The summer breeze swept off the ocean and blew through the narrow streets, picking up the wonderful aromas from the markets and the pastry shops. Mr. Doyle could not help himself, and he paused to peruse the small menus posted in front of several restaurants as he made his way along the street. Frank Sinatra’s voice whispered through one propped-open door, Andrea Bocelli through another.
The sidewalks were busy with people out strolling, deciding on lunch, or making their way to the Old North Church to appreciate the history of the place. Like so many of Boston’s treasures, the church was tucked away far from anything else, beyond even the limits of the touristy areas of the North End. Parts of that neighborhood did not share the appeal of its main streets. Beyond Prince and Hanover, there were other smaller, narrower roads where there were no expensive signs, no festival banners, no outdoor music. The shops on those backstreets catered only to local people. The faces of the buildings were in desperate need of sandblasting and refurbishing, and the windows were often cluttered with handmade signs.
Mr. Doyle left the brighter, more colorful heart of the North End and slipped into a gray side street with the sureness of one who had walked this way many times. He passed a shoe repair shop, a small butcher’s, a used appliance store, and an antiquarian bookstore that looked tiny from a peek through the front window, but was unimaginably enormous within. Impossibly large, some might have said.
Ah, well. People had so little imagination. And other than the locals — who had a strong enough sense of community never to remark on anything odd — the only people who went into the bookstore knew what they were looking for, and that only a special kind of shop would be able to acquire it for them.
He inhaled deeply. The salt of the ocean was strong on the breeze. It had been a beautiful walk down here from Beacon Hill. It was June, the solstice imminent. The days were long, and the air shimmered with the heat of the sun. During the workweek there were mostly professionals about, but this was Saturday, and so he had passed many women in pretty summer dresses. It was the sort of day that inspired that kind of thing. On his walk back, he thought he might stop and buy a lemonade from one of the street vendors in front of the aquarium.
Mr. Doyle waved to a Sicilian grandmother pushing her daughter’s child in an old-fashioned carriage. She nodded gravely in return. A silver Lexus prowled along the curving street. Someone looking for parking had lost their way. There were things he simply knew, things he intuited from the moment. It was a gift.
He twitched, pain lancing into his head from his empty eye socket. The patch that covered it was not a problem, though its strap itched the back of his head. For a moment, Mr. Doyle paused on the sidewalk and pressed the heel of his hand against that void, that eyeless hole. At times it ached profoundly.
Doyle had removed the eye himself. The pain had been like nothing he had ever felt. Worse, though, was the feeling of tugging, deep in his head, as he tore it loose from the optic nerve. It was a memory he would have very gladly erased. The man had done what he had to do, and it had helped to make the world safe — at least for a time. It was good, however, that he had not had any idea what it would feel like at the time. In retrospect, it wasn’t something he would do again.
A dry laugh escaped his lips. What a sickening thought. Only a lunatic would do what he had done. But perhaps in that moment, knowing that it was the only way, he had been a lunatic indeed.
Now, the question was, what to do about it.
His shoes scuffed the sidewalk. The sleeves of his crisply pressed white shirt were rolled halfway to the elbow, and he wore black suspenders that did not go very well with his beige trousers. By his outward appearance, he would seem to most a librarian or a museum curator who’d lost his way, perhaps an eccentric academic. That was one of the reasons he loved Boston so much. The city was old enough to suit him.
For he himself was, of course, far older than he appeared.
Mr. Doyle rounded a corner and came in view of a small sign that jutted from the front of a building. Ancient neon blinked off and on, forming the letters Rx. The symbol for prescription drugs. It was a pharmacy, of sorts, at least as far as the neighbors were concerned. Many of them had their prescriptions filled at Fulcanelli the Chemist.
It was old-fashioned, of course, for the pharmacist to call himself a chemist. Still commonplace in England, it was unusual in the U.S. But there were a great many things that were unusual in this little warren of old Boston. Fulcanelli carried most things people could buy at another pharmacy, and many things that could be purchased nowhere else in the northeastern United States.
