by Gigi Pandian
“I’m a friend,” I said. “An alchemist.”
Leopold blinked at me. “Your name is Alchemist?”
“No. My name is Zoe. I’m an alchemist.”
He shrugged. “D’accord.” Did he not realize alchemy had brought him to life? This was too big a conversation to have a few meters away from the tourists atop Notre Dame.
“Myself,” he continued, “I am a poète.”
A gargoyle poet? I supposed it was no stranger than a gargoyle chef.
“You have another friend, too,” I said. “Another gargoyle, like you.”
He drew his horns together. “You mock me, mademoiselle.”
“Let me call him, so you can see.” I dialed Dorian for a video call. “I think you’ll feel more comfortable talking to him.”
A moment later, Dorian’s beaming face appeared on the screen. An amazed Leopold grabbed my phone.
The two gargoyles spoke rapid Latin to each other, so I wasn’t able to follow most of what they said. But when they switched back to French, they told me they’d agreed Leopold would accompany me back to Portland. I hadn’t thought that far ahead, but who was I to stop two living gargoyles on a mission? We quickly constructed a plan where Leopold would turn to stone in a completely different shape than he’d been found in on the Prague bridge, so nobody would suspect he was the gargoyle “stolen” from the university.
“Now we need to get you out of here,” I said.
Using his sheet to disguise himself and his drunken state as an excuse to keep his head down and lean on me, Leopold and I wound down the Notre Dame stairs and away from the cathedral as quickly and quietly as possible.
Leopold spent the evening in our small rented room alternately drinking the bottle of absinthe I’d offered him and reciting poetry to it.
I flew back to Portland the next day with two special deliveries. Heather had authorized me to accompany Brixton home after I went to the hospital first thing in the morning. The doctors had determined he was suffering from dehydration and severe jet lag but was otherwise healthy, so they wanted to discharge him as soon as possible.
Brixton and I traveled with a special piece of luggage: a storage crate containing a statue I claimed to have found at a flea market. Also in the crate was a case of absinthe. It was meant to last our new friend a month, or at the very least a week. When we arrived at PDX, the bottles were empty.
Forty-Seven
Back at home in Portland, Brixton was safe; that was the most important thing. But I couldn’t rest easy. Brixton was still recovering and not yet back to his usual self. Ivan and Percy’s whereabouts were unknown. And I hadn’t figured out how to cure the deterioration of backward alchemy with anything short of the ultimate sacrifice: giving my own life.
Further down the line, I worried what would happen with the police investigation into Lucien’s murder. They hadn’t yet discovered his identity, but it was only a matter of time before they connected him to Brixton via the boy’s DNA under his fingernails.
In spite of his partial backward alchemy transformation, Ivan hadn’t lost his humanity. At least not yet. It was a small silver lining, but I was willing to take it. Even though he hadn’t yet come forward to confess that he was responsible for Lucien’s death, he’d helped Brixton escape the tunnels in Paris and had accepted that he’d been misled by Percy. I hoped he’d come through before the police got their DNA results back.
In the meantime, I had my hands full dealing with two gargoyle roommates.
I came home from visiting a subdued Brixton to find a smoky scent permeating the house.
“It is his fault,” Dorian said as soon as I came through the door. “He distracted me and the bread burned in the oven.”
“It’s all right, Dorian. So … where’s Leopold?”
Dorian frowned. “Taking a nap in the attic. I do not understand, Zoe. He does not need to sleep.”
“Maybe he’s just lazy.”
Dorian and I climbed the stairs to the attic and found Leopold curled up on a stack of pillows on the steamer trunk. The pillows looked suspiciously like the ones from my bed.
“He’s not asleep,” I said, sniffing the air. “He’s drunk.”
Dorian gaped at Leopold. Our gargoyle guest stretched luxuriantly and sat up.
“Where is the art in this mansion?” Leopold asked. “Your walls are quite barren. Monsieur Robert-Houdin informed me this is a new abode for you. Have you not yet finished unpacking?”
“I collect books and other alchemical items, not art.”
Leopold’s gray eyes grew wide. “C’est vrai?”
“It is true,” Dorian answered. “I have already explained to you that Zoe is an alchemist. This is how she understands how you and I were brought to life. We have not yet discussed the intricacies—”
“No art?” Leopold said, again completely ignoring the reference to alchemy. “Quelle horreur! I may as well return to stone.”
I wouldn’t have believed a gargoyle could be more dramatic than Dorian if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.
“Without art, what do you do for amusement?” Leopold asked Dorian.
“Before you stated your strong desire to take a siesta,” Dorian said, “I was showing you my kitchen—”
“Cooking? This is your idea of fun? I believed you to be joking. This is women’s work, no?”
Dorian puffed up his chest. “I am a chef of great distinction.”
Leopold giggled. Then burped. “Pardon.”
“Perhaps,” Dorian said in his most diplomatic voice, “if you have now recovered from your journey, you will tell us of your life.”
The gargoyle rolled off the steamer trunk and clasped his talons together. “‘How little remains of the man I once was,’” he said softly, “‘save the memory of him! But remembering is only a new form of suffering.’”
