by J. S. Miller
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.
I’d made it halfway to the door when my peripheral vision snagged on the large, dark shape on one side of the room. A part of me fought the urge to look, knowing that whatever it was would just bring me more trouble. But this place was still my home, dammit, and though that didn’t mean much anymore, it was all I’d inherited for all my heartache. So I looked. Then I rubbed my eyes, blinked hard, and looked again.
A six-foot-tall hole stood glaring at me like Sam’s broken tooth. An entire section of wall, gone. Books lay scattered across the floor, but the brick was cut cleanly, as if struck by the meat cleaver of the gods. In the middle of it all, a darkness so deep it seemed to span galaxies gazed back at me, and suddenly this place no longer felt like home.
Chapter 3
“Unsettling, isn’t it?”
My feet skittered as I spun to face the voice, hand darting to my hip, instinctively seeking something I'd had no recent use for. It grabbed at empty air, and the intruder let out a startled, distinctly feminine laugh. It’d been awhile since I’d heard one of those.
“Relax, West,” she said, raising her open hands. “I come in peace.”
An undercurrent of flirtatious familiarity in her voice threw me off guard. Our last encounter hadn’t exactly been on the best of terms, so I decided to go with my proven approach to adversity and cover my unease with a generous dollop of sarcasm.
“Special Agent Volkova,” I said. “Almost mistook you for the cleaning lady.”
A smile lit up her face like fireworks. She was a knockout, the kind you expect to see tattooed on sailors’ arms, except in dark slacks and a stylish blazer. The warmth in her brown eyes reminded me of a girl I used to know, but the scars on her knuckles and the Glock 23 on her hip discouraged me from staring too long at any one area.
“You mean you actually have one?” she asked, tilting her head. Her hair — cut short, straightened and dyed bright red — whirled like flame when she moved. “Or were you offering me a job?”
“I’m well aware of your current employment status, Elena. Mind telling me why you’ve broken and entered?”
“To the point, as usual,” she said, flipping open a billfold to show me the shiny gold badge emblazoned with a treasure chest and key. “I am here on behalf of Arclight Security.”
“Ah,” I said. “How is the gang down at Magical Gestapo HQ? Locking up plenty of innocent bystanders, I hope.”
“Please, West,” she said. “You were hardly an innocent—”
“Either way, we really have to stop meeting like this. You investigating a crime. Me being accused of it.”
“If only you’d commit your crimes during brunch. At least then we’d be eating.”
“Agent Volkova,” I said with mock amazement. “Did you just ask me out?”
Her grin said several things in a language I’d never quite gotten the hang of.
“We're not accusing anyone of anything,” she said, then waved a hand at the hole in my wall. “I’m merely investigating that. Which means I’ll be asking the questions.”
“You don’t use those oversized interrogation lamps, do you?” I asked. “I was at Sam’s all day, so I’m a bit sensitive to light at the moment.”
“I doubt that will be necessary,” she said, hitting me with a sly smile. Either she was teasing me, or my file at Arclight was more detailed than I realized. I’d never told anyone about my resistance to booze. “Where were you at 11:15 this evening?”
“I already told you, and Sam can verify. What do your bosses think they have on me, anyway?”
“You know I can’t discuss that.”
“Maybe I can fill in the blanks on my dossier, then,” I said, starting to get frustrated. “Early 30s. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Trained as an alchemist but never sanctioned or recognized by the Royal Academy…” I stopped, taking a deep, theatrical breath. “And thus granted no rights that would prohibit unlawful accusations of misconduct, letting any group in need of a supernatural scapegoat or whipping boy get out their pitchforks and go all angry-peasants on his ass?”
“That isn’t—”
“I never do anything anymore, Elena. I drink, I sleep, I drink some more. I’ve put tremendous effort into fading away and blending in so that people like your friends will leave me the hell alone. Why would I suddenly want to attract all this attention by — what did I even do, allegedly? Dig a hole in my own basement without the proper permit?”
“West,” she said, holding up her hands to stop me. “This anomaly isn’t the first.”
I glared at her. I wasn’t quite finished with my rant, but her face had gone deadly serious. My basement hole was no laughing matter, apparently.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“Another appeared … elsewhere, earlier this month. Preceded by a small seismic anomaly. The same readings occurred here less than one hour ago.”
“So what is it? Why is it here?”
“I was hoping you could tell me that,” she said, shifting her gaze to the hole. “The Royal Academy hasn’t been forthcoming with their insight.”
“Hold on, the Academy's involved?” I asked. “How can I know for sure this isn’t a setup? Last time I trusted you, things didn’t exactly go well for me.”
“And I’ve apologized for that,” she said, and a bit of the smile returned. “But you’ll just have to trust me again. I did let you go, after all.”
“Eventually,” I growled. “But if you really are here to gather evidence before clapping me in irons, maybe I can help. I do know a thing or two about tracking down … answers.”
“We prefer consultants who operate within the constraints of the law,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “Plus, we already attempted to analyze the first anomaly. There were … setbacks. We’re currently focusing on containment.”
“Setbacks?”