A bell rang above the door as Doyle let himself in. He turned the hanging sign around to read closed and locked the door behind him.
There was no one at the counter when he entered, but in just a moment Fulcanelli emerged from the back of the shop, summoned by the bell. The man was bent with age, his pate bald on top, his white hair a thin curtain at the back of his head.
"Hello, old friend," Doyle said.
Fulcanelli nodded, grunting in the manner of the very ancient and very cranky. He waved a hand as if to say, let’s get on with it.
"Come," said the chemist. "I’ve got what you need."
Shuffling his feet, the aged shopkeeper moved to a cabinet. Though his fingers were yellowed and covered with age spots and his knuckles were swollen, they moved with the dexterity of a prestidigitator as he reached into a pocket and withdrew a key.
"You’re nearly there, aren’t you?" Doyle asked, concerned.
Fulcanelli froze with the key nearly to the lock. He paused and regarded his visitor with moist, yellowed eyes. "Don’t act as though you are overwrought with sympathy, Arthur."
Doyle stood a bit straighter, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He hooked his thumbs in his suspenders and blew out a puff of air that ruffled his mustache.
"I take umbrage at your tone, sir. I take no pleasure in your pain."
The chemist studied him, the old man’s face like that of a hawk seeking prey. "If you’d shared with me your own secret, I wouldn’t have to suffer that pain at all."
The air grew thick with tension. They had had this conversation before. Fulcanelli had found an alchemical solution to the problem of his aging but it was complex. When his physical body aged and deteriorated to the point where it could no longer function, his skin would slough off and his bones would collapse and he would ignite in a burst of flame that would render his body nothing but ash. Then, from the ashes, a young man of perhaps sixteen would crawl, skin gleaming and new.
Fulcanelli had made himself a human phoenix. It was eternal life, of a sort, but the price was the agony of the process.
Mr. Doyle did not age. Fulcanelli envied that.
"We have been over this," Doyle said, narrowing his gaze. "Those secrets are not mine to share."
"So you say," the man said, sniffing in derision. But he scratched once at the side of his nose and then let the debate retire, bringing the key once more to the lock. "You have the money?"?Stinging from the man’s bitterness, Doyle made no reply. Rather, he strode to the counter and thrust out one fist, palm downward. When he opened his fingers, a dozen gold coins spilled from his grasp. They had not been there a moment before, but now they clattered down onto the countertop, several rolling or bouncing off onto the floor.
Fulcanelli smiled greedily. "That’ll do."
He opened the cabinet. It was filled with jars that contained strangely colored liquids, things floating in the cloudy contents of each jar. From an upper shelf, Fulcanelli drew down a jar filled with a viscous amber-colored fluid.
"Here we are," the ancient chemist said.
Mr. Doyle drew a deep breath and let it out. At last, he thought. The ache in his skull had been a terrible distraction to him. And the worst was when, late at night, the vacant socket would begin to itch.
"The patch," Fulcanelli instructed.
Doyle removed it gratefully, sliding the patch into his pocket.
"Me, the first time."
"The first time?" Fulcanelli replied. "You didn’t mention anything about a second time."
"It’s a long story. I replaced it with… another. A more useful eye. Like I said, a long story. But that one was taken away."
Fulcanelli sighed, shaking his head. "I don’t know why you do it, Arthur. You could have such an easy, quiet life, and you make it so difficult for yourself. Set up a little shop, like mine. Salves and potions. Yours could have books and weapons as well. Much less dangerous. Less worry. Nobody tearing your eyes from your skull. Or even borrowed eyes from your skull."
Doyle smiled. The old man’s bitterness had receded, as it always did. They had known one another too long.
"I could do that," he agreed. "But then who would do the worrying?"?The ancient chemist clucked his tongue and unscrewed the top of the jar. He thrust two withered fingers into the amber liquid and withdrew, dripping, a tender, gleaming eyeball. The optic nerve hung from it like a tail, twitching and swaying, searching for something to latch onto.
