by Gigi Pandian
Copyright Information
The Accidental Alchemist © 2015 by Gigi Pandian.
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First e-book edition © 2015
E-book ISBN: 9780738744377
Cover illustration: Hugh D’Andrade/Jennifer Vaughn Artist Agent
Cover design by Kevin Brown
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Dedication
For my parents.
Acknowledgments
The following people were instrumental in making this new series come together:
My early critique readers, whose feedback helped me turn this book from a mess with promise into something I’m proud of: Brian Selfon, Nancy Adams, Sue Parman, Emberly Nesbit, Daryl Wood Gerber, Ramona DeFelice Long, Amber Foxx, and Patricia Winton. My local writer pals, who keep me sane and make this the most fun job in the world: Emberly Nesbit, Juliet Blackwell, Sophie Littlefield, Rachael Herron, Mysti Berry, Lynn Coddington, Martha White, Lisa Hughey, Adrienne Miller, Jon-David Settell, Michelle Gonzalez, and the Sisters in Crime Northern California Chapter. And my writer pals from afar, who make modern technology worth it! I don’t know what I’d do without the Sisters in Crime Guppies, especially my partners in crime Kendel Lynn and Diane Vallere.
My publishing team, who made this book come to fruition: My amazing agent, Jill Marsal, for never settling for “good enough”; Terri Bischoff at Midnight Ink, for believing in this new series and being awesome all around; Nicole Nugent, for stellar editorial feedback; and the rest of the Midnight Ink team for all the work that went into producing this book.
The independent bookstores that have supported me, especially A Great Good Place for Books and Murder By The Book. The city of Portland, Oregon, which gave me the heart of this series, and my Portland writer pals, who’ve made me feel like I have a second home in Portland. My coworkers, who inspire me daily and send me out into the world ready for anything, especially Catrina Roallos, the best office-mate ever. Victoria Laurie, for writing an amazing set of books I discovered while undergoing chemotherapy; those books gave me hours of enjoyment during a dark time and inspired me to try my hand at writing in this mystery subgenre.
As for my family, there are way too many thanks to list here! The short version: My mother and father, for giving me the world; Leslie Bacon, as true a sister as there ever was; and James, without whom none of this would be possible—or at least it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.
And last, but definitely not least, my wonderful readers. All of you have made the last few years more amazing than I ever dreamed.
one
The once-beautiful Craftsman house was falling apart. Sloppily applied sections of wood covered several windows. A chunk of the roof was missing, a plastic tarp in its place to keep out the frequent Pacific Northwest rains. More exposed wall than lavender paint showed on the outer walls. And on the inside? Well, let’s just say that the plumbing had seen better days—and I’m pretty sure those better days weren’t any time during the previous century.
In other words: perfect.
At least, it was perfect for what I had in mind. I smiled as I looked at the rundown structure through the window of my trailer. Finding this house in the artsy Hawthorne neighborhood of Portland, Oregon hadn’t been easy. Real estate agents had a difficult time grasping the fact that I wanted a house in complete disrepair.
It was probably my own fault, because I didn’t lie to them. I told them I wasn’t a professional home renovator. Nor was I a house flipper. No, I wasn’t a masochist either. But I left it at that, letting them think I was a single young woman with trendy dyed-white hair and a limited budget who loved a challenge. I didn’t tell them I was someone who needed a residence where doing substantial construction wouldn’t raise eyebrows—that I was someone who wanted to hide in plain sight.
As soon as I’d seen the listing that a peppy young real estate agent emailed me with a healthy dose of skepticism and at least a dozen exclamation points, I knew this was the perfect house for me. I’d even found the perfect contractor, who’d come highly recommended by the real estate agent for being discreet.
The contractor wanted me on-site to make sure he was correctly executing my unique instructions, which is how I found myself moving into my new home during a furious winter storm, the day before he promised to begin work. I love the rain, but I love it most when I’m inside the warm, cozy trailer where I’ve lived for years, listening to the rhythmic sound of the rain tapping on the roof.
Inside the silver Airstream trailer, I bundled my coat around me and scooped up a bag of a few essentials before running the few yards to the house. Not that there was much more to move inside. I was born and raised in Massachusetts, but I’d been living out of that old trailer for a long time. Half the space in the trailer was taken up with the trinkets I sold at flea markets across the country. Most of the antique wares I’d accumulated over the years were in storage. I was waiting for a shipping company to deliver them that afternoon.
I hung my silver raincoat on a rusty hook next to the front door, then carried the bag to the kitchen. It contained my blender, a kettle and mug, a few jars of dried herbs, raw chocolate, and a bag of produce and nuts from a hearty farmer who braved the rains at the farmers market. Like I said: essentials.