“Several research teams have … disappeared.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“It happened the same way each time. We maintained radio contact for hours, sometimes days. But they all stopped responding. Even the last team, a heavily armed search and rescue squad, simply vanished.”
“Anyone I know?”
“Maybe. Samuel Forester, Claudia Templestrike, Maximilian Fen …”
“Max Fen? The biological engineer? Read something of his a while back. Wasn’t dumb. He’s consulting for Arclight?”
“He was, until one day he wasn’t.”
“What does that mean?”
“I shouldn’t tell you this,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “But Max was investigating the first anomaly, overseas. His team entered the breach and established communication. They spoke of incredible things. Terrifying things. And then … well, his final transmission was not pleasant. He believed they were being followed by—”
“Agent Volkova,” a voice said from the stairwell. “That information is classified.”
Two shadows poured down the steps, followed by a pair of large men. They entered the room and flanked Elena. The contrast between her size and theirs showed that “large” had been a serious understatement. They filled out their dark gray suits the way 200 pounds of T-bone steaks would fill out a water balloon. They were clearly the operation’s muscle, and I guessed they’d gotten tired of waiting in the car while Elena played good cop. Without prompting, my brain labeled them Crusher and Lowblow.
“Headquarters is losing patience,” Agent Crusher told Elena in the worst stage whisper I’d ever heard. “We need to report. Is the suspect resisting?”
The glare
he tossed my way said that he already knew I was resisting, but it was OK because he’d get to practice his enhanced interrogation techniques on me soon. I instantly liked Agent Crusher. He seemed like the kind of guy who could grimace even when he’s smiling.
“I have something to report,” I said before she could respond. “I noticed a couple of muscle-bound goons trespassing on my property. I’d be much obliged if one of you would contact the authorities.”
Agent Lowblow looked so perplexed I actually considered apologizing. Crusher, however, narrowed his eyes into splinters. His fists clenched, and the stitching on his suit strained. He did not respond verbally, though, so I kept poking the bear.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “Should I use smaller words?”
The burly agent crossed the room faster than I would’ve thought possible and slammed me back against the apothecary table, gripping my leather jacket just below the collar. It happened so fast, I almost didn’t have time to reach into the satchel resting on the table behind me. Almost.
“We’re on an official investigation, Chemist,” he snarled. “You think we’re not on to you? The alchemical residue found at the Royal Academy showed that—”
“Agent,” Elena said. “That information is also classified.”
Crusher looked a bit sheepish but didn’t let go. At least I’d goaded some information out of him. The previous hole had been at the Royal Academy, which was not only the base of operations for all sanctioned alchemists, but also a major political center in Europe. Interesting.
“My mistake, Agent Volkova,” Crusher said. “But this chemist scum talks too much. I feel obligated to teach him some manners.”
“For someone preaching about manners,” I growled back, jabbing him in the gut with the item from my satchel. “You should probably stop calling people names.”
His furrowed brow and slack jaw made it clear that a comeback was struggling its way to the surface, but he glanced down before delivering it. Then his eyes went wide, and his hands started shaking.
“That’s right, big fella. Now put me down. Gently.”
He lowered me to the ground and backed away, but I kept the object in my hand. Call it my insurance policy.
“We’re here to investigate the anomaly,” Elena said, glaring at Crusher. “Not have a pissing contest. I apologize for my partner’s behavior, Mr. Muller.”
“I’ll let it slide if you start telling me what’s going on,” I said. “For starters, ‘anomaly’ is a bit vague. Anyone care to elaborate?”
“I apologize again, but no,” she said. “You do not have the proper clearance level for that information.”
I clenched my teeth. I'd always hated this bureaucratic bullshit. In my experience, it only led to more secrecy, more fear, more decisions made blindly. It endangered lives as often as it saved them, tangling up human beings in bloody red tape while dangerous people did dangerous things. It filled me with that special, irrational rage usually reserved for people who drive 10 under in the fast lane.
“I’ll find out for myself, then,” I said. “But first thing's first. It’s darker than a kraken's asshole in there. Someone needs to turn on the lights.”
I marched over to the hole and held up the object I’d been using to keep Agent Crusher at bay: a plastic vial the size of a double A battery. It contained a brilliant azure liquid and had a small white plastic cap. Holding the vial out in front of me, I pressed the cap with my thumb, eliciting a soft pop. Pale liquid dripped down and dived into the blue. The droplets shimmered and shone in little bursts, like windblown cirrus clouds pierced by a distant sun. But the clouds didn’t break, instead drifting lazily in their encapsulated sky.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I muttered, shaking the vial. The tube flickered, flashed, and exploded into a fistful of sunlight. The shadows in the hole fled before my tiny star, and stunned gasps emerged from my audience. I guess I’d forgotten the potency of my homemade glowsticks.
“Careful,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at Crusher and wiggling the vial in the air. “These are pretty old, and the stuff inside can melt skin if you're stupid enough to touch some. Don’t get trigger happy. I might slip and accidentally throw it at you.”
