by M C Dulac
Rebecca was about to get in the car, when she saw the door to the apartment building open. A skeleton-thin figure crept out. It kept close to the wall, wincing in the golden streetlights.
“It’s him,” Rebecca said.
Otto von Schumann dragged himself into the Corso and then began to walk unsteadily toward the Piazza del Popolo.
“Where is he going?” Rebecca ran forward.
He was no more than a wraith from a graveyard. He staggered onwards, his head tilted back as he entered the grand piazza. The piazza was deserted, except for a few figures far in the distance. Lights glowed around the fountains and the obelisk, and shone on the terrace of the Pincio Gardens.
“The elixir of life was not strong enough to save him,” Champillon murmured.
“He is in pain,” Rebecca winced.
Elise began to run, “He may call his staff. Hurry, we have to stop him.”
Rebecca did not know if Schumann heard them. He came to the very centre of the Piazza and turned toward the church domes. He looked around the city with wonder. The great Otto von Schumann, who had devoured the world, thirsted for life and love and food and sensation, who wanted to be a king who lived forever. But he had reached too far, and fate had cast him into hell. Even in hell, he had never ceased to fight.
He took a shaking hand from his pocket and unfolded his fingers. He lifted a vial to his lips and began to drink. His gulps were uneven, and he appeared to be weeping. Rebecca caught sight of the glowing rose liquid, just as he swallowed the last drop.
He let the glass vial fall to the ground and turned toward the Vatican hill.
In that instant, he seemed to rise like a dark bird. Then he faded in a swirl of light, until the breeze caught him and carried his shadow across the night.
Champillon and Elise stopped.
“So he finally chose the elixir of the elements,” Rebecca said.
“Release and freedom,” said Elise.
“I thought so,” Champillon nodded.
chapter twenty six
The monuments glowed in the darkness as they drove through the silent pre-dawn streets of Rome.
“Did you know the elixir wouldn’t work?” Elise asked Champillon.
“I suspected it. There was nothing that could stop what was happening to Schumann. At least Antonio’s potion offered him a choice.”
“Do you think he drank it to redeem himself?”
“At the rate the decay was burning through him, he would have been in enormous pain. He might have felt the power of the elixir of life for a moment, before he realised it had no effect. Even if he had found his driver or servants, he would have to go through the process of killing again. He must have known then, that he had failed. He was obsessed with being great and could not accept he was anything less.”
“So he knew he was finished.”
“Schumann wanted to be an alchemist more than anything, and Antonio was an alchemist, without realising.”
“I wish we had found Antonio in time,” Elise said.
They arrived at the hotel. Elise turned around and smiled radiantly, as if she had just remembered Rebecca.
“We’re here, Rebecca.”
“Goodbye,” Champillon said simply, “Finish Dante’s poem. He reaches Heaven in the end.”
Elise and Champillon had come to Italy to trace the footsteps of Albert Price. Instead they had found another alchemist. They had hoped Antonio might offer some answers, but the secrets of life and alchemy had eluded him too.
Would they keep searching? Rebecca thought they would. She watched them drive away. Suddenly she was aware of her intense exhaustion.
And she felt a great sense of calm.
* * * * *
The next morning Rebecca rolled her suitcase through the airport to her departure gate. As she stood in the boarding queue, her eyes drifted to the news on the television screens. What would happen when it was known the reclusive billionaire Otto von Schumann was missing? She imagined his teams of assistants, sitting by their phones and staring at their computers, waiting for instructions. Maybe politicians and bankers were also expecting his call. There must be deals to be concluded and trades to finish. Would they notice his disappearance in a few days, or after several weeks? How long would it take them to unravel the web of secrecy around Schumann? Would they eventually go to the ruins of the Palazzo Ombre and climb into the wreckage of the cave? Maybe they would find Antonio’s apartment and see the walls of drawings. If they did, what would they conclude?
But the news was full of different stories, and Rebecca thought that in death, as in life, the story of Otto von Schumann would remain hidden from the world.
The queue inched forward. She thought over the events of the last night. Had Elise really said she had become an alchemist in 1820? And had Champillon said he was born in 1784?
The airline staff were asking to see tickets. Rebecca fumbled in her bag.
Elise had said she had known Albert Price in Paris, after his time in Italy. How had Elise and Champillon met him? When did they learn he was an alchemist? There was so much she wanted to know. But Elise and Champillon had left her life as quietly and mysteriously as they had come into it. Now she was heading to the other side of the world, to a place that was entering summer, just as Rome was entering winter.
It was almost time to board. Rebecca opened her hand. There was no glowing vial, no magic elixir. Just her own healthy palm.
“The greatest elixir is the essence of the life we already have,” Antonio had said that night at dinner, when he shimmered in the candlelight.
Would she ever see Elise and Champillon again? They could be anywhere in Europe now, or maybe in another part of the world. Should she turn around and try to find them, for surely they had left some trail in Rome?
Or maybe the story had come to an end.
Rebecca cast one last look behind her, then boarded the plane home.
THE END
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Now Read the Prequel
The Story of Elise and Albert Price’s Years in Paris
THE ALCHEMIST OF PARIS
In the heart of modern Paris is an old house...
... a house that has been hidden for almost two hundred years.
The only clue to its secrets lies in a nineteenth century diary.
When research student Ellie opens the door, she will discover not just an ancient mystery, but a tale of magic, betrayal - and immortal love, spanning the centuries.
About the Author
M.C. Dulac lives in Sydney, Australia, where she daydreams far too much.
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http://mcdulac.wordpress.com