“Baudelaire,” I said. “You’re quoting Baudelaire. You quoted his poetry when I first met you too. You said you were a poet. So you enjoy Baudelaire’s poetry?”
“Enjoy? Is this the right word to describe the influence of the great man? To handle language so skillfully is to practice evocative sorcery!”
“You knew him,” I said. Dorian remained speechless.
“Oui. Monsieur Charles Baudelaire brought me from the shadows.”
“Bon!” Dorian chimed in. “I, too, had a great man teach me. Jean Eugène Robert-Houdin. Surely you have heard of—”
“The stage magician? Pfft. A common entertainer.”
Dorian sputtered several words, none of them intelligible.
“You have more wine?” Leopold asked. “Or hashish?”
Dinner that night was a tense affair. We learned that Leopold had been taken in by a group of Bohemian artists and writers who were loosely affiliated with Victor Hugo’s romantic army. Critic and poet Charles Baudelaire was the man Leopold was closest to, and upon his death, Leopold mourned him tremendously. Much poetry was written during those dark days. Leopold claimed that some of Baudelaire’s last works were ghostwritten by Leopold himself. I was disinclined to believe him. Then again, Baudelaire had been drunk when he wrote many of his famous poems.
Dorian cooked a classical French feast in honor of his newfound brother, sending me to buy expensive wine in addition to a short shopping list to supplement what we already had at the house. The menu consisted of marinated olives, spinach and walnut terrine, and lentil pate for appetizers; Breton onion soup for a starter; cider casserole for a main dish; and apricot tarts for dessert.
Leopold drank nearly all of the wine himself but barely touched his food. “A man can go without food for two days,” he declared, “but not without poetry.”
After dinner, Leopold didn’t offer to help with the dishes. I began to help Dorian, but he said it would be easiest in the small kitchen for him to take care of the dis
hes himself, even with only one good arm. I didn’t argue. It was difficult for me to talk with him alone, knowing the sacrifice I was getting ready to make. He would never agree to it, so I had to keep it to myself until the preparations were ready.
Once it was late enough, Dorian left for Julian Lake’s house to prepare food for the following day, after which he’d go to the teashop kitchen to bake pastries before dawn. It felt strange to follow such a simple daily routine after the crazy events of the past few days and weeks, but there was really nothing else to be done.
I made my rounds through the house, making sure it was tightly secured. As I passed back through the first floor, I found Leopold passed out. In the middle of the dining room table.
Forty-Eight
The next day the Portland police declared Brixton well enough to talk with them about what had happened with Ivan. He told the police that Ivan had gone crazy and started to believe all the historical alchemy books he was studying. Brixton also said that Ivan had convinced him he needed his help to save his life. Of course he’d wanted to help. But Brixton swore he didn’t know what Ivan had in mind. Max knew him well enough that he might have picked up on the fact that Brixton wasn’t telling the whole story, but with the detectives on the case, Brix played the role of an innocent, gullible, and slightly selfish kid to perfection.
The police thankfully hadn’t yet gotten the results of the full DNA testing, so they hadn’t connected Brixton to Lucien’s dead body. As soon as I was sure Brixton was truly safe, then I’d be ready to make my sacrifice for Dorian.
I visited Brixton after he returned home from the police station. His mom was sitting on one side of his bed.
“I’m never letting this one out of my sight again,” she said. She pulled him close and planted a kiss on the top of his head. “He’s grounded for the rest of the summer.”
Brixton rolled his eyes. “Very funny, Mom.”
Heather’s breezy smile turned almost as grim as the day I’d seen her at the morgue. “I’m dead serious, Brix.”
“But I—but you—I mean, I nearly died.”
“Exactly,” Heather said. “You’re too old to get away with acting so stupidly. Running off to a foreign country with a delusional neighbor? I liked Ivan, too, but you can’t do things like that, honey.”
Brixton leaned back on the assortment of pillows his mom had propped up. I had a feeling his summer of being “grounded” would consist of a fair amount of TLC from his parents and probably visits from his friends Ethan and Veronica.
“At least I haven’t been keeping a secret,” Brixton said, making a face at his mom. “You want to know why Mom has been disappearing lately, Zoe?”
“Brix!” Heather said, “I’m not telling people yet!”
“You said it wasn’t a secret anymore.”
“Not a secret to you, silly.”
“Zoe is family, Mom.”
I felt a lump form in my throat.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry for the secrecy. I didn’t want to tell anyone, especially Brixton, before I knew if I’d succeed.”
“You’ll succeed,” a deep voice said. Abel leaned against the bedroom door. “She’s studying for her GED.”
“That’s wonderful,” I said.
“You know I dropped out when I had Brix,” Heather said. “In a year, he’ll have more education then I do. That’s not a great example.”
“You’re a great mom,” Abel said. He strode across the room and gave them both a hug. “Stay for dinner?” he asked me.
“I wish I could,” I said.
Heather pulled Abel to the bedroom door. “We’ll let you two visit a few more minutes while Abel starts dinner.”
I’d never been inside Brixton’s room before, yet it felt to me like something was missing. “Your mom took away your guitar?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I sorta … sacrificed it.”
