“Sera! Stop!” Jared yells. I run even faster, my dress swishing against my thighs and my hair lifting high behind me in the damp wind. It feels like my skin is falling off my bones, and I know my bare feet are probably bleeding. My failing heart beats erratically in my chest, fluttering like a trapped bird. I pray I have the strength to reach my getaway car. That’s all I need, I plead with my body. Please.
Finally daring to look behind me, I see Jared gaining on me, Amelia only a few steps behind. He would love nothing more than to drag me back to Cyrus like a puppy who’d gone off leash. Amelia, on the other hand, would probably be happier if I disappeared forever, though loyalty to Cyrus is all the impetus she needs to join the pursuit.
The BART station sign looms in the distance, its black-and-blue logo illuminated but out of focus in the fog. There’s more foot traffic as I get closer to the Embarcadero stop, and I shove people out of my way. “Watch it!” I hear as I blaze by.
It’s a game night, and every other person is wearing the Giants’ colors. A woman decked out in an orange-and-black jersey pushes an empty stroller. I misjudge her direction and trip over the stroller, falling to my knees on the sidewalk.
“Sera! Stay there!” Jared’s voice has an undercurrent of panic. If he goes back empty-handed, Cyrus will surely “have words” with him. I know all about the very real scars those words can leave.
Scrambling to my feet, I take off again, Jared and Amelia only a block behind me now. I look back once more and make sure they’re watching as I finally reach the BART station entrance, shoving through drunken baseball fans down the escalator. I hop the turnstile without paying, hurrying toward the rising wind and industrial screech of the trains rumbling into the station.
The platform is packed with Giants fans, all orange and disorganized and jubilant. The arriving train is headed for the East Bay, and the crowd struggles to board. I catch sight of my reflection in a window: wild-eyed, hair a tangled mess, dress torn, blood dribbling down my knees.
“Seraphina! You need. To. Stop!” Jared’s voice is urgent and close. I turn around and catch his eye, then push my way onto the East Bay–bound train. People give me a wide berth, and I feel someone touching my hand. I gasp and look down—but it’s only an older woman sitting near the doors. “You okay, honey?” I nod wordlessly, eyes trained on the platform. Amelia and Jared dash into a car two down from mine.
“The doors are closing. Please stand clear,” says the conductor.
That’s my cue. I spring into action.
The rumble and horn of an approaching train—heading in the opposite direction—are the only sounds I hear. I dart out of the car just before the doors close and dodge across the platform, sidestepping people and slipping toward the front of the crowd as the San Francisco–bound airport train opens its doors with a sigh. Pinned by the window, I turn and look behind me, where the East Bay train has yet to depart. Jared and Amelia are still on the other train, scanning the crowd.
Amelia’s eyes lock with mine. I’ve been seen. It doesn’t matter. Their train is already chugging to life and sliding out of the station. They’ll be stuck on it for the long ride under the bay, between the Embarcadero and West Oakland stations, giving me a good twenty-minute head start if they decide to come back after me.
I ride for only two stops and exit with the crush of people at Powell Street. No doubt Jared and Amelia will think I’m headed deeper into the city, toward the airport. But when Cyrus wakes up, he’ll find my note and realize I haven’t boarded any planes.
The rush of adrenaline has worn off, and I’m exhausted. But still, I am free to follow this night’s course of action to its dark finish. The wind has stopped, allowing the fog to settle thickly over the neighborhood. It turns city blocks into something more private, like small, silent rooms. Through the haze the fractured beam of a streetlight glints off a metal surface. I squint—it’s the car. I had kept it hidden near our apartment and driven it over earlier today. Two soggy parking tickets are plastered to the windshield, but I say a prayer of thanks that it hasn’t been towed.
I bought the dusty old Ford off Craigslist a few weeks earlier. I gave the seller a fake name and paid his price without complaint, though I knew it was high, handing over an envelope filled with cash. I’d been saving money bit by bit for years—ten dollars here, twenty there—small enough amounts that Cyrus would never notice. I didn’t even start saving it consciously—it was more instinctual. One day after buying a coffee I slipped the change into the book I was reading, then told Cyrus the cashier must have shorted me. It gave me a small thrill to disobey him, to finally have something that was mine.
