I pour myself a cup of coffee and take a sip, grateful for the warmth it brings on its path through my body. In the bathroom Cyrus and I share, I stand in front of the mirror and let my robe fall away from my body, regarding myself without emotion. I am too thin, ribs prominent on my sides and collarbones creating dark hollows on my chest. I look sick. Weak. Still, my chapped lips curve into a smile. Dying is the bravest, most human thing I will have done in six centuries.
After a hot shower, I dress in my favorite pair of faded green pants and a fuzzy hoodie and make my way to Cyrus’s library. It’s locked—none of us have ever dared enter here without his permission—but I know where he hides the key.
The library is the one room in our home that is not sleek and modern. Floor to ceiling bookshelves line all the walls, holding a jumble of handmade bindings, sewn Coptic spines, and ancient leather-bound volumes. An Oriental carpet in red and turquoise stretches across the floor, a souvenir from the year we spent in Iran. The room smells like old paper, with a faint trace of Cyrus’s soap, notes of vetiver and cedar.
This is his collection, a record of his hundreds of years of knowledge. As much as Cyrus appreciates human progress and technology, nothing can replace these weathered volumes. They have an almost talismanic power over him, which is why no one else is allowed in this room. We’ve taken the library with us every time we’ve moved to a new city. I cringe, remembering the trouble it caused on the voyage from Barbados to New Amsterdam. At least one person has died for these books.
I run my fingers over the spines till I find what I’m looking for, and pull a slim book from the shelf. It has a lock closed over its front edge, like a diary. But I don’t need to read it to know what’s inside: the formula for making the elixir. Cyrus, the son of an alchemist, had learned how to make the elixir that unbinds the silver cord that anchors the soul to the body. He wears a vial of it around his neck at all times. It only takes a few drops to turn a mortal being into one of us: an Incarnate, a soul untethered from a specific body, who can live forever by stealing others’ lives. We only need the elixir once—then we can switch at will.
Cyrus may have the formula memorized by now, but there’s a chance he doesn’t—after all, he hasn’t changed anyone into an Incarnate in almost a hundred years. That chance is enough for me.
I sit at his desk and pull out a creamy sheet of stationery.
Dear Cyrus,
I loved you once, with all my heart, and I stayed alive, in one form or another, for centuries because I could not bear to be apart from you. But the years have changed us, and not for the better. Every death we’ve caused has killed our love, bit by bit. I cannot kill another human in order to live. When my current body is lost, I will be too.
Until the next life, Seraphina
Back in my room I fold the note and put it in the pocket of the dress I’ll wear tonight. Everything is in place. Doors open and doors close; I just have to walk through.
By nightfall the fog is so thick that I can’t see more than twenty feet in front of me. The streetlights glow amber in the haze, reminding me of minerals in a fire. Cyrus once charmed me with colored fire instead of a bouquet of flowers, the pale powders in his palm giving little clue to the hue they brought to the flame. It seemed like magic, those little flames glowing red, glowing violet, the color of cat’s-eyes lapping at the dark. But it was only science—borax, copper chloride, potassium sulfate. I know that now.
It’s just before ten PM when Charlotte and I arrive at Emerald City; the others have been at the club all day preparing. A large crowd of people is gathered outside the doors, bouncers holding them at bay while they check the guest list. Jared gives me an appreciative glance and parts the crowd for us to go inside.
I shiver in my oyster-colored silk shift dress, a modern version of the one my real body died in so many years ago. I’ve always valued symmetry, and this feels like a fitting tribute to my original incarnation. A small car key is pinned to the underside of my bra strap, laying flat against my heart. I wear no jewelry except for my poison ring, the hidden compartment of which contains my parting gift for Cyrus.
The second I step inside I’m overwhelmed by the thumping bass and loud voices. I walk slowly up the stairs, my heart pumping weakly. Charlotte places a steadying hand on my lower back.
“Sera, you really shouldn’t wait this long to take a new body,” she whispers in a worried tone. “You’re pushing it.”
“You know me,” I say with a forced laugh. “Always living on the edge.”