The water from the kitchen’s mid-century faucet ran a yellowish-brown color, but I wasn’t deterred. A small sip of the water assured me it was only rust. A little extra iron would do me good. Still, I let the water run for a few minutes while I poked around the kitchen. Though it was in desperate need of cosmetic upgrades, its bones were solid. The vintage porcelain stove was functional, and it would be beautiful after a little cleaning. The pink fridge was one of the models popular in the 1950s that looked like it could have withstood a bomb blast. The best part was the window box above the sink, perfect for growing delicate herbs. My blender didn’t explode when I plugged it into a socket, which was a good sign. I made a green smoothie with fresh leafy greens, an apple, avocado, mint, chocolate, and ginger.
Energizing drink in hand, I was ready to
explore my new house. I’d toured it already, but that was different. Now it was real. A home I could make my own. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d allowed myself to feel so optimistic. I was almost hopeful. Almost.
I shook out the faded curtains that covered the tall living room windows. Branches of unpruned cherry trees scraped against the windows like claws. The trees would need to be trimmed, but not too much—I liked the privacy they granted.
Floorboards creaked underfoot as I made my way up the stairs. Before I reached the second floor, a honk that played the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony alerted me to the movers’ presence. You’ve gotta love movers who enjoy the little things in life—and who don’t ask questions about the items they’re delivering. In addition to the furniture for the house and the antiques I sold online, the crates contained glass jars I didn’t want anyone looking at too closely.
Within an hour, the efficient father-son team had carried the heavy furniture and crates inside, and I’d made us all a pot of mint tea with a hint of licorice. I had to scrounge up two additional mugs from my trailer; I’m not used to entertaining.
After the movers departed, I sank into the green velvet couch that had been in storage for years, enjoying the sound of the rain. The respite didn’t last long. As soon as I pried open one of the crates, I knew something was wrong. Someone had tampered with my shipping crates.
It was the smell that hit me first. A metallic scent assaulted my senses. With the crowbar still in my hand, I examined the mess. The glass and copper antiques that had been carefully wrapped in old newspapers were now exposed. This wasn’t the type of chaos that could have been created by a turbulent flight, or even damage that would have resulted from the crate being tipped on its side or placed upside down. Taking a closer look, I saw that not only had the contents been unwrapped, but the lids from several glass jars had been sloppily resealed. That’s where the metallic fragrance was coming from. There could be no doubt that someone had rifled through the contents.
The strange thing was, nothing seemed to be missing. Even the jar containing a small amount of gold was there. Instead, as I removed the glassware and pushed aside the tangle of newspaper padding, I saw that something had been added.
A three-foot stone gargoyle stared up at me from the wreckage that used to be carefully organized antique alchemy artifacts.
Instinctively, I stepped backward. How had this statue been added to my sealed crate? And why on earth would someone do so?
I ran out the front door, but the movers had already departed. The porch sagged beneath my feet and the rickety front door banged shut behind me in the strong wind. When I turned the door handle to let myself back inside, the brass knob came off in my hand. Be careful what you wish for, Zoe Faust.
Thankfully, a strong shove was all the door needed to open. Back inside my new home, I returned to the crate for a closer look. The gargoyle reminded me of the stone carvings on Notre Dame in Paris. The gray creature looked similar to the famous “thinker” gargoyle, with short horns and folded wings. The main difference was that this gargoyle held an old, leather-bound book in his arms. That was odd. I would have expected any added detail to be made of stone, not this real book with leather binding. I couldn’t place the type of stone used to carve the gargoyle. Granite? Sandstone? Or perhaps softer soapstone? It wasn’t like any stone I’d seen. I leaned in for a closer look. There was something …
The gargoyle blinked.
My fist tensed around the crowbar. I stumbled backward, falling into the large couch.
Sprawled out on the couch, I laughed at myself. I’d seen a fair share of magic shows in my time. I knew what this gargoyle was. He was something that had been a popular attraction over a century ago: an automaton.
“You’re the best-looking automaton I’ve ever seen,” I said.
The gargoyle’s shoulders moved, as if it was stretching. It was a wonderfully constructed piece. It must have been programmed to awaken when light shone on him. A good trick for the stage.
“I am no automaton,” a deep voice emanating from the automaton said. He—for his voice assured me he was male—climbed out of the crate onto the hardwood floor.
I gasped and fell off the edge of the couch. Ouch.