I reach into the bodice of my dress and unpin the key I’d affixed to my bra strap. In the trunk I find my getaway bag—it holds a change of clothes, Cyrus’s book, and the rest of my emergency money. I’m going to drive down to Big Sur tonight. I want to be among the redwoods and waterfalls when I die.
I tug on my jeans and sweater, dropping my soiled dress in the trunk and slipping my bruised feet into a pair of sneakers. My hands shake as I slide into the driver’s seat and press the key into the ignition. The throbbing in my temples and the blue hue of my fingers tell me I may not make it to Big Sur. But I have to try.
The engine starts and I pull out into traffic, heading toward the bridge. I shake my head with disbelief—after six hundred years with Cyrus, I am finally free. I will never again, I promise myself, kill an innocent. I press harder on the accelerator as the car rumbles onto the bridge, leaving San Francisco—and my past—far behind.
six
I drive with the windows wide open, drinking in the world and fresh air while I still have time. The pavement thrums under the wheels, carrying me forward, and I feel a flush of excitement. I know it’s morbid, but death is unexplored territory. Not even Cyrus knows what happens after we die.
With every mile I put between me and Cyrus, I feel a weight lifting. Even in the rain, California has never looked so beautiful and alive. I glance up at the stars, pinpricks pushing through the clouds, like they might fall into the bay.
I hope you’re out there, Mother, I think, because I’m coming.
But my euphoria comes at a high price, quickly sapping my remaining energy. My hands shake on the steering wheel and my vision blurs, turning the oncoming headlights into long yellow ribbons. I barely have enough energy to push the gas pedal. A car honks and swerves around me, and I fear that I’m no longer in charge of my body.
I let out a little sigh and tighten my grip on the wheel. I had wanted to go all the way to Big Sur, to be deep in the pines, listening to nothing but the cold wind and the hooting of owls on gnarled branches, but I’m fading—fast. I won’t make it to Big Sur. Even if I tried, I would probably get into a car accident and end up killing someone else in the process.
Oakland, I decide, is as good a place as any to die. The road turns sharply as I begin the descent from Treasure Island toward Oakland, passing a tattered and faded billboard advertising a judgment day that never came. Beyond that, an eerie cluster of shipping-container cranes look out over the Oakland port like ancient guardians of the city.
I guide the car down Franklin Street, toward Jack London Square. A lone light shines on the loading docks of Second Street, illuminating the small droplets of mist that hang in the night air. I pull over on a side street, holding my head in my hands. The wave of weakness crests, then recedes. Trembling, I pull the key from the ignition, hoist my bag on my shoulder, and set off silently through the gloom. Sidestepping slicks of oil and crumbling potholes, I make my way toward a neon sign that reads SALOON, tucked under a termite-gnawed eave.
I know my time is short, but still, I’m not going to die sitting in my car. Though our original bodies die a human death, our stolen bodies collapse into dust when we leave them, exhausted from the energy it takes to host a foreign soul. I want my dusty remains to return to nature, not add to the layer of grime in this old Ford.
I decide to go in and g
et something to drink. I have to admit I’m scared, and wine will take the edge off my nerves, make me brave, before I chase my destiny into the great beyond.
Once inside I set my getaway bag on the ground and slide onto a heavy oak bar stool, smiling briefly at the two older men who sit next to each other not talking. After a moment I feel their eyes fall away, and they return to their beers. Catching sight of my high cheekbones and espresso-colored hair in the mirror behind the bar, I understand why they were looking. Even this close to death, I am beautiful.
The bartender mops the area in front of me and tosses down a napkin. He is skinny, with tattoos snaking up his arms, and eyes that suggest too few hours of sleep. He reminds me vaguely of Jared. “What can I get you?” he asks in a flat tone.
“Glass of red wine, please.”
“I’m going to have to see some ID.”
