by J. S. Miller
Contents
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
For Erin, who never gives up on me, even at my most obnoxious.
© 2018 J.S. Miller. All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions, contact:
[email protected]
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by Jeff Ellison. Jeff Ellison Art specializes in hand-cut, meticulously crafted paper art, creating layered, 3-D dioramas with nothing more than an Xacto blade. For more information, go to:
jeffellisonart.blogspot.com
facebook.com/jeffellisonart
Font design and layout by Erin Miller.
Chapter 1
“Hey, Alchemist. How ‘bout another pint of stout?”
After a moment of intense deliberation, I elected to leave my face in the puddle of drool on the bar top. Responding to the taptender would only encourage him, and I’d already asked him not to call me that on more than one occasion.
“Come on,” he said, and I could hear the wry smile in his voice. “You ain’t down for the count yet, Sir Alchemist. And if you don’t pick something soon, I got no choice but to choose for you.”
I sighed and lifted my head.
“Your decision-making never ends well for my wallet, Sam,” I said. “And seriously, stop calling me that.”
He shot me a grin as he wiped down the bar, showing off fresh wrinkles and a solitary broken tooth.
“So what’ll it be?” he asked, nodding down his line of taps, his row of choose-your-own-adventure gallows. No fancy, pressurized systems for Sam; he would always love hand pumps hooked to oak barrels.
The front door opened, momentarily letting in the sounds of a light, drizzling rain, but turning my head didn’t seem worth the effort. Instead, I scratched my short, slightly moist beard and gazed at the taps as if trying my damndest to settle on just one. To be honest, the beer itself didn’t matter much. My palate had been dead for a decade, obliterated along with everything else, including my ability to get easily drunk. I just wanted to be left alone, and Sam’s bar was the quietest around — with the obvious exception of Sam himself when he got into one of his moods. Although now even he had gone silent. I glanced up at him. His face had contorted into a white mask of terror.
Then the hammer of a gun clicked behind my back.
“G-gimme the money, or you’re d-d-dead,” a shrill voice said.
The words brought my senses grinding into low gear, while the mirror behind the liquor shelf provided a decent look at the man with the gun. He was young — old enough to pull a trigger, sure, but too young to think long about the consequences beforehand. Yet there he stood. Stuttering. Breathing hard. Nervously shifting his weight.
My mind slipped into an ancient routine, calculating probabilities for combat or escape. First, was he on something? If he was jonesing for chems, his aim might be off, but the exit was 20 feet away and I had no cover. Did Sam have a weapon? If he did, he hadn’t pulled it. We appeared to be at the mercy of our teenage mugger. Then again, I only had pocket change, and he might just want the cash in the register, which wouldn't be enough to risk lives over. I tried to signal Sam with my eyes. We could afford to stay calm and give the kid what he wanted.
The cash drawer clanked as Sam rummaged through its guts. My head started to ache. Alcohol didn’t affect me the way it did most people, but I could still get dehydrated, and my sudden sensory clarity had outlined the pain in bright orange ink. So I sat and watched as the old man scooped out a handful of small bills and slapped them onto the bar. The young man’s eyes darted down and then back up.
“That’s it?” he demanded.
“Look around, kid,” I said. “You didn’t exactly stick up the Ritz.”
In the mirror, I saw the gun swing toward me, its sights centering on the back of my head. I cringed at my own stupidity. Always gotta be that guy, don’t you, West?
“You t-t-too, buddy.”
I took out my wallet and plunked it down next to the cash.
“The ring, or I swear to God I’ll k-k-kill you both!”
Well, shit. The ring hadn’t even crossed my mind, but of course the gold and silver signet-style band had caught his eye. It was unusual, to be sure, adorned with strange engravings and a single, polished, dark gray stone at the center. I knew what the stone could do and what those symbols meant. Most of them, anyway. This kid didn’t, and on his hand, the ring would probably be useless. But if the wrong person got hold of it, it could be far more dangerous than any gun. That was something I couldn’t let happen. I’d made a promise, after all.
“You know, I carried a gun once,” I said, forcing my voice into the calm tones people usually reserve for large, predatory animals. “Revolver, just like yours. Only bigger.”
“What?” he said. “Shut up, or you’ll get a b-bullet in the back!”
“It didn't shoot bullets, though. It sprayed dangerous chemicals all over the damn place.”
“B-b-be quiet!”
He sounded twitchy. Definitely a chemmer. I wanted to back off, play it safe. But no. He’d gone after the ring.
“Ever heard of Hong-Cha Dragon's Blood?”
The gun rattled as the kid switched hands.
“Nah, course you haven’t,” I said. “It’s an exceedingly rare and valuable liquid. Mainly because it has such remarkable effects. Popular with torturers. Executioners. Assassins.”
The gun's inner parts were rattling harder now. It was old and poorly cared for, but the kid was also shaking badly. Maybe he’d finally figured out who I was. I sped up my pace, hurling each word like a major league fastball.
