Dark Alchemy

by Laura Bickle

  “Here, child.”

  Cal saw him then, nearly motionless in this hoarder’s nest. Stroud was sitting on a stool, measuring powders on a postal scale. He was old enough to be Cal’s father: a stringy sinew of an ex-­hippie hunched over his work. His blond hair was fading to grey at the temples, but his eyes shone fever-­bright blue. He looked over the round rims of his glasses at Cal.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you.” Instinctively, Cal took a step back.

  “It’s all right.” Stroud’s lips peeled back over a smile. He cocked his head, observing Cal. Cal squirmed. He always tried to avoid Stroud’s notice. Getting Stroud’s attention usually meant trouble. For the young women, that meant being tied up in his bed. For the young men, it meant dangerous assignments that often landed them in jail.

  Cal swallowed. “Adam and Diana are missing.”

  Stroud took off his glasses, frowning. “How long?”

  “Three days. Justin and I went out to find them . . .” Cal shrugged, his hands open. “We can’t find them. All their things are still here, at the Garden.”

  Stroud drummed his fingers on his makeshift workbench. A bead of mercury rolled off the edge to the floor. The bead veered around Cal’s foot into spiderwebs beneath a shelf.

  “I sent them to spy on Sal Rutherford.” Stroud’s gaze was distant. “I hope that Rutherford didn’t find them.”

  Cal’s fists clenched. “I’ll go look for them there.”

  “No.” Stroud shook his head. “Not yet. Not alone. Give them more time to come back.”

  “What did—­” Cal bit his tongue. He knew better than to ask the Alchemist questions. If he asked, he got answers he would never forget, answers that would keep him awake at night.

  Stroud regarded him. “Can I trust you with a secret?”

  Cal bit his lip. He wanted to say “no.” He didn’t like secrets. But he had no choice. “Yes.”

  “Rutherford has magic.”

  Cal frowned, processing. “Magic like this?” His thin fingers sketched the lab. “You’re the only one who makes the aqua vitae, the Elixir.”

  Stroud’s gaze burned like the blue of a gas flame. “He has something else. A piece of the puzzle of eternal life.”

  Cal didn’t ask any more questions. He didn’t want to know how Stroud had come upon this shiny bit of information.

  But Stroud was going to tell him anyway. The Alchemist opened a battered leather journal that seemed to be disintegrating under the weight of mildew. His fingers flickered through the fragile pages. “I have Lascaris’s journals. He left something there, on Rutherford’s land, that yields immortality.”

  Cal could see spidery sketches, strange symbols, and words in Latin, but could make no sense of it. “If Rutherford has the secret, why isn’t he using it?”

  Stroud smiled. “I don’t think that he knows how to use it.”

  Cal’s fingers knotted nervously in the chain to his wallet. “I’m worried about Adam and Diana.”

  “We’ll find them,” Stroud said soothingly. “You’ve been up all night?”

  Cal nodded miserably.

  “And got into a fight, I see.”

  Cal touched the side of his swollen face self-­consciously. “It was nothing.”

  “Rest first.” Stroud handed him a glass vial.

  Cal stared at it.

  “Go ahead, take it. It’s the Elixir.”

  Cal stared morosely down at his shoes. From the corner of his eye, he could see the escaped salamander swatting around the errant mercury bead. “I haven’t got any money.”

  “It’s okay. It’s a gift.”

  Cal swallowed hard and took the vial. “Thanks.” He didn’t like owing the Alchemist anything.

  Stroud smiled. “I’ll send someone to search for your friends. You rest.”

  Cal nodded. “Thank you.” The vial burned coldly in his hands.

  Stroud turned back to his measurements, and Cal retreated back up the steps. Back into the light.

  The kitchen of the old farmhouse was bathed in glorious golden sun, illuminating a sink full of filthy dishes. A cereal box scuttled across the floor until a turned-­around mouse emerged with his cheeks full of Froot Loops. Beer bottles were lined up against the window, casting green and amber shadows on the sticky linoleum.

  Upstairs, Cal could hear somebody fucking. He banged through the torn screen door, past a limp figure in a plastic lawn chair who smelled as if he’d pissed himself.