I look up and meet his eyes. “Is that really necessary?” I hold his gaze for several long seconds. When he holds firm, I sigh and dig out the ID that matches my face: Jennifer Combs, age twenty-two. The bartender studies the ID and for one giddy second I imagine telling him my real age, just to see his reaction. But I hold myself in check. The last thing I need is to draw attention to myself.
The bartender passes the laminated card back to me before pouring my drink. I stick Jennifer Combs—a name Cyrus made up when I took this body—back into my purse. I won’t be needing her anymore.
“Thanks.” I take a long sip of what will be my last drink ever, then sit back and survey the room. The bar is old, with an intricately detailed tin ceiling covered in multiple coats of chipping paint. Booths upholstered with cracked blue vinyl line the walls, and several wooden chairs are strewn haphazardly across the linoleum floor.
In the corner a thin girl with shaggy black hair and feather earrings is locked in a heated conversation with a dark-haired boy. She wears a bright red T-shirt; on her arms are telltale track marks. My stomach sinks.
The girl pushes the boy’s shoulder. “Let me out!” she demands.
“Taryn, please,” he pleads in a low voice, grabbing her arm. “Just calm down.”
Taryn sets her jaw, an angry vein throbbing in her temple. “I mean it, Dan. Let me out.”
The boy sighs heavily, but after a moment he slides over and lets her out. Taryn ducks her head, hiding her face behind her lank hair as she stalks across the bar.
“That girl has a death wish,” the bartender observes, worry lines creasing his forehead.
I watch as Taryn shoves open the door and disappears into the night. “Looks like it,” I say.
The bartender turns to refill someone’s drink, and instantly I am gone, out into the foggy night, my bag in my hand. Standing so quickly makes me dizzy, but my head is clear, and I am suddenly so glad I came inside the bar.
I’ve known a thousand Taryns—the girls who have nothing left to live for, no will to stay alive. I can spot them anywhere, can smell their desperation. I used to prey on them; without the Taryns, I would not have survived all these years. But only one person will die tonight, I vow. And it won’t be her. Saving Taryn will be a small penance for all the lives I’ve taken.
seven
Taryn is just ahead of me, slipping in and out of view in the thick fog. Lights, flashing red and orange, illuminate her thin frame from behind. She is stumbling, off-balance—drunk, at the very least.
Keeping to the shadows, I silently follow her as the streets grow closer to the Oakland estuary. There are no other people around, despite the brand-new condos that loom, unsold, over rotting produce warehouses.
The girl unsteadily approaches one of the steel shipping-container cranes. They look more animal than machine, with four legs and an extension over the water that resembles a head, looking out to sea.
Taryn begins climbing the ladder, slipping as she grabs the rungs before finally making it to the top. She approaches the edge of the crane, high over the murky water. After a beat I follow, the effort nearly unbearable.
The wind is strong at the top. It whips my dark hair around my face and muffles my footsteps. I feel unsteady on my feet, but I am determined to get her down.
“Taryn?” I say softly when I reach the girl. In the past I would have stalked this girl, but now I hope to save her.
She jerks around, her face registering slight surprise. Her cheeks are sunken, but her eyes are wide-set. She was probably pretty at some point.
“What do you want?” Taryn asks, hugging her arms around her torso.
I wait a moment before replying. “Are you going to jump?”
Taryn exhales, her shoulders slumping. “Why do you care?” Tears shine in her green eyes.
I search my heart, wanting to say the right thing. But all that springs to mind are six hundred years of platitudes, so I settle on the same question I asked myself when I decided to let myself die: “Do you have a good reason?”
She turns away from me, and I follow her gaze across the water. The twinkling lights of downtown San Francisco are barely visible through the fog, swirled and smudged like the Milky Way. When I was little, my mother and I used to lie out in the grass behind our house in London and spell my name in the stars, like a celestial connect-the-dots. “Seraphina” means “angel,” she would tell me. Can’t you see it written in the heavens?
“Do you have any family?” I ask, stepping close enough to touch her.
“I don’t have anyone,” she says, the wind lifting her hair behind her.
I reach out for her thin shoulder. I look deep into her green eyes. “Not even the boy at the bar?”
“Especially not him,” Taryn says fiercely.
