The Alchemy of Forever (20 page)

She flitted about the trailer fixing us drinks that tasted like melon, with a hint of bitterness. Cyrus leaned back on a pile of beaded shawls and regarded the two of us. “Amelia,” he said, “Sera loved your performance today.”

Amelia was perched on top of a trunk, her slim feet pulled up under her robe. She cocked her head at me and smiled sweetly. “Thank you,” she said, “that is so kind.”

“It was amazing. It really seemed like you could fly. How long have you been an aerialist?”

Her face fell. “Too long. I’m getting old. I won’t be able to stay with the circus much longer—then what will I do?”

Cyrus smiled. “That’s why we’re here, Amelia. We don’t want you to grow old, either.” He unbuttoned the top two buttons on his shirt and pulled out the vial that