  Outdoors sprawled the Garden. At least, that was what Stroud called it. Cal thought the old man must have a secret sense of humor. Trailers were parked in uneven rows around the old farmhouse, bounded by woods, corn, and blond field grasses. A chicken wandered by, ignoring a skinny dog chained to a clothesline post. The only thing that resembled a garden here was a bit of Indian paintbrush growing wild in the field.

  Cal found a downspout at the corner of the farmhouse and shimmied up it to the sheet-­metal roof of the porch. He sat down on the hot steel and fished his pipe out of his pants pocket. He tapped the contents of the vial that Stroud had given him into the bowl of the pipe, and reached for his lighter to heat it.

  Cal waited impatiently for the liquid to begin to fade to vapor and crystallize against the glass. He inhaled deeply, holding his breath and staring up at the clear blue sky.

  This was what Stroud called the Elixir. A piece of immortality. As the ghost of the Elixir soaked into his brain, he began to feel a sense of peace steal over him. This sensation, this presence, was what Stroud said that yogis and bodhisattvas chased.

  The past—­the fight with Justin, the miserable conditions of the Garden—­fell away.The future—­worry for what had happened to Adam and Diana—­fell away.

  He was one with the sky and the heat of the day radiating from the metal at his back. He was one with that clear blue. Feeling nothing but the rise and fall of his chest and the beat of his heart. Thinking nothing.

  A sublime smile curled the corner of his mouth, and Cal sank into oblivion.

  He didn’t see the raven perched on the edge of the gutter, watching.

  Stan’s Dungeon was not what Petra expected.

  Bells tied to the iron-­laced door chimed as Petra pushed into the gloomy pawn shop. The shop was stacked floor to ceiling with shelves, dusty glass cases, and gun racks. It smelled of new tobacco and old gunpowder, and racks of military surplus clothing cluttered the floor.

  But there was more here than just guns, old musical instruments, and militaria. Stan was apparently a collector of antiques. A cigar-­store Indian stood just inside the door. An old saddle was suspended by rope from the ceiling, and cases of coins and grainy photographs of the Old West hung from the walls.

  Petra paused to look at the collection of photos in metal frames. The sepia-­toned posed shots showed wooden buildings on a dirt street and men and women in hats and bonnets. She saw some familiar contours to the buildings and layout to the streets. ­People in dresses and shiny boots stood around a building she knew. Church clothes, she realized. The Compostela’s earlier incarnation as a house of worship.

  “You like old photos?”

  Petra turned to see a man who had appeared behind the counter. He leaned against the glass by an old-­fashioned red dial telephone. Petra hadn’t felt his eyes on her, had no idea of how long he’d been sizing her up. He was stooped and wizened like a tree, albeit a tree clothed in flannel. His voice issued out from beneath a carefully waxed grey moustache that was as shiny as pewter.

  “These are really fascinating. How old are they?”

  “Some of those go back to 1852. Got a whole cabinet of ’em. Some wet collodion, some dry plates. Old newspapers, too.”

  A smile crossed Petra’s face. “This isn’t just the town pawn shop, is it?”

  The old man shook his head, and Petra heard bones creak
and pop. “No, ma’am. I’m also the town historical society—­a society of one.”

  “Then I’m in the right place.” Petra approached the counter and extended her hand. “I’m Petra Dee. I’m new to town.”

  “The geologist. I heard that you were coming. I’m Stan.” Stan’s moustache twitched when he smiled. “What would you like to know about Temperance?”

  Petra’s smile thinned. “Everything.”

  Stan rubbed his moustache. “Temperance was founded in 1852. Rumor has it that it was founded by Lascaris Aldus, a self-­proclaimed alchemist.”

  “Yeah, ­people have mentioned him. I didn’t know that gold was mined here, though.”

  Stan shrugged. “Lascaris found gold, somewhere. Or conjured enough of it to keep the town thriving for ten years. He vanished in 1862, when his house burned down. Most ­people assumed that he died in the fire, though his bones were never found. The town hung on until Yellowstone was established as a national park in 1872.”