“They use Dragon's Blood when they want to make a statement. When showmanship matters more than subtlety. Someone splashes that stuff on your face, it means you pissed off the wrong person. It'll chew through to the bone in seconds. If you survive, your face will make children weep. No woman will ever touch you willingly again.”
He visibly flinched at that last bit. Walk, kid. Take your base.
“If you're unlucky enough to swallow some, it’ll melt your throat from the inside out. As you die — and you will die, horribly — the last thing you'll hear will be yourself, choking on your boiled tongue.”
Behind me, a sob erupted. Chairs hit the floor as the kid ran for the exit.
After a long silence, Sam picked up his rag and resumed wiping the bar top, perhaps searching for comfort by retracing his routine. He gradually made his way over to my side of the bar, where he started rinsing pint glasses that hadn
’t been used in weeks. The look on his face said he wasn’t sure he still wanted to be associated with me.
“Christ, man,” he finally said. “Is that stuff real?”
“Hong-Cha Dragon’s Blood? Oh yeah. Best damn tea I ever tasted, way back when. Strong, though. I bet if you steeped it long enough, it really might melt your face off.”
A chuckle burst out of him, but then a noise came from the street, and his face went somber again.
“Neighborhood's getting rougher by the day,” he said. “I'm thinking ‘bout packing things up. Heading outta town.”
“But where would I get my beer?”
“Oh, of course. How could I leave my loyal customer? Tell you what. Next one's on the house, sweetheart. But now we’re back to the age-old question. What’ll it be?”
“Gimme the black one,” I said, knowing he had several stouts on tap. “And don’t call me that, either.”
His lips screwed into his cheeks, once again revealing the wrinkles and the tooth. Sam must’ve been handsome once, but now his smile made me picture Rome time-lapsing into ruins.
“Aw, you don't wanna be my sweetheart?”
“I’m spoken for,” I said. “You know that.”
Sam stopped and nearly fumbled a glass, throwing off the rhythm he’d only just managed to piece back together. These mundane tasks were his nightly therapy. Wipe down the bar. Clean the glasses. Pester the alchemist. Just another duty on the list of chores to get done before closing. But then I’d gone and dredged up the past.
“Yeah,” he said at last. “Sorry, West. Just shaken up, I guess. Didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine, Sam. Just a bad joke. How about that beer?”
“Sure, no problem,” he said, and the smile returned. Most of it, anyway. “The black one, was it? Wise ass.”
A few seconds later, he slid the glass down the bar. I caught it one-handed, and a bit of stout sloshed out, fizzing on the wood like effervescent oil. Before turning away, he flipped a napkin down, and the spill devoured it.
“By the way,” he said. “Thanks.”
And then, in a whisper, as he turned: “Sir Alchemist.”
I let it pass this time and lowered myself into the beer. The stout was good, even strained through my mangled buds. Couldn’t really taste it, not in the normal way, but my tongue was the problem, not my nose. This beer smelled like raisins dipped in chocolate, or coffee seeping into mesquite. Sam had once again poured from his priciest tap.
As the old taptender finished his chores, silence crept in and filled the room — the kind that stalks the empty places of the Earth and turns friendly proprietors into desperate old men. I wasn’t complaining. My thoughts had never been the best of company, but they sure as hell beat other people’s. So I sat at the bar, enjoying my favorite drink the only way I could. The way an elderly widower enjoys photos of his wife.
Chapter 2
I stepped outside into a downpour. The kind of rain that falls in sheets, not droplets. It made the neon glow of the city shiver and blur, but it didn't stop me from gazing down roads I hadn’t thought about in years. Maybe Sam had the right idea. Maybe I could leave these filthy streets behind, wander the globe a while, and figure out something resembling a future.
It made me think of a conversation I’d had years ago, sitting in the woods that had once grown near this very spot. Its trees were gone now — trunks knocked down, roots paved over — but even the great buildings standing in the gloom like headstones reminded me of her.
She had been sitting on the forest floor, legs crossed, knees poking out from under a white cotton skirt. Her voice, with its lilting French accent — I remembered it so clearly it sent shivers down my spine.
“Explain it again,” she said. “But less like a boy. More … logically.”
“Oh, mademoiselle demands logic?” I asked. “All right. I’ll keep things simple.”
“You have never required permission to be simple before.”
In an unusual display of restraint, I refused to acknowledge her sass with more than a raised eyebrow.
“OK,” I said. “First, you have to get a bunch of barley.”
“Where am I to find a ‘bunch of barley’?”
“Grow it. Or burgle a farmer for all I care. Doesn’t matter. Listen, are you sure you wanna learn about this?”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “I live in a brewery now, don’t I? I should know the trade.”
“All right. So next, you boil it. The barley, not the farmer. Then add hops. Finally, cool the stuff down and pitch in some yeast. If you've done everything right, the little buggers should start going apeshit. Gobbling up the sugar and pooping out alcohol.”