Cyrus is waiting for us just inside the door. His eyes flicker with purpose under the low tracking lighting. “Seraphina, you look so beautiful,” he murmurs, pulling me close. I am enveloped in his herbal scent, his strong arms. A memory of the masquerade ball rises in my mind, but I push it down. Nostalgia is my enemy tonight. I can’t look backward.
“This is amazing,” Charlotte says, smoothing down her green sequined dress. “I’ve never been inside Emerald City before.”
The interior of the club is all shades of green—velvet couches the color of damp pine needles, intricate stained-glass chandeliers in chartreuse, wallpaper in turquoise. Waitresses cross the crowd with trays of absinthe and Midori in small crystal glasses.
Not long ago I would have loved a party like this—dancing till dawn, slipping through the crowd with purpose, making eye contact with Cyrus as we decided, together, who my victim would be. There is something undeniably thrilling about this part. The promise that, no matter what, I can change my body. That I can walk out a new person, presenting a brand-new face to the world. If only my memories were as easy to shed.
“You fit right in with that dress,” I tell Charlotte. “But in the first Oz book, the Emerald City isn’t really green. The Wizard makes everyone wear green-tinted glasses, so that’s what they see.”
Cyrus frowns, as though I’ve insulted his choice of venue. I put my hand on his arm. “I think I’ll get myself a glass of champagne.”
He brightens. “Yes, go get a drink, and don’t forget to . . . look around.” He finishes this statement with a sly grin and a knowing look. My stomach turns, but I make myself return his smile.
Charlotte and I cross the dance floor, which pulses with bodies dancing to electronic beats. The DJ is playing a remix of the old Neil Young song “Heart of Gold.” It makes me unaccountably sad.
I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold. And I’m getting old.
Charlotte looks behind her to make sure I’ve followed. “Let’s dance after this?” She has to shout to be heard. I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. Yes.
She asks the bartender for two Midori sours with wedges of watermelon, and we toast. “To new beginnings, and old friends,” she says.
“Cheers.” I smile, and we clink glasses. “Friends forever.”
The cold melon-flavored sweetness of the Midori trickles down my throat, and I am reminded of the summer we lived in Alabama. Cyrus found us a broken-down farmhouse with a brilliant red barn out back and a massive watermelon patch. Charlotte and I spent hours in the cool shade of the barn, the smell of hay and horses all around us, eating watermelon after watermelon and making wishes on the sticky black seeds.
I wish to fall in love.
I wish to live forever.
I wish to be friends until the end of time.
I have only one wish for Charlotte now. I take her wrist, suddenly urgent. “Charlotte you need to tell Sébastien how you feel. Promise me this.”
Charlotte’s smile falters. “Sera, you know what Cyrus would say.”
“Screw Cyrus.” When I see the stricken look on her face, I soften my tone. “What is eternal life without love?”
Cyrus appears behind us at the bar and encircles my waist with his arm. I twist to the side so he won’t notice the folded note in my pocket. “There’s someone I want you to meet,” he murmurs. He must have already made his choice. It didn’t take long.
I take a deep breath and pluck the empty wineglass f
rom his hand. “Let me refill that for you, then I’ll be right there.” He kisses the side of my neck, then nods toward a girl standing alone under a chandelier, light falling in lacy patterns on her gleaming chestnut hair. She looks almost exactly like me, a minor variation on a theme.
When he’s gone, I pull Charlotte toward me in a tight hug. “Thanks for being my best friend, Char. I mean it.” When I pull back, my eyes are filled with tears. I blink them back.
“My sensitive Seraphina.” She pushes my hair back and holds her palm to my icy cheek for a moment. “I will see the new you soon enough.”
I swallow hard as the bartender places a full glass of red wine in front of me. I pick it up and make my way through the crowd toward Cyrus and the girl. When I’m confident no one is looking, I flick open my poison ring and, in one practiced movement, dump its contents into the glass. Then I stride forward, catching Cyrus’s eye. He looks pleased.