Fulcanelli’s hand was shaking as he raised it toward Mr. Doyle’s face.
"Hold still," the old man said.
Doyle did not point out that he was not the one who needed to be still.
After wavering for several seconds, the chemist’s hand steadied and he slid the eyeball into Doyle’s empty socket. The optic nerve shot into the open space, and into the raw flesh beyond, like a striking cobra. A jolt of pain spiked through Doyle’s skull and he recoiled, cursing. He gritted his teeth together, groaning, and clapped his hands over his eyes. It felt like his whole head was going to split open, like that nerve was worming its way through his brain, tearing it to tatters.
Slowly, the pain subsided. He pulled his hands away and blinked.
Both eyes.
Relieved, and with only the memory of that terrible itch, he glanced at Fulcanelli. "You do good work, old man. You’re an artist."
The chemist beamed. "It is my calling."
Something thumped to the floor in the back of the shop.
Alarmed, Fulcanelli spun, his fingers curved into terrible claws, and he reminded Doyle even more of a hawk. The door to the back of the shop was still partially open, but there were no lights on back there. The only illumination in that room was what little reached it from the front. Otherwise it was only shadows.
The door creaked as it swung open.
Squire stepped out. The hobgoblin was only slightly taller than the counter, so it was not until Squire had emerged fully into the shop that Doyle saw that he clutched a piece of notepaper in his gnarled fingers.
"Just got a phone call, boss. You’re going to want to hear this."
CHAPTER TWO
Boston’s Newbury Street was abuzz with life and laughter, the sun glinting off of the plate glass windows of trendy clothing boutiques, art galleries, and bistros. Those who strolled along Newbury Street were either the idle rich or those who longed to be. College girls roamed in perfectly styled packs, and business types marched to lunch with tiny cellphones clapped to one ear. The buildings were comparatively old by American standards and yet the brick and stone had been sandblasted and treated and restored so that the entire string of blocks seemed to have been only recently erected. The sidewalks were in perfect condition. Even the cars that were parked along the curb gleamed new in the sun. BMW, Lexus, and Benz, oh my.
Milano’s Italian Kitchen was among the trendiest of the new bistros, with a sidewalk cafe in front and a menu of nouvelle cuisine, despite the homey name of the place. Clay knew that if he had wanted more authentic Italian food he could have chosen any doorway in the North End, where dozens of restaurants awaited that were less expensive and more generous with their plates. But the idea today was to spend a little time with Eve, and if he wanted to get her out — particularly when the sky was blue and the sun shining — he would have to lure her.
Newbury Street was irresistible to her.
They sat at the outdoor cafe, in the cool shade of Milano’s wide awning. Eve was always aware of the position of the sun. She had to be. It could kill her.
Though the weather was warm, a typical mid-June day in Boston, she was covered from head to toe. Ample sunscreen had been rubbed onto her face, and a red silk scarf tied in a knot at her chin covered her head. She wore a blazer-cut black leather jacket, a pair of thin calf skin gloves, and completed her ensemble with dark moleskin trousers and Tony Lama boots with a severely pointed toe. Eve was stunning. With that scarf and her designer sunglasses, she looked like a movie star trying desperately not to be recognized in that ridiculous, conspicuous Hollywood way. She drew a lot of attention, but Clay had been out with her at night as well as during the day, and Eve drew appreciative stares no matter how she was dressed.
His appreciation of her beauty was objective, however. There was no romantic entanglement between them. Clay and Eve were associates. Perhaps they might even be friends. He considered her a friend, certainly, but often felt an odd reticence in her when they worked together. That was part of the reason he had invited her to lunch today.
They had been sharing observations about Conan Doyle and some of his other operatives when the waiter brought appetizers to the table, including a white plate laden with stuffed mushroom caps. Clay smiled and reached for one.