I nod, understanding. “You won’t find any comfort in death,” I promise her. “It’s a void. It’s nothing. You only want to die if you desire that nothingness. If you don’t want to be alone, that means you’re still alive. There’s hope.”
“Who are you?” she asks. I can barely hear her voice over the wind.
I think back over my unnaturally long life—my childhood in London, swimming in the sea in the south of France, arriving in San Francisco in the 1960s—and scroll through all the names I’ve gone by, starting with Seraphina and ending with Jennifer. I look her in the eye. “I am no one.”
She takes a step away from me, closer to the edge. I look down at the hard, glittery pavement, some forty feet below. The surface glistens with moisture.
“Taryn,” I say urgently. “You can’t fly. The stars aren’t your friends. Climb down. Go back to the bar. Find some people.”
She hesitates, chewing her lip. I see her resolve softening. “I can’t promise I won’t be back here later, though.”
“That’s fine. You decide to live one moment at a time. When it’s time to die, really time, you will know.”
Taryn walks back toward me and I again put my hand on her shoulder. For the first time I see fear in her eyes. Good. Fear indicates a desire to live. “Get down,” I tell her with a little push. And she does, her small hands gripping the ladder, moving slowly, trying not to fall.
I hold my hand to my brow, watching Taryn fade into the foggy night, her red T-shirt slipping away like a heart. When she’s gone, I let out the breath I’ve been holding. I saved a life tonight. Two, if I count Claudia. It doesn’t erase all the lives I’ve taken, all the borrowed time I’ve lived on. But it’s something.
I take a step closer to the edge, retracing Taryn’s footsteps. If I run and jump, I should be able to hit the water. But first, I fish in my bag and pull out Cyrus’s book and a lighter. This knowledge dies with me. The cover is leather, dyed a brilliant shade of blue. It reminds me of Cyrus’s eyes—I have seen them in every shade of blue. Currently, they’re an icy blue, like the snow-covered part of a glacier. But when I first met him, they were this exact shade. The rich color of the morning sky before the sun rises. In one smooth motion, I bang the book against the metal platform beneath my feet, and the lock breaks away.
The pages are thick, smooth vellum. Th
e smell transports me back in time, when I used to sit with my father in his study as he scratched away at his balance sheets. But I realize, my heart sinking, that they won’t burn quickly. My father told me that vellum is made from animal skin—not plant fibers, like modern paper. It’s why the book, at least as old as Cyrus, has lasted.
I run my hand over the surface of the pages. They are a jumble of Latin, Greek, and Old English, plus other languages I don’t recognize, mixed in with astrological and scientific symbols: the output of Cyrus’s alchemy studies. One page has a rough sketch of two people facing each other, a braided cord joining them at the navel. It’s been painstakingly shaded with metallic ink. I know instantly what it is: the silver cord that binds the soul to the body.
I don’t have time to burn it, but I can take it with me into the sea. The water will do its job, eventually, washing all the ink away. Hugging the book to my chest, I squeeze my eyes shut, a few tears escaping their corners as I say my final farewells—to my coven, the Incarnates; to Charlotte; to my mother, whom I never got to say good-bye to the first time. I savor the moment as the wind whistles through the crane like a hymn.
I am ready.
But before I can send myself into the air, I hear the squeal of tires shredding across asphalt and the sound of shattering glass pierces the night like a gunshot. A girl’s terrified voice screams out. I whip around. Only one thing makes these sounds: a car accident—a deadly one.
Taryn.
eight
The ensuing silence yawns around me, a dark formless presence that pushes me toward the ladder. I have to see if it’s Taryn, to see if my penance, my last act on Earth, has failed.
Time is of the essence and my strength is waning by the second, so I throw the book in my bag and leave it on the crane, then begin to climb down. My sneakers slip on the rungs and my breath comes in ragged waves. I stagger toward the deserted streets.
The smell of smoke and acrid burnt rubber assaults my nose, mingling with spilled gasoline. My pulse is rapid, my legs are shaky, and my vision is blurring again. I turn a corner and stumble over a pothole in the slick asphalt. My ankle buckles beneath me.
The Alchemy of Forever Page 4