by Alma Katsu
As he was not interested in arguing with a zealot, Adair turned his attention to the new sensations he felt. He sat up in bed, aware of the miracle of his new circumstances. Sight had come back to his dead eye and the cloudy one was clear. His gnarled hands surged with dexterity, and his legs were strong. He felt as though he could leap out of bed and run through the square as swiftly as the strongest of horses.
By now, the room had ceased to spin, and Adair felt ready to start his new life. He stood without pain for the first time in decades. “So that is the only warning or advice you have for me: ‘Go forth and do good in the name of God’?” he boomed at the little man.
The alchemist eyed him warily and, ignoring his tone, said, “There is one condition you must be aware of: you are impervious to all things but one. The maker of this potion saw fit to build in one fail-safe, the reason for such a caution unknown to me, for I am nothing but the humble caretaker of the elixir. As I have said, you are immortal now in all circumstances except for one: your life can be ended by the hand and with the intent of the one who gave you immortality.”
Adair turned this twisted braid of words in his head. “The one who gave me immortality?” he repeated, raising his brows. “What does that mean, exactly? In this case, would that be you, since you gave me the elixir to drink? Or would it be your master, who made the brew in the first place?”
“As the one who gave you the potion, it is by my hand that you are now immortal.” He pressed a hand to his chest and bowed slightly. “And it is by the strike of my hand alone that you can feel pain and by the strike of my sword that you will know death.”
What a foolish man, Adair thought, to reveal such a thing to him. As long as the alchemist before him was alive, he was technically not immune to death. He would not truly feel immortal and he would never feel truly secure.
Adair gathered his cloak and walking stick from their perch beside the fireplace, taking his time as he thought about what he should do next. “So you lied to me. You have not given me what you promised. I paid for immortality—that was our arrangement. And yet . . . you can destroy me if you see fit.”
The alchemist pulled his hands into his sleeves for warmth, shaking his head. “I have given you my word. I have granted you eternity, for whatever reason you seek it. I am a God-fearing man of science, as are you. And you are the living, breathing proof of my master’s work. I have no wish to destroy you—as long as you abide by the terms of our agreement and do not use this gift to harm others.”
Adair nodded in assent. “Tell me, this elixir—surely you have tried it for yourself?”
The old man leaned away from Adair as though he were contagious. “No, I have no desire to live forever. I trust God to know the right time to call his servant home. I trust my God with my life.”
A foolish pair, master and acolyte, Adair thought. He’d seen their type before: afraid of the capabilities they themselves had uncovered and now held at their command. Cowering at the edge of a great discovery, afraid to step into the glorious unknown. They used religion as a crutch and a shield. It was laughable, really: God wouldn’t reveal such power to men if he didn’t intend for them to use it, Adair figured. Men hid behind religion to keep others from seeing how frightened they were, how inept. They were weak vessels, to be trusted with such power.
“So this is all your master told you of the fail-safe? It seems a major provision, seeing that you can take my life at any time and for unknown reasons,” Adair said, prodding the alchemist once more.
The alchemist pursed his lips, seeming to draw on the last reserves of his patience. “As I said, my master did not tell me why he built in this ability. It would seem to run counter to the very reason for the spell. But, knowing my master, I think it may be out of compassion.”
“Compassion? Why would a man who cannot die—possibly the most powerful man on earth—require anyone’s compassion?” Adair scoffed.
“Yes, compassion. For the day when a man says immortality is too much and asks for the cup to be taken away, for it is too full.”
Adair grunted. Now he was certain this man and his master were addlepated.
The alchemist closed his eyes. “I think you can see that my master is a wise and compassionate man. God grant that I will live long enough to see him again. That is all I wish,” he said, making the sign of the cross.
Adair saw his opportunity, and took it. “Alas, I am afraid your God turns away from you on this day,” he said. As he approached the alchemist, Adair pulled a loop of braided leather, thin but wickedly strong, from his belt in one smooth motion. He garroted the old man before he could utter a word or slip even one finger between the cord and his throat.