"Alexander loved these," he said as he popped it whole into his mouth.
"Alexander? As in, Alexander?" Eve asked, using her salad fork to help herself to one of the four remaining mushrooms.
Clay nodded. "Absolutely. He was obsessed with food," he said, trying not to be grotesque though he spoke with his mouth full. The mushroom caps were not the best he’d ever had, but far from the worst. That honor went to the Angry Boar, a restaurant not far from the highlands of Scotland, in the village of Poolewe, where the ultimate in fine cuisine was served from a fryolator. Clay shivered inwardly at the still disturbing memory of fried pizza.
Eve had sliced a small piece of stuffed mushroom and used the fork to bring it to her mouth. Now she swallowed before continuing. "You expect me to believe that?" She smiled slyly. "You hung out with Alexander the Great and ate mushrooms?"
Clay helped himself to another mushroom, this time showing some manners and bringing it to his plate where he broke it in half with his fork. He shrugged.
"Everybody has to eat."
The expression on Eve’s face said she wasn’t certain whether or not to believe him. Clay was having some fun with her, but in truth he had known the Macedonian legend. Many of his memories were lost to him, shifting in his mind like a deck of cards, with far too many missing or obscured. But others were intact and crystalline in clarity. He had been many things in his eternity of life — warrior and monster, hero and assassin. Clay could alter his flesh, could become anyone or anything he wished. In the year 331 A.D. he had used that ability to help Alexander defeat the Persians. Those had been simpler times, violent times, and often it disturbed him how much he missed them.
"Why is that so hard to believe?" he asked, staring at his twin reflections in the lenses of her dark sunglasses. "Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your past."
Eve was a bit younger, give or take a millennium, and had lived a life equally fascinating, but he knew she had also experienced a fair amount of pain and anguish.
A waiter came over to refill their water glasses and inform them that their lunch would be brought out shortly, before excusing himself with a slight bow and a genial smile. Eve removed a packet of sugar from a container on the table and began to play with it.
"I remember quite a bit, actually. Some things I’ve let go of, but other things…" Her voice trailed off, and a look of heartbreaking sadness flickered across her face.
Clay wished he had never brought it up, never caused her to examine the memories she wished she could
abandon. But as quickly as it had appeared, the telling look was gone and Eve managed to summon a smile as she changed the subject.
"So, tell me something else about him," Eve said, taking a sip of water. "Something we couldn’t pull from a history book. Or is his love of stuffed mushrooms the only thing worth knowing about the man who once conquered the entire civilized world?"
Clay set down his fork and pulled the white napkin up from his lap to wipe his mouth. "He was a pretty good dancer," he said with a straight face. "Man, could that guy cut a rug."
Eve burst out laughing, almost spilling her water. An ice cube had escaped over the rim of the glass and dropped onto the tabletop. She plucked it up with her gloved fingers and tossed it at him. "Asshole," she said, a lingering smile on her face.
He could probably have counted on one hand the number of times he’d seen this woman look genuinely happy. It’s nice to see her smile, he thought, brushing the cube from his lap to the ground.
"You don’t believe me," he said, doing his best to stifle his amusement. "Fine, be that way. I’ll just keep my candid recollections of history to myself, though I think you might have been very interested in Genghis Khan’s phallus-shaped vegetable collection."
When Eve glared at him, Clay couldn’t hold it back any longer and burst out laughing himself. The life he led did not often give him the opportunity for laughter, and he held on to the moment with both hands, truly enjoying himself.
Eve grinned. "Think you’re pretty funny, don’t you?" she said.
He nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes.
"We’ll see how funny you think it is when I stick you for this bill."
Clay had regained most of his composure by the time their food arrived. Two waiters brought their entrees: his the linguine with clam sauce, and Eve’s a Caesar salad. They were silent through their meal, and he could see by the way her brow furrowed, that she was thinking hard about something. This happened too often when they were together, but for once they were in a situation that allowed him to inquire about it.
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