Nervous faces stared back. They were the faces of bureaucrats confronted by someone who refused to ask permission or fill out paperwork. My anger slid into a lightheaded giddiness. I turned back to the hole, which suddenly looked more like a hallway sloping down and away. It also smelled odd. Like soap and ozone. It was a scent I had smelled before, years ago, but I couldn’t remember where or when. Then it faded, retreating into the darkness. I stepped forward, wanting more than anything to follow that fleeting aroma of forgotten things.
My foot hit something slippery — maybe that bar of soap I’d smelled — and Elena cried out behind me. My stomach shrieked along with her, telling me to put my hands up, to do something, anything, because I was about to eat tile on the shower floor. But I could only fall, and there was no floor. Instead, I went tumbling down the kraken hole.
Chapter 4
The glowstick fell ahead of me, bouncing, spinning, tracing lines of light through the darkness. It was so bright that all other points of reference were lost. The universe downshifted, and for a moment everything else was falling while it and I stood still, caught in the primal undertow of vertigo.
Then concrete rushed up and slapped me in the face. I gasped, mouth open against the damp, slick floor, and suddenly my damaged taste buds seemed more blessing than curse. Several of my own books lay around me, old leather covers splattered with grime. I groaned, but upon rolling onto my back, I noticed with vague surprise that I somehow felt less achy than I had before crash-landing in this miserable sewer.
And it did look like a sewer. The room was a dome, lit only by the glowstick lying beside me, which cast constellations on the shiny copper pipes and on the fixtures of several heavy, ovular doors, many of which stood open. The reflected stars gave the place the look of a mythical crossroads, but I sure as hell wasn’t waiting around for my demons to show up.
As I pushed myself to my feet, my palms scraped against a rough texture on the floor. Someone had carved into it, etching irregular figures in expanding circles beneath me. The shapes were unmistakable: alchemical symbols, which I'd always called runes because, well, it sounded cooler. These ancient glyphs represented elemental forces merging with the metals of the earth, and they provided ways to counter and redirect powerful energies. I knew a lot of runes, but most of these were new to me. What did they mean? And why were they here?
I stood and walked to the nearest open door. Beyond it lay a hallway where copper and concrete retreated into red clay. The scent of trees filled my nostrils, but underneath that lurked the same chemical odor I couldn't quite place. Even so, it brought memories rushing back — memories of a lesson learned in what now seemed like someone else’s life.
“Pay attention, Westley,” said an echo from that walled off region in my mind. “Understanding these symbols may one day save you from certain death.”
The old man gazed at me over an iron cauldron that smelled of unscented soap and the air outside before a thunderstorm. He had a gray mustache so coarse and thick it must’ve come packaged with a dustpan. It twitched when he spoke, and his voice rumbled like an engine built from old leather and polished brass.
“No one is certain where the ability to control these energies comes from, nor why it chooses some bloodlines and not others, but we do know that these symbols allow us to focus the ability, channeling the power through the philosopher’s stone.” He held up his hand, displaying a gray stone set in gold and silver. “And through the ring that binds it.”
“Wait a second, Vincent,” I said. “Everything I've ever read about philosopher’s stones say they can maybe turn base metals into gold or create some kind of elixir of life, not let me do all this crazy shit. What gives? Why haven’t more people heard about this?”
“As I told you before,”
Vincent said. “During our lessons, you will refer to me as Alchemist Bouclier.”
“Come on, Vince,” I said, grinning. “You’re practically my uncle. Do you really think that’s ever going to happen?”
“It does not matter what I think. Rules are rules for a reason. The proper protocols must be learned and followed, my young protégé, if you plan to attend the Royal Academy. Your father really taught you none of this?”
“Must’ve slipped his mind,” I said, unable to keep a cold, hard edge out of my voice.
“Well, you will learn more about this if you ever complete your first reading assignment in ‘The Ancestry of Alchemy,’” Vincent said. “But to answer your question, alchemists have gone to great lengths to spread misinformation about their craft. Centuries ago it was decided that common folk should work with plows, not with forces that could destroy entire crops. So the Academy used misdirection, sewing falsehoods into common truths until our magic became a mystery to all who should not wield it.”
“But if a so-called ‘commoner’ has the ability, don’t they deserve a chance to use it? Don’t you think teaching them might make them less dangerous, not more?”
“That is not our decision to make.”
“Bullshit.”
“Westley,” he said. “I am not saying that I disagree, but these are not questions the Academy will tolerate. Now, focus on the task at hand. We are using several dangerous ingredients, including nitroglycerin, which is incredibly volatile even before alchemical amplification. Remember the phrase from the Tablet of Hermes: ‘as above, so below.’ All matter shares the same basic components, whether it is the land beneath us or the sky above. That is why rain falling to the earth is like a meeting between old friends after a long absence. They come together easily, even if they have forgotten the forms that used to bind them. This is also why some liquids can recall the taste of fire, and thirst for it.” He paused and gave me a hard look, confirming I was still following along. I nodded, and he continued. “You are the deciding factor in how these elements behave. When dealing with such substances, your ability to focus may be the difference between life and—”