  Stan pointed at a tintype perched on the wall. “That’s old Lascaris.”

  Petra squinted at the disintegrating photo. A man stood before a faded, underdeveloped landscape. He was dressed in long coat and tall boots, his shirt dirty and rumpled. A battered hat perched above decidedly patrician features. His gaze was distant, faraway. Petra knew that look. She’d seen that look in her father’s eyes before he’d disappeared.

  Petra tore her gaze away. “He was a good-­looking man, in a sort of crazed way.”

  Stan chuckled. “He was definitely thought to be a nutbar recluse. Some think that he still haunts Temperance, looking for hidden gold or the Philosopher’s Stone. Depends on who’s doing the telling.”

  “That’s a nice ghost story.”

  “Lascaris was a mysterious man. If anyone had unlocked the secret of eternal life, it would have been that old alchemist.”

  Petra chuckled. She’d believe ghosts when she saw them, but didn’t want to go out of her way to offend the old man who was giving her the tourist spiel.

  “Don’t tempt them, young lady.” Stan winked at her. “Temperance is a strange place.”

  Petra looked at the glass case beneath the register, full of handguns displayed on threadbare velvet. “Are those for sale?”

  “Everything’s for sale, for the right price.” Stan pressed his hands to the glass. “What are you looking for?”

  “Something small. Manageable.” Petra had nothing to prove by carrying a bazooka on her hip.

  “A girl gun?” Stan pulled out a tiny Derringer from the case that fit into his weathered palm. The handles were a pink-­tinted mother-­of-­pearl. “I’ve also got one that’s barely bigger than a lipstick case around here, somewhere . . .”

  “Cute, but I’d like something a bit more substantial. I’m thinking something like a .38.”

  “Six-­shot or automatic?”

  “Six-­shot.” Automatics made Petra nervous. Too many moving parts to fuss over if she needed it. And if yesterday was any indication, she’d have to become very familiar with the new toy.

  Stan fiddled with his moustache and grinned. “I’ve got just the thing for you. Stay right there.” He disappeared into the back, leaving Petra to browse.

  She pawed halfheartedly through the racks of military jackets, camo coveralls, and khaki shirts. She found a ­couple of shirts and a pair of fatigue bottoms that looked like they might fit, and heaped them on the counter. Work clothes. She picked up a sturdy-­looking military backpack and a black canvas ammo bag for her tools. It was the closest she would ever come to carrying a purse. It slung comfortably over her shoulder, and had enough loops to hold her picks.

  She bypassed the musical instruments, coins, and sporting equipment. Pausing at the clothing racks, her nostrils flared at the rich scent of leather.

  “Oh, my,” she breathed, in spite of herself. She pulled out a knee-­length brown leather coat, worn in to buttery softness. Unlike the other clothes she’d chosen, this was clearly a woman’s coat. Probably dating from the 1970s, it was flared with a broad lapel and full skirt, studded with tortoiseshell buttons. She reached inside it, finding a zip-­out lining. She held it at arm’s length, staring at it. Fall would be coming soon, and she had no coat.

  “Try it on.” Stan had returned, was fussing behind the counter. “There’s a mirror over there.” He gestured to a corner of the room, where a cheap door mirror had been propped up.

  Self-­consciously, Petra shrugged into the coat. It smelled of leather and tobacco. She peered at her reflection in the cheap glass. It fit her like a glove. She had to admit, she liked the swashbuckling silhouette it gave her.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped out of it, placed it on the counter with the rest. For winter, she told herself.

  Stan had pulled out a wooden box that looked as if it had survived a flood. He opened it, and Petra wrinkled her nose at the smell of moldy velvet.

  Stan lifted two silver pistols to the light. They were tarnished, free of embellishment except for pearl grips. “How about these?”

  Petra lifted one dubiously and peered down the long barrel. She estimated that it weighed about four pounds. Underneath the tarnish, there was no pitting or buckling, so it was unlikely to blow up in her face. “That’s a lot of gun, Stan.”

  “That’s an 1881 Colt Frontier six-­shooter. It’s a .44. Need cleaning, but they’re a nice set.”