I feel a flash of sadness for him. Cyrus, my alchemist love, the one who made magic real, the one who lives for illusion, who says, Yes, the fire only burns violet for you, Seraphina. Cyrus, who grips me so tightly I feel like I’m choking, who made me a killer, who would rather kill me himself than lose me. He’s told me so, many times. But after tonight, I’ll be gone—and for the first time in hundreds of years, we’ll both be alone.
four
I walk toward Cyrus, my strides matching the incessant thump of the music. My heart hammers in my chest, and I am careful not to let the wine slosh over the edge of the glass. I don’t look at it, knowing from long experience that I am more graceful when I don’t try to be. Trust yourself, Sera. Don’t think, just act.
“Hi, I’m Sera,” I say to the girl, handing Cyrus his wine and taking her hand in mine. She’s stunningly beautiful, with rich, espresso-colored hair and warm brown eyes framed by inky lashes. A rosy flush on her prominent cheekbones sets off the light olive hue of her skin. Apart from our coloring, we could be sisters.
“I’m Claudia,” she responds, with a hint of a German accent. “Cyrus tells me you’re a photographer?”
Cyrus catches my eye, urging me to follow his lead. “I was telling Claudia about the photo shoot you’re working on—you’re still casting models, right?”
“Right—yes, we’re still looking.” The girl is watching me with hopeful, innocent eyes, and I picture how this night could progress in some alternate reality. We’d go upstairs and talk. I’d draw her in, build her trust in me, tell her about the months I spent in Munich and about Café Frischut, my favorite coffee shop there, until she came willingly to my arms. My cold mouth would close over hers and in a flash of violet light, I would feel a surge of power and claim her body for my own.
Suddenly my resolve slips. My soul may be ready to die, but there is a part of me that only knows how to keep living, no matter the cost. I can still change my mind, I think. I can take her body, find Charlotte and dance with her, lose myself in the unrelenting music. I can go home with Cyrus. I can stay his.
But then I look at Claudia, at the way she nervously twirls the marcasite ring on her index finger, and remember exactly why I must hold firm.
Cyrus takes a sip of wine and furrows his brow. “Is this the Pinot Noir?” he asks. My heart starts to slam in my chest—I can’t decide if I’m more terrified that he’ll taste the sedative, or that he won’t.
“No,” I reply as innocently as possible, “the Cabernet.”
He takes another sip. “It’s good,” he says, flashing me a dazzling smile.
“It’s so loud down here.” I turn to Claudia. “Why don’t we go somewhere more private, where we can talk about the shoot?” Cyrus tips the wineglass to his lips again, and I silently will him to slow down. I’ve got to get him out of here before the powder takes effect.
“Yes, that would be fantastic,” she agrees. I lead them to the back of the club, where a heavy green-velvet drape obscures a stairway.
“There’s a private lounge up here.” I glance behind me. The girl is sure-footed, confident, while Cyrus misses a step and nearly drops his glass. But hundreds of years of existing in human bodies have granted us an effortless, feline grace, and he recovers easily.
The walls of the stairwell are lined with jade-and-gold-striped wallpaper, and dim rose-colored bulbs flicker in copper sconces. At the top a long hallway leads us to our destination. Jared and Amelia stand guard outside but move aside to let us pass. I float by them on a nervous cloud. Amelia gives me a strange look, as though she can see deep inside me, her avian eyes wary and her head cocked to the side. I want to say I’ll miss her, but it is actually a relief to know that I will soon be free of her.
Claudia and Cyrus enter the lounge, and I close the heavy walnut door behind us, locking it. Cyrus is surprised—I know he wants it open for Jared and Amelia in case anything goes wrong—but he doesn’t say anything.
“It’s beautiful,” Claudia says breathlessly, taking in the walls made of milky green glass, backlit by twinkling lights. The ceiling is covered with gossamer fabric, billowing softly in the breeze wafting in from the open balcony doors. This private room with its balcony is exactly why I asked Cyrus to hold my party here.
“Glad you like.” Cyrus’s voice is slightly slurred as he steers her toward a cluster of couches and sits down. He rubs his eyes as if to clear his vision. I take a nervous gulp of air and hand Claudia a glass of absinthe, trying to find a comfortable position on the pillows piled on the floor. I try not to look at the balcony doors. Even in his impaired state, I’m terrified that Cyrus can read my intentions. My good-bye note feels heavy in my pocket.