“Why would you—”
“Ivan said I had to make a sacrifice for the alchemy to work. That’s what we thought the sacrifice was. Giving up something I loved.”
“Oh, Brix. I’m so sorry. Your heart was in the right place. Where did you toss it? The Willamette?”
“Pawn shop. I used the money for my ticket to Paris. Ivan talked about intent being important in alchemy. My sacrifice used my intent and got me to Paris. Wicked city, by the way.” He smiled mischievously for a few seconds before growing serious again. “I’d do it again, you know. To help him not die. I mean, as long as it didn’t mean dying myself. Which is totally messed up.”
A happy tear slid down my cheek as I walked back to my truck. I’d leave my truck and trailer to Tobias, I thought to myself. Since Rosa was dying, he’d soon need a change. He liked my truck when he visited a few months ago. Maybe he’d like the Airstream too.
At home, Leopold was still passed out, although now his hefty gray body was sprawled on my green velvet couch. I poked the bottom of his foot. He twitched but didn’t open his eyes. I poked his foot again.
“‘I have felt the wind of the wing of madness,’” he mumbled, then rolled over.
I felt myself roll my eyes like my young friend would have done. Leopold wouldn’t be disturbing me anytime soon. I unlocked the door to my basement alchemy lab and began the preparations for my sacrifice.
I lit a kerosene lamp and walked to my main work table. A prickle made its way up my spine. Someone had been inside my lab. Recently. My gold leaf was gone, as were all of my salts.
But Percy was the one who’d searched my lab before, and he was long gone. Wasn’t he?
Where was Percy?
Forty-Nine
“This is one of my favorites,” Leopold said. “Un moment.” He rubbed his jaw and opened his mouth terrifyingly wide, revealing rows of pointy teeth. Squaring his shoulders, he took a stance that made it look like he was howling at the moon.
“Or this one,” he added. He moved out of the werewolf position, shaking his body as if stretching after a workout. Next he crossed his arms, held his head high, and looked down his nose at us.
“That pose does not look scary,” Dorian said. He tried to make a frightening pose himself, spreading his wings wide, but he nearly lost his balance. The speed of his deterioration was quickening.
“You miss the point, mon amie. In this simple posture, I inch closer … and closer … . It instills fear in the hearts of men!” He guffawed.
“Er, yes,” Dorian said.
“Or how about this one?” Leopold thrust out his chin, baring his bottom row of teeth, and hunched his shoulders.
Dorian circled him. “Too humorous.”
“Oui, I suspect you are right.” Leopold shook out the pose.
At least the two gargoyles were getting along better.
For the last half hour, Leopold had been showing Dorian the various ways he’d stayed hidden since being brought to life. His family of drunken artists and writers had known of his existence (though I suspected half of them thought he was a figment of their collective imaginations), but nobody else did.
Like Dorian, Leopold had learned how to live in the shadows. As we were coming to realize, though, he pushed the boundaries. He went where he wanted then simply turned to stone on the spot if he was in danger of being seen. Often in a bizarre pose, to keep people off balance.
“And nobody ever saw you?” I asked. “Truly?”
Leopold shrugged. “In the music halls and museums, the people think with their hearts, not with their minds.”
We all gave a start when my phone buzzed. It was Brixton texting me that he was at the front door.
“You really need a doorbell,” he said after I let him inside and we were walking up the stairs. “I’ve been knocking for five minutes. You’re always in the attic.”
“Leopold Baudelaire, meet Brixton Taylor.”
; “Wicked,” Brixton whispered, staring at the gargoyle.
“Your servant?” Leopold asked me.
“Our friend,” Dorian corrected.
Leopold rubbed his chin and nodded. Dorian prodded him to shake Brixton’s hand.
“I thought you were spending time with your family,” I said. “And grounded.”
“Yeah, Mom is studying for her GED in the open now, but then she and Abel … ” He cleared this throat. “I think they wanted to do things no mom should do. Ever.”
“‘From love there will be born poetry,’” Leopold recited, “‘which will spring up toward God like a rare flower.’”
“My life is too weird,” Brixton mumbled. “Anyway, I snuck out.”
“Now that we have made introductions,” Leopold said, “we have important matters to discuss. A council of war, if you will.”
Finally. He’d put me off every time I tried to address the problem of backward alchemy turning the gargoyles back into stone.
“It has been brought to my attention,” Leopold continued, “that you are cavorting with un flic. This will not do. The police are not to be trusted.”
I groaned. “My love life isn’t your concern. I thought we were going to talk about—”
“If you think this is unimportant, you are assez stupide!”
“Not cool,” Brixton said. “That’s so not cool.”
“Why don’t you play some music for us, Brixton,” Dorian said diplomatically. “I see you have brought your banjo.”
Skeptically eyeing Leopold, Brixton picked up the banjo he carried slung over his back. He strummed a 1960s folk song.
“This is not music,” Leopold said. “This is—”
He broke off when two phones began to ring at once. Grateful to head off that argument, I picked up mine and smiled.
“Max,” I said into the phone. “It’s wonderful to hear your voice, but this isn’t really a good time.”