Alchemystic

by Anton Strout

  His breathing was rapid now, as if he were somehow reliving the moment. He paused to catch his breath, and when he spoke again, he was calmer, quieter.

  “That was when I saw it—the angel. Long wings extended, coming down hard on the ice, sending a ripple of cracks all throughout the space right above me. He drove back the men, smiting them with the power of the Lord, sending them flying across the ice. Its fist came down through the ice and I felt it lifting me. Cold, barely breathing, I felt it carrying me off through the sky, and I gave myself over to the sensation, expecting to wake in Heaven. When I instead woke in my own room, I knew I had witnessed a miracle.” He crossed himself. “We are blessed. We are watched over. That must have been a good forty years ago.”

  “Dad, you had a traumatic childhood experience,” I said. “That’s all. You probably fell through the ice, got rescued by someone, and blocked the rest out. You were in shock.”

  Then the worst thing in the world happened: My father looked hurt. For just a moment his face was filled with a look of sadness and pain; then he simply shook his head and looked into my eyes.

  “I know what I saw,” he said. “I know what I believe.”

  This conversation was going a little too into the deep end of the baptismal font for my liking, so I checked the time on my phone. It was nearly two a.m. “I should probably get to bed,” I said, standing up.

  He grabbed my wrist with considerable force, startling me. The second I jumped, however, he loosened his grip and sat me back down on the couch with him.

  “This isn’t about my faith,” he said. “This isn’t even about how blessed we are. This is about something I noticed in the park on that man’s hand.”

  “You saw the mark?” I asked, my eyes flying wide. “That demon-looking thing?”

  My father nodded. “That’s the real reason I tried to ‘ground’ you. You see, Alexandra, I have seen that before, back when I was a boy. My attackers on the ice, they bore the same mark.”

  “What does it mean?” I asked.

  My father took my hands in his and squeezed them tight, something I still found reassuring even as a grown-up. “I do not know,” he said, “but please believe me, whatever your own beliefs are, my daughter, I need you to exercise caution. God is watching over us, but he helps those who help themselves.”

  I tried to laugh. His words bordered on ridiculous, melodramatic, but the sheer sincerity in his eyes drove any humor out of me. I didn’t have to be a believer in much of any kind of religion to understand the concern my father had for me. I hoped he was right about our family’s luck.

  But I was afraid it was running out.

  Ten

  Alexandra

  I had done all the work I could on the files my father had given me to take up to the studio while I remained inside. I seriously doubted anything would happen during broad daylight. The streets would be crowded, full of commuters on their way to work, and in the light of day, it almost seemed ridiculous to cower inside. Hoping to get a jump on the day and that maybe my family had gotten over this idea of grounding me, I grabbed up the file folders from last night and headed downstairs relatively early. If I could get out of the house before anyone could stop me, I was sure my initiative would pay off. It beat sitting around the building wondering about the deeper religious question of last night—whether angels were real or not. The jury was still way out on that one in my mind.

  Except I never made it past the large dine-in kitchen down on the main living floor. Not only was my mother already in there; she was making breakfast for Rory, and not just oatmeal. There was bacon, eggs, fresh-cut fruit, hashed potatoes, and toast.

  I stopped in my tracks, dropping my shoulder bag full of file folders onto the granite island where Rory was helping herself to a slice of toast, sprinkling sugared cinnamon over it. “Oh, hello,” I said. “What’s all this?”

  My mother looked up from the stove where she was folding an omelet over itself, a slight smile on her face, looking over to Rory. “Do I know my daughter or what?”

  Rory snickered. “That you do, Mrs. B.”

  “Do you mind letting me in on it, then?” I asked, feeling a bit territorial over their in-joke or whatever it was. I certainly didn’t get the full breakfast treatment all that often, and here was my bestie chowing down.

  My mother plated part of the omelet and slid the plates over to Rory and me. “I knew once your father and I forbid you from leaving the building, that would be the one thing that would motivate you to actually get out of it.”

  “So you’re not going to stop me?” I asked, going for the fruit.

  She put the pan back on the stovetop and held her hand out toward Rory. “I’m still shaken by what you told me, Alexandra, but…well, why do you think I called her? This way you’ll have someone with you as you head off on your appointments.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And this is okay with the boss man?”

  My mother smiled at me like I was a child of ten again. “I will handle your father,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll relent once he knows at least Aurora is with you. I know it’s daytime and all, but still…be careful.”

  “You’re okay with this?” I asked Rory. “Don’t you have graduate school things to do?”

  She nodded as she enthusiastically devoured her piece of cinnamon toast. “I don’t mind skipping out of class,” she said. “I’m on one of my nondance days, anyway.”

  I’d already had the white-handled knife in my shoulder bag for protection, but having Rory around would be an added bonus. I told my mother I’d call after each appointment, and then Rory and I were off. Surprisingly, we hit all five boroughs in one day and knocked out most of my appointments with Rory waiting outside them for me, and I was glad to have her. Having her in tow passed the time all the quicker and actually kept me motivated. Even so, the sun had set about half an hour earlier when we arrived at the last appointment of the day, putting us straight in the heart of the Bowery at one of my great-great-grandfather’s worn-down locations.