Adair stepped over the body and began searching the room for the alchemist’s recipes. He would have kept them close if he was in the acolyte’s position; no one would risk leaving such valuable material beyond arm’s reach. At last he found them: loose sheets of parchment kept in a leather pouch along with a rosary of lapis beads. He let the rosary fall next to the dead man and disappeared into the cold night with the pouch of recipes tucked close to his heart.
BOSTON, PRESENT DAY
Alone in the bedroom, Adair touched the pages of each book, rereading words he’d once memorized but had now forgotten, and thought of his life’s work: how he’d tracked down the recipes of all those Adepts, acquired an enviable collection of rare ingredients, and practiced and refined his alchemical skills. In time, with patience and sheer force of will, he’d surpassed every Adept he’d encountered and made himself the most powerful man who’d ever walked the earth, capable of performing feats to which no other could lay claim.
Now, once again in possession of these spells, he would become that man again. He would reclaim that power and rebuild his kingdom—for it had been as much a kingdom as his father’s duchy, with castles and riches, and a retinue of courtiers, advisers, and jesters—and resume his conquests. Beginning with Lanore McIlvrae.
She had proven herself to be a cunning adversary, the only woman—the only person—ever to get the better of him, and for that he paid her a grudging respect. But Lanore also had stolen a part of his heart and buried him alive, and as Adair saw it, he had no choice but to become her master once again. It was the only way to restore peace in his breast and in his mind.
SEVEN
CASABLANCA
When I walked out of the hotel room, I didn’t believe I’d actually left Luke. I kept thinking I’d turn around . . . while I waited for the elevator . . . as I crossed the lobby. . . . But I didn’t stop, and before I knew it, I was in a taxi, crying, and headed for the airport. I was paralyzed by panic, knowing I was doing something irreparable. I’d taken similarly painful but necessary steps before: breaking a man’s heart to keep him from wasting his one short, precious life; stepping aside so that someone I cared for would find a woman with whom he could have a family and a future. I knew this pain and was willing to endure it again for Luke’s happiness.
There was only one place for me to go when I left the hotel room in London. Only someone who was privy to my condition and who understood what it meant to be at Adair’s mercy would be able to help me, which meant it had to be another of Adair’s creations. I knew of only one, Savva Egorovich Kononov, my oldest friend now that Jonathan was gone. He had saved me once and I could only hope that he could save me now.
I hadn’t seen Savva in many years. The last I’d heard, he lived in Morocco. For a man who had been born to the snow and chill of St. Petersburg, Savva was drawn to the heat of the desert, and the fifty years we kept each other company were spent either in North Africa or along the Silk Road. I thought I would never return to Morocco because I had suffered one of the worst moments of my life there—one that hurt me in a way that I couldn’t forget—and had no intention of ever going back. But I’d learned over time to never say never, not to anything, and so I returned to Morocco, preparing to confront my past.
I arrived in Casablanca in the late
afternoon, just after the hottest part of the day, and took a taxi directly to the address Savva had given me over the phone. It turned out to be in a slum in an old section of town, away from the tourist hotels and attractions. The taxi let me out midway down a narrow street thick with locals. Hordes of young children ran between slower knots of distracted adults, old men smoked in doorways, young men rode by on bicycles. The ground floor of most every building was occupied by a tea shop or food stand or shallow storefront piled high with inexpensive necessities. The air was painted with smoke from food sellers’ braziers and fragrant with a hundred different aromas.
I gave up trying to find street numbers on the buildings and went by Savva’s description instead, looking for a mud-brick dwelling with an iron balcony that hung over the street and a red awning over the entrance. Every other building was faced with red clay, however, and they all had balconies, but it was the awning that led me to the right house. I passed through a set of double doors, emerging in a trash-strewn courtyard, and went up the interior staircase, hunting for the door to Savva’s apartment on the third floor.
