me see your arm.” I took his hand in mine.

He wore a black hoodie that was pushed up to his elbows. The blood from his cut had soaked the cuff. He winced as I cleaned the cut and applied an herbal salve of yarrow and aloe. Though the boy was scrawny, his hands were strong. His fingertips were calloused, like he played a stringed instrument. I wondered which one. I couldn’t see him playing in a school orchestra, but one thing I’ve learned over the years is that people never fail to surprise me.

“Why did you break in?” I asked.

“I told you,” he said. “This place was supposed to be abandoned. We saw the trailer in the driveway.” He shrugged. “We wanted to know who would be staying in a haunted house.”

Dorian rolled his little black eyes.

“Your friends are with you?” I asked. This situation kept getting worse and worse.

“They stayed down the street. None of them were brave enough …”

“You’re here on a dare?”

He glared at me again. The kid seemed to have a lot of practice.

“They won’t believe you, you know,” I said.

A brisk knock sounded at the door.

“
Mon dieu!
” Dorian exclaimed. “What is this,
une fête
?”

“Maybe you should—”

“
Oui
,” Dorian said. But instead of getting back inside the crate, he stood next to the fireplace. After stretching his shoulders for a moment, he stood so still that I would have sworn he was a stone gargoyle, just as solid and unmoving as a garden decoration.

“Could it be your friends?” I asked the boy.

He shook his head, confusion showing on his face. “They wouldn’t—”

“Police,” a deep voice called out from beyond the door. “May I speak with you?”

What were the police doing at my door? I felt my pulse quicken as memories flooded back to me. I wasn’t alone in my reaction. My young intruder’s eyes grew wide.

The boy hovered nervously behind me as I opened the door to find a handsome man with deep brown eyes standing on my rickety porch. Instead of a police uniform, he wore dark blue jeans, a slim-fitting black sweater, and a jacket. Two kids, a boy and a girl, stood next to him.

“What can I do for you?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound as nervous as I felt.

My injured intruder groaned, slinking further behind me.

“I’m Detective Liu,” the man said. “Max Liu. These two were worried about their friend Brixton. They said they saw him—” He broke off and cleared his throat.

“Let me guess,” I said. “You were going to say they saw him disappear into the neighborhood haunted house.” The house had been uninhabited for several years, due to a legal battle among the family of the elderly woman who’d lived here. That’s how it had fallen into its current state of disrepair. I knew about the history from the real estate agent, but for everyone else in the neighborhood who saw the biggest house on the block sitting empty for unknown reasons, rumors about ghosts made perfect sense.

“Bingo.” The detective raised an eyebrow at Brixton’s friends.

The girl shrugged awkwardly. “Brixton said he’d be
right
back. He didn’t show, so I texted him and still didn’t hear back …”

“He fell and hurt his arm,” I said. “He got a nasty cut and I was helping him clean it.”

“He wasn’t disturbing you?” Detective Liu asked as a cold wind pushed up the collar of his jacket. “Trespassing?”

“Not at all. He was simply saying hello to his new neighbor. I’m Zoe.” I paused to shake his hand. In spite of the chilly air, his hand was warm. And there was something else … A faint scent of lavender wafted up from his hand, along with another plant essence I couldn’t place. The overall effect was familiar and comforting. “Do you want to come in? It’s getting cold out there.”

“This is nothing,” he said, stepping inside. “I take it you’re not originally from Portland.”

“I’ve lived in much colder places, but I always appr
eciate the warmth.” I paused as it hit me that I hadn’t seen any identification from Detective Liu. He didn’t look like a typical police officer. It wasn’t just the fact that he wasn’t dressed like one. I’ve known detectives in many eras and countries. There was something different about Max Liu. He was guarded and open at the same time. Looking into his eyes as I’d shaken his hand, I had the strongest sense that he was both genuinely friendly and hiding a burdensome secret.

“You introduced yourself as ‘detective,” I added. “Isn’t it a bit much to send a detective because a fourteen-year-old decided to turn off his cell phone for a few minutes?”