  Rory stretched on the edge of the sidewalk. “I’m beat,” she said. “I think I’d be less beat if it had been a dance day for me. You want me to come in?”

  Rory had really thrown herself into the role of bodyguard all day, but I had resisted all her offers. Bringing a pretty blue-haired girl into my appointments wasn’t going to get any of the brokers, contractors, or work crews to take me seriously. “I’m good,” I said, sliding all but the last of my folders into my shoulder bag. “Stay out here.”

  “You sure?” she asked, arms extended high overhead like she was being pulled on an invisible rack.

  I nodded.

  “I should be fine, Rory,” I said, examining the folder for some of the base specs on the building. “Really. It might get ugly in there, but only because I may have to flip my bitch switch to make sure they stay on schedule with the renovation.”

  Rory gave a quick golf clap. “Look at you,” she said. “Get down with your badass business self.”

  I curtsied once before heading into the building and was off. The lobby and lower floors looked in good shape as I rode up the elevator, poking my head out on each floor. I wasn’t worried about them anyway. According to the file our biggest problems lay at the top floor and reinforcement of the roof.

  The doors opened onto a half-finished hallway. Exposed wiring hung running from light to light along the skeleton structure of the open ceiling and continued on down the hall. I consulted the notes in the folder and worked my way down to the door that led into the largest, unfinished part of the floor. It opened up onto a large open space full of construction debris—broken plaster, torn-out wood, stacks of uninstalled flooring and Sheetrock. I checked for a light switch, but the area had yet to be wired; thankfully enough, light from the hallway spilled into the room so I could check things over for the progress report I needed to file back at the offices. Where the effing contractors were was anyone’s guess, but that was only the first bad mark on a report
that already looked ripe with potential problems in the space.

  The plaster of the ceiling was still coming down as marked on the last progress report, but it didn’t look like much had been done to it since then. In the interest of being thorough, however, I wanted to inspect it more closely.

  A stack of Sheetrock sat piled in one section of the room under one of the problem areas, which seemed to be my best chance of getting close enough for a better look. I shoved the file folder into my shoulder bag and crawled my way to the top of the Sheetrock pile. Standing, I found I still had trouble assessing the true state of the ceiling, not that I really knew what I was looking for. Frustrated at my lack of knowledge and inspecting abilities, I looked down and found the contractors I had been looking for—piled behind the Sheetrock, unmoving and with pools of blood slowly radiating out from under their forms.

  My stomach sank and I swayed with vertigo on top of the Sheetrock, falling to my knees as my legs gave out. As I crawled my way off it, the light in the room changed. The door behind me was closing, and when I turned, it was shut, the only light now coming dimly into the room through the windows along the far wall.

  A man stepped out of the shadows, partially hidden by the hood he wore under his jacket, but what I could see of the face was unkind, menacing. I backed away from him, startled but surprisingly not as scared as I had been the night before, despite having just seen several more dead bodies. My fear then had made me feel small, weak, diminished me, and I refused to let that rule over me now. Even my father’s speech about our luck and our being blessed had given me some of that back. As I pulled the white-handled knife from my shoulder bag, it strengthened my resolve even further.

  The man’s eyes went to it, and he laughed, the sound echoing through the large open space. He raised his own hand, holding a similar knife in it. The tattoo on the back of his hand was also familiar—again, the stylized demon.

  “You had better know how to use that,” the man said, his voice thick with the accent of our people from the old country. “Although the very fact you are in possession of one of our sacred blades means that you must have some prowess to have claimed it.”

  “I didn’t do anything!” I shouted in growing anger and frustration. “Leave me and my family alone. We didn’t do anything to you.”

  “You have wronged those whom I serve,” he said. “That is enough. And once I bleed the location of your entire family out of you, they will reward me with the Life Eternal.”

  “Wow,” I said, a bit of fear creeping back into me as I caught the madness on his face. “You know what, mister? I didn’t kill your friend, but if you’re threatening my whole family, I wish I had.” I lifted my knife, ignoring how it shook in my hand. Whether I could use it was another story, but I’d be damned if I was going to play the victim again. Something dark was rising up in me.

  The man moved in fast, coming at me from my left. Slashing to my side, my blade flew completely past the man, leaving him unharmed. I may have pulled up short, my body still unwilling to stab at someone, and I shrunk back from him as my false bravado dropped away. His blade caught the strap on my shoulder bag, slicing it and slipping the bag to the floor, its contents spreading out everywhere. I went to run, but I slipped on one of the damn folders and the attacker had me by the wrist, prying the knife from my hand.

  Disarmed and caught in the man’s viselike grip, I allowed myself to give in to my growing fear, heading straight into full-blown panic.