I wouldn’t have recognized the man who answered the door if I didn’t know whom to expect. He was frailer than the beautiful and impetuous man I’d traveled with for many years. He’d changed in ways I didn’t think possible for those of us suffering Adair’s curse. He’d once been a distractingly beautiful young man, a fair-skinned aristocratic Russian with features nearly as fine as a woman’s, but somehow he had become as thin and leathery as a fakir, now nothing but sinew and bone. Savva’s curly blond hair was the same, though it had grown into a long, unkempt ponytail, and his eyes were still blue but no longer crackled with vitality, as though the fire in his soul was nearly extinguished.
“Lanny! My dearest,” he exclaimed as he wrapped his bony arms around me, frail as an old grandmother and as light as air. I didn’t know what to say, so I stepped back, and cradled his face in my palms, to his embarrassment.
He ushered me inside. His apartment was as disheveled as his appearance, and nearly empty except for pieces of bruised furniture and discarded clothing. There were a few things I recognized from our travels together: a battered brass prayer bowl, a canopy of sari silk draped over a daybed. I knew he had some antiques that were worth a fortune—his share of the spoils we’d collected together—but they were mysteriously absent from view.
I suspected that something was very wrong with Savva. He had to be working hard to bring about this degree of deterioration, for it had always seemed that no matter how we abused ourselves, we’d never show the signs. Dona, the disagreeable Italian who had been part of Adair’s entourage, used to cut himself with a kitchen knife in penance for deeds he would not admit; Adair smoked enough hashish to tar the wallpaper in his bedchamber with its resinous fumes. The sum of this abuse never showed on their handsome, melancholy faces, however. That was part of the curse, after all: break us and we heal good as new, ready to break again.
Savva welcomed me with a pot of mint tea, his hands trembling as he carried a round brass tray from the narrow kitchen to the parlor. I tried not to stare at the cracked glass cup he handed me, cloudy from use, something he might’ve gotten from a thrift shop. Gone was his gilt-edged tea service and gold-plated teaspoons, the fine, beautiful things he once surrounded himself with and could not live without. In a flash, I understood why the pretty possessions were gone: the man who lived here would have sold them all for ready cash.
The sounds that drifted up from the street and through open windows—children’s taunts in an indecipherable language, the undulating melody of the muezzin’s call to prayer—were not altogether unlike the sounds from our time together over a century ago. Savva reclined on a cushion, flicking a fan in front of his face, as there was no air-conditioning. I’d come here because I believed Savva was one of the few people in the world who could help me, but today he looked as though he couldn’t help anyone. If anything, he seemed to be the one in need of saving.
“Don’t take this the wrong way: it’s not that I’m not pleased to see you, but this visit isn’t purely social, is it?” he asked as he poured. “You had me worried when you wouldn’t tell me over the phone why you were coming. . . . After all, it’s been decades since we last saw each other. Whatever has sent you my way, it must be important. And while I would never turn you away, you know I’m not looking to complicate my life. It’s complicated enough.” His eyes searched my face warily for a second.
“I’ll explain everything. But . . .” I was taken aback by Savva’s condition and—unsure of what it meant—wasn’t quite ready to tell him about Adair. “You don’t mind if we ease into it, do you?”
An expression of curiosity flitted across his face—Savva never liked to be put off; he was an impatient man—but it passed. “Certainly. I understand. You’ve been traveling; you’re tired.” He sighed and settled against the cushions at his back. “You know, when I heard from you out of the blue and you said you needed my help, I was surprised. Happy to hear from you, of course, but . . . I almost told you not to come. I mean, look around,” he said, gesturing to the threadbare room. “I can scarcely help myself. I appreciate that you haven’t said anything about my reduced circumstances, but surely you’ve noticed. So I’m not sure there’s anything I can do to help you, Lanny, with whatever situation you’re in. But I am here for you and always will be.”
I laid a hand over his. “What I will always remember is that you took care of me when I thought I couldn’t go on anymore. You were a godsend.” We both fell silent, thinking back to the afternoon we met several lifetimes earlier, when fate had sent Savva to save me.