“So, Claudia, tell me about yourself. You’re not from San Francisco, are you?” I lace my fingers together to keep from tapping them impatiently. Cyrus’s wine is half gone.
“No,” she replies. “I am from Munich.”
“Traveling with friends?” I ask.
“Oh no, traveling alone. I adore it. I’ve been all over, but San Francisco is an amazing city. That’s why I want to get a job here, so I can stay.”
Even though Claudia will ultimately survive the night, rage courses through me. Cyrus knows my one criterion—that I only take bodies ready for death, either physically or spiritually. But Claudia is clearly healthy and happy and looking forward to her future. She is alone and beautiful—all that Cyrus needs to know to decide she deserves death.
Cyrus, pale and with dilated pupils, shoots me a smile devoid of any trace of remorse. I close my eyes for a moment, willing myself not to give in to the anger that’s sparking in my heart.
Claudia smiles shyly. “So tell me about the photo shoot.” She crosses her legs and touches her hair. “I have done some modeling.”
I stand up, needing to dispel my anger somehow, and the effort causes the room to swim briefly in misty gray. I walk slowly over to the bar, feeling their eyes on my back. I pull a bottle of water out of the minifridge. “The shoot, right.” My voice sounds thick. “It’s an editorial piece. It should feel like a fairy tale.”
“Like Snow White?” she asks. “That is my favorite story.”
I glance at Cyrus. “You remember that story. Is it like that?” I ask him.
His expression is dreamy. “The wicked queen demands Snow White’s heart,” he whispers, and something snaps inside of me. I walk over to the leaf-green sofa where he sits.
“But she doesn’t get it!” I say. “Snow White tricks her and sends her the heart of a deer instead.”
He sees my rage, but just smiles and drains his glass in one swallow. Suddenly I realize just how much I’m going to enjoy what’s about to happen.
One, I count silently.
His eyes, which had begun to close, fly open, and his hand snakes out and grabs my wrist.
“What’s going on?” asks Claudia.
Two.
I lean close to Cyrus, ignoring the pain in my wrist. “She doesn’t deserve to die. None of them did.”
“Sera?” His voice is weak and his grip on my wri
st loosens.
“Good-bye,” I answer.
Three.
His eyelids flutter, then close, as he slumps forward. I plunge my hand into my dress and pull out the note, slipping it into his pants pocket. I feel his hand fall away from my arm as he crumples onto the low table, his head making a loud thump as it hits the glass.
Claudia lets out a scared gasp. “Run!” I whisper. Then I dash toward the balcony doors, and like a bird taking flight, I am free, out into the night.
five
The balcony swirls with fog. I swing my legs over the railing, slippery with marine air. I lose my grip and force myself to focus. One misplaced hand and I will tumble to the concrete below. I do intend to die tonight, but not here. Not like this.
I can hear Claudia yelling inside and grit my teeth. I should have spiked her drink too. One of my shoes slips off. As it disappears into the fog, I picture it bouncing on the sidewalk. I struggle to find a foothold. Amelia had trained me as an acrobat, but that was a long time ago, and my body is very weak.
Breathing hard, I kick off the other shoe and ignore a pounding sound above—Jared and Amelia kicking in the door. I can’t afford to dwell on it, so I keep moving. Bit by bit, I make my way down.
Once on the sidewalk, I can’t hear anything else from above; all other sound is swallowed by the dance music pouring from the club. I shove through the crowd still waiting to get in to Emerald City, then start running up Spear Street.
Each time my foot lands on the pavement, hot pain shoots up through my body. My breath comes in rasps and my lungs feel as though they’re collapsing. But I know what I’m running toward and push myself forward. It’s 11:17 PM; I have ten minutes before the next train leaves the BART station.
I hear a shout behind me and whip my head around, nearly losing my balance. It’s only an old homeless man having an argument with a street sign. After that I keep my gaze focused straight ahead, too terrified to glance backward.
The Alchemy of Forever Page 3