  Eleven

  Stanis

  I stood as a silent rooftop sentinel in one of the older city sections called the Bowery, waiting for the woman within the building while her blue-haired friend lingered on the street below. After last night’s attack in that alley, I found my mind focused solely on her. I could not remember the last time I had done anything more than just fill myself with the joy of flight, but something about last night’s attack set my thoughts ablaze. The mark on the back of the attacker’s hand as he clung to my arms high above the city last night before I ended his life, the horns and fangs…there was a familiarity to it…

  So lost in my own thoughts was I that when a sudden wave of panic flared out from the woman somewhere nearby, my chest knotted like a fist balling up, catching me off my guard and driving me to my knees.

  The surface of the roof beneath me cracked from the impact, and I did not bother trying to stand back up. The woman’s panic radiated with intensity directly from somewhere on the floor below. I lifted my fists high over my head and brought them down hard on the rooftop, over and over.

  I did not know what I would find below. One of the rules screamed out to me—Conceal myself from humanity—but Protect the family was the master rule, and if it meant revealing myself in that endeavor, then so be it. Her primal call for help was a compulsion like no other I had ever felt. Cracks spread out beneath me as the old tar, stone, wood, and plaster finally gave way from each passing blow. The roof shifted beneath me, caved, and I dropped into the dark room below, my wings spreading to slow my fall. Time slowed as I took in the situation. A lone male figure stood directly behind the woman, his arms wrapped around her as she struggled to break free. I arced my wings, aiming for the man, then narrowed my wingspan to speed up.

  With perfect accuracy, my stone form hit the man hard—as I had intended—driving his body away from the woman, the sound of cracking running through him. So fragile, these creatures.

  The man shuddered in shock on the floor as the lifeblood left his body and he went still. The woman watched him, her own body shaking, but she did not move, the two of us standing there as he jerked and fell silent. As she was distracted and had her back to me, there was still a chance I could keep to the rules if I left quick enough. I turned, seeking out the hole I had left in the roof. I stepped across the broken wood and crumbled stone debris I had created from my entrance to better position myself, but that effort alone had it crunching underneath my feet, breaking the brief silence.

  “Wait,” the woman said, her voice shaky. Despite my desire to leave, I found I could not, held in place by a force unseen. “Let me see you.”

  I turned to her, getting my first look at the girl’s face up close. There was something familiar to her features, but I was not sure what it was. The dark eyes, wide with wonder now, the sharp angle of her chin, the slow and steady slope of her nose…

  “Th-thank you,” she managed to get out, quiet and barely able to speak while she stared at me standing there in the darkened room. A mix of fear and calm emanated from her, its blast washing over me in confusion.

  “You are…welcome,” I said.

  She stepped toward me. “You helped me the other night, didn’t you?” she asked. “In that alley in the Village…?”

  I nodded.

  She looked down at the remains of her attacker, shock and the hint of fear filling her eyes. “You…killed that other man and this one. Why?”

  “They would have done the same to you,” I said without hesitation.

  She leaned over the man, staring into his wide, unmoving eyes. “Would they?”

  “Yes,” I said. “That is what I believe.”

  “Why me?” she asked. “Why are they trying to hurt my family?”

  I stepped forward into the light that came down from the hole I had left in the ceiling. The woman seemed to notice the wings rising up behind me for the first time and gasped. I pulled them close against my body, leaning down to lift up one of the attacker’s arms. I turned it back and forth in my hands until I found what I was looking for.

  “There,” I said, pointing one of my clawed fingers to the closed fist at the end of the man’s arm. The demon sigil that marked the skin on the back of his hand trailed up the rest of his arm.

  Hesitant, the woman stepped toward me to look it over. “The man who attacked me the other night had similar markings,” she said. “What do they mean?”

  “It is an ancient mark,” I said, finally recalling it. “The more sections, blocks, the
longer it is, the higher up their place is in the order.”

  “What order?”

  “The Servants of Ruthenia,” I recalled, but nothing more.

  The woman shuddered as she looked at the arm, then turned her eyes to me. “What are you?” she asked. “How do you know that?”

  “I was created to protect, both you and your family,” I said. I paused, trying to recall something more about the Servants. I lowered the dead man’s arm and stood. “As to how I know this order, I am not sure. My thoughts are not what they once were; long has my mind been dormant.” I pointed at the mark on the hand again. “It has been a long time since I have seen such things.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “How long are we talking here?” she asked.

  “I am unsure of that as well,” I said, noting the disappointment on her face at my words. “I am sorry. To my recollection, I do not think I have talked to anyone in many a year. At least, no one I did not then kill.”

  A sudden spike of fear radiated off of her and she stepped back. “You’re not going to…you know…?”

  When she did not finish her words, I cocked my head. “Explain.”

  She let out a long breath, then spoke in a rush. “You’re not going to kill me…are you?”

  I shook my head. “I am sworn to protect,” I said.

  The woman visibly relaxed, looking around the chaos of the room, her eyes passing quickly over the bloody body of her attacker lying between us.

  “You should go,” I said.

  She nodded absently. “What about you?”

  “I will take care of the body of this man who attacked you,” I said.

  “There are others…” she said, walking with a great hesitation over to a stack of thin gray slabs. “Other men here who that man killed.”