I’d seen ingenious automatons created by stage magicians. None were as advanced as this one. If I were to believe my eyes, I would have sworn he was alive. But then again, technology had progressed since automatons were popular in stage shows of the 1800s. A famous example of an early automaton was The Turk, a chess-playing machine that drew huge crowds to watch him play chess against famous chess players. Automatons were a combination of technical wizardry and stage showmanship, and the most famous automatons were aided by human helpers. There was no way a person was inside the crate with this creature, so he had to be completely mechanized.
“Where are my manners?” the creature said, bowing before me. “I did not mean to startle you. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dorian Robert-Houdin.” He spoke in English with a thick French accent.
I pulled myself together and stood up. “Either I’m going crazy, or your creator had a mischievous sense of humor. Incorporating a recording of his voice—”
I broke off when the gargoyle who called himself Dorian Robert-Houdin blinked at me again. The effect was quite disconcerting. His eyelids looked like granite, but the eyes themselves were a liquidy black substance.
“I assure you,” he said, “I am not a robotic automaton, nor are you going crazy.”
Most people would have run screaming from the room if they saw a walking, talking gargoyle emerge from their storage crate. I admit I was surprised, but I’ve seen many things in my lifetime. I stood my ground and took a closer look at the creature, trying to find evidence he was an incredibly advanced robot. I didn’t see any. All I saw before me was a creature that looked every bit as alive as I was. It wasn’t only the wrinkles in his gray skin and the absence of visible mechanized parts—it was the spirit that showed in his eyes.
Through my shock and confusion, another emotion poked through: disappointment. It was a feeling I knew well. Portland was supposed to be my chance at a normal life. I’d been traveling for far too long. Running. I was tired. Ready to settle down. My trailer had been my sanctuary for years as I crisscrossed the country, never staying in one place for too long. But when I’d passed through Portland the previous year, the city spoke to me. It had all the elements I cared about. Plentiful greenery, an ancient river, vibrant weather, and most of all, welcoming people—many of whom I felt might be kindred spirits. Feeling instantly at home in Portland had struck me as too good to be true. Maybe it was. This was the last place on earth I expected to find a creature that wasn’t supposed to exist.
“Surely you know what I am,” the gargoyle continued, “Alchemist.”
The word hit me more forcefully than a slap.
Did I mention that when I was born in Massachusetts, it was 1676? I’ve been around for a while. But even my many years hadn’t prepared me for what I’d find in Portland.
two
Being an alchemist isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. Turning lead into gold? It’s a laborious, utterly draining process that’s incredibly difficult to replicate. Living a longer life? Not without unpleasant consequences, such as outliving everyone you love and feeling the effects of years of unhealthy living.
Alchemy means different things to different people, but at its core it’s about transformation that strives to achieve perfection. It’s a personal journey that involves transforming yourself as you transform plants or metals. Finding the philosopher’s stone to create gold and the Elixir of Life to live forever are the most famous goals of alchemists, but those are only two parts of a much greater whole.
It’s a lonely life. Because there are so few of us who have succeeded in realizing alchemy’s true potential, and because we’ve seen what has befal
len alchemists over the centuries, we’re forced to keep the extent of our alchemical transformations a secret.
It’s not as bad as it was during the Salem Witch Trials, when misunderstandings had consequences much worse than hateful comments on Facebook. Society has come a long way since then, but people are still afraid of what they don’t understand. The people I’ve met in my travels love that I can use herbs to create healthful elixirs that heal what ails them or sell them a decorative alchemical relic. But tell them about my deeper connection to plants, my ability to detect poisons, and the fact that I first did so over three hundred years ago? They’ll get as far away from me as possible and probably call a psychiatrist. I’ve learned not to tell people the whole truth. It’s better for everyone. That’s why I was doubly disconcerted to have a living gargoyle standing in my new home announcing who I really was.
The creature’s eyes followed me as I took a few slow steps backward and leaned against the wall, steadying my trembling legs.
“How do you know me?” I asked. “Why do you say I’m an alchemist?”
Dorian bowed again. This time his wings widened as he did so. They, too, looked visually like stone, but moved like the wings of a bird or a bat.
The rain had stopped, at least for the moment, but a strong breeze outside rustled the branches of the trees in the front yard and they again brushed against the living room windows. Standing in the shadow of the crate, Dorian cocked his head and looked at the windows, his eyes narrowed.
“You will draw the curtains,” Dorian said. “Then we may speak more freely.”
I kept the creature in view as I stood up to close the musty curtains. Part of me thought he’d disappear if I let him out of my sight.
“There is no need to pretend with me,” he said. “Besides, you give yourself away, Alchemist. You seem rather unsurprised to find a living gargoyle in your luggage.”