  Petra considered the weight of it in her hand. It had a reassuring heft. The long barrel would give her more control over the larger caliber bullet, but still . . .

  “I don’t know that I need two guns.” She checked that the barrel was empty and pulled the trigger. The action was a hard pull. It wouldn’t go off accidentally—­no featherlight trigger here.

  “I’ll cut you a deal on the set.” Stan rummaged around in the box. “Also comes with the gun belt.” He held up a decrepit piece of leather. “It’s a fine antique.”

  Petra tried on the belt. She had to wrap it exactly twice around her body to get it to fit. The leather needed oiling, and the buckle was tarnished black.

  “That makes you look like a proper cowgirl.” Stan said, approvingly. “Try it with the coat.”

  Petra made a face. She didn’t primp. But she had to admit that the coat with the gun belt made her look like she belonged here . . . like Annie Oakley. Maybe the meth heads would leave her alone.

  “Hm. How much?”

  Stan rubbed the edge of his moustache. “Two thousand.”

  Petra removed her hands from the belt as if it were hot. “Two thousand?”

  “Those pistols are worth good coin. I’m cutting you a deal.”

  Petra frowned and set them back down on the glass case. “I don’t really need an antique.”

  Stan reached under the counter. “I’ve got this one.” He placed a cheap Saturday night special on the glass. “Fifty bucks.”

  The piece felt cheap and flimsy in her hands. Not like the smooth, warm pearl. Her eyes slipped longingly back to the Colts. “You got ammo for those?”

  “How much you want?”

  “Two boxes of .44s.” She hoped to God that she wouldn’t need more.

  “So . . . Seventeen hundred, then.”

  “Uh-­uh. A thousand,” she countered. “Cash.”

  Stan smiled. He knew he had her. “Fifteen hundred.”

  Petra’s index finger circled her pile of clothes. “Fifteen hundred for everything.”

  Stan shrugged. “Cash? Deal.”

  Stan went to the back to rummage around for ammunition, and Petra continued to poke around the store. She found Stan’s jewelry case, which was a bit saddening. Old wedding rings and new engagement rings sparkled under the artificial light.

  But her attention was snagged by a piece of black jewelry at the bottom of the case. A moon was inlaid on it in gold, su
rrounded by four tiny bits of cut glass. The style reminded her a bit of the necklace her father had given her. She waited for Stan to come back with the ammo and asked him, “Hey, could I take a look at that?”

  Stan obligingly opened the case and handed the brooch to her. “That’s an onyx mourning brooch. Back in the 1900s, they were quite the thing.”

  Petra turned it over. The back of the brooch was black, an intricately woven texture as glossy as a raven’s wing behind glass. A gold serpent coiled around the border, swallowing its tail. “What’s this made from?”

  “Hair. Widows would weave and braid hair of the deceased into the brooches.”

  Petra nearly dropped it, imagining fondling hundred-­year-­old hair. “Ugh.”

  “They were a sentimental lot.”

  But it was pretty, in its way. Petra fiddled with it, and a spring popped open. The interior of the brooch was a locket, holding two minute tintypes that swiveled in their frames. They’d corroded severely; she could barely make out the face of a blond woman on one side. On the other was the shadow of a man, his profile nearly eaten away by time.

  Petra squinted at it. There was something strange about that profile, something familiar.

  “That’s pretty much ruined. You can have it for ten bucks.”

  Petra clasped it in her fist. “Sold. By the way, I found something pretty interesting the other day. I was wondering if you could tell me about it.”

  “Sure, I’ll take a look at it. What is it?” Stan paused in bagging up Petra’s finds and leaned forward.

  “Some kind of compass or sundial, I think.” Petra pulled the compass from her pants pocket. She watched Stan’s reactions carefully. He blinked when he saw it, picked it up, and turned it over.

  “Where did you find this?”

  “I’m renting a trailer just north of town.”

  “The old Airstream off Ember Ridge?”

  “That’s the one. I guess. Unless there’s more than one old Airstream around here.”

  Stan smoothed his moustache with his fingertips. “That’s where Lascaris used to have his house, before it burned down. If I had to guess, I’d say it belonged to him.”