“I believe I requested less like a boy,” she said, laughing.
“But Abby, I thought you liked my boyish qualities.”
“Not when you speak of the shitting of apes. But I understand. You miss your brothers.”
“You know we like to throw that stuff when we're angry, right? You should probably avoid provoking me.”
She crinkled her nose, and I chuckled.
“We should visit a farm,” she said. “I think I need to smell the barley, the hops. Touch them. See how they grow.”
“Not many farms around here anymore, unfortunately. Nowadays you have to travel to faraway lands to see such exotic livestock as ‘the cow’ and ‘the chicken’.”
“We should travel, then, all over the world,” she said, clapping her hands together. “Cows and chickens will be but footnotes on our adventures.”
“Love to, but we’d need money for that. And what about Vincent?”
“Father can take care of himself.”
“I dunno, Abby … I’ve always been here. It’s my home.”
Her dark eyes drifted away from mine. In that moment and a thousand since, I wished I'd taken her by the hand and hauled ass to the nearest airport. Instead, I hesitated, and another long silence added itself to the string of them called life. Forest sounds flooded back into the space between us, pooling there for a moment before she finally spoke, breaking the surface tension.
“Since … we are discussing the future,” she said, shrugging under the weight of her awkward transition. “Has my father mentioned anything … strange, lately?”
“Not really,” I responded. “Although, I did notice he reuses old toothpicks, which is weird. Oh, and there’s that room in the basement full of old alchemy gear.”
A hint of her former grin returned, and even that small smile lit up Abigail Bouclier's face like the Fourth of July. I was too busy melting into a puddle at her feet to register that her reaction should have surprised me.
“You accepted, then? Good. He waited too long to ask.”
“I — what?”
She narrowed her eyes.
“The apprenticeship … how do you know of the equipment, then?”
I had planned to brag about my break-in. Impress her by revealing the secret laboratory her father had installed beneath my family’s old brewery. Neither of them had ever mentioned or acknowledged it, but it was hard not to notice a door with half a dozen locks, especially when I kept hearing explosions down there. Apparently, I had miscalculated. I’d assumed she was being kept in the dark, too.
“Uh …” I said, thinking on my feet.
“You little thief!”
“I didn’t steal anything.”
“Yes, you did. Knowledge. And you have put us all in danger.”
“What? Why?”
“There are people who … never mind. You already know too much.”
“Are you two on the run or something?”
She stayed silent.
“What?” I asked. “You think I’m going to rat you out?”
“Well, I—”
“That’s just great,” I went on. “If either of you trusted me, maybe I wouldn’t need to sneak past locked doors in the first place.”
“Maybe if you did not excel at sneaking, you would be easier to trust.”
“It's my home,” I repeated.
“It is ours as well.”
We glared at each other the way only young people in love can. The way she looked at me in that moment — I’d trade everything I owned to see that again, even for a second.
Instead, I was staring at rain-soaked pavement, and all the roads leading away from this lonely place vanished out from under me. I sighed and started down the only path I could still see clearly. The path home.
The sidewalk dropped me off next to a pile of old bricks someone might have called a building once. An enormous sign, bulbs long dead, hung smiling across its corpse. I didn't mind them being all burnt out. That way the stupid thing wasn't screaming my father’s name all the time. Nobody said that name anymore. Not the way they used to.
I passed through an old wooden door, into a lobby lined with dusty beer bottles, and down a hallway strewn with photo frames, from which the faces of an old man, a girl, and a boy smiled out at me. I rounded a corner into the main brewing room, where a dozen rusted vats sat in a broad circle around an iron cauldron as if huddling for warmth around a fire long stamped out.
Another door crouched in a stone arch on the room's far side. From a pocket inside my old leather jacket I pulled a key, the chunky kind from fairy tale picture books, and shoved it into the keyhole. The door scraped the floor as it opened. On the other side, wall-mounted lanterns sputtered and spat blue sparks. A few finally coughed up enough light to reveal sections of a descending stairway. Not exactly the Vegas strip, but plenty to see by.
The basement itself looked damn near abandoned. Stained beakers were scattered about collecting dust, and rust was gathering on various strange machines. On all sides, ancient grimoires lined shelves that looked ready to pull a London Bridge — luckily, the cobwebs seemed to have become load-bearing. Across the ceiling crept bioluminescent vines, their bud clusters bathing the room in pulsing firelight hues. They were the only things in the lab that still looked healthy, and that included skinny, unshaven me.
From the far wall, a third door beckoned. Beyond it was a small room with a bed, and collapsing onto its lumpy springs sounded better than just about anything else on Earth. I stalked toward it, passing an apothecary table atop which three stone gargoyles perched in a nest of Tesla coils. They stared at the ceiling as if holding out hope they might see stars tonight. Beside them, a leather satchel lay flap up, covered in a patchwork of strange symbols. The same as those on my ring.