FEZ, MOROCCO, 1830
After Jonathan and I left Boston, we decided it would be best if we went to Europe. We expected the false wall would be discovered after a few days at the most, and then Adair and his hellhounds would be after us. We went to Europe to make it harder for Adair to find us, never guessing that our precautions were completely unnecessary. It wasn’t for a few more years that I would travel back to Boston to find out what had happened. And I would make that trip alone.
By the summer of 1830, Jonathan and I had ended up in Fez, taking a suite at a hotel frequented by Europeans and Americans doing what was known at the time as the Grand Tour, the trip taken by young adults from moneyed families to give them some knowledge of the world. The hotel was fancy enough to please wealthy clients but practical enough to maintain a row of rooms and suites along the back of the property for another class of travelers. These rooms were meant for the lost and the drifters, and that was where we found ourselves after wandering for seven years, little wiser and much poorer, still ill prepared for what lay ahead for us.
It was here that I awoke in a double bed with sheets that hadn’t been changed in a week (we scrimped on maid service to save money) to find Jonathan’s note telling me he’d gone. Forgive me. This is for the best. Promise me you won’t come looking for me. If I change my mind, I will find you. Please honor my wish. Your dearest, J. I reread the note twenty, thirty times, the words making less sense with each reading, and remained in bed for another hour, uncomprehending. He’s mad at me for something, I told myself. He’s upset over something I said or did, something I don’t even remember, and has stormed out. He’ll be back. If I wait here patiently, he’ll be back.
When I finally got to my feet, I found that his clothing was gone, along with his suitcase and the journal he’d gotten into the habit of keeping. He hadn’t taken any of our money and could have no cash but whatever small amount he had on him. He’d also left behind the small pistol he carried, a sign that I was now responsible for my own protection.
He’ll be back after sunset—that was the next thing I told myself, mostly in an attempt to remain calm. I sat in the shaded rooms, smoking cigarette after cigarette, wondering what had caused him to leave. Things had deteriorated between us, certainly, but every couple went through bad times, periods when they argued more and found less pleasure i
n each other’s company. Arguments, sullen evenings . . . these things would pass. Jonathan had no choice but to return to me. In our peculiar situation, there was no one else he could trust. I started to wonder if there wasn’t an outsider to blame, if perhaps Jonathan had been persuaded to take up with one of the adventurers who trekked through Morocco seemingly on a weekly basis—a strong-willed woman, one with a fortune and an independent streak. Maybe my worst fear had come to pass and he had finally fallen in love with someone else.
Nightfall came and went and still I was alone. It seemed impossible that Jonathan was gone, impossible that he would not come back. After all, we’d practically spent our entire lives in each other’s presence. As far as I was concerned, there was air, water, sunshine, and Jonathan. Without him, the earth tipped on its axis and became strange and unfamiliar. I had the first of many panic attacks that day, locking the doors and shutters, crouching in a corner and wondering what would become of me. More than once I wished I had the option of suicide.
By the start of the third day, I was taking the edge off my despair with a constant supply of gin. I promised myself that as soon as I felt that I could leave the hotel room, I would seek out the stronger comfort of hashish and a water pipe. Now I understood why Adair had been addicted to his hookah: in the face of a destiny you cannot accept, how else could you tamp down panic and pain when it threatened to destroy you?
During those awful days, I thought of Adair, too. I appeased the dark, grinning demon that sat on my chest with thoughts of returning to Boston, of going to the mansion, tearing down the false wall with a sledgehammer, and prostrating myself before Adair. I would beseech him to take his revenge on me, for nothing could be worse than what I was going through, and I welcomed anything that would take my mind from the loss of Jonathan. Sometimes only pain can obliterate pain. The idea of Adair’s punishment burned brightly in my mind, but deep in my cowardly heart I knew it was only brave talk from a woman who didn’t even have the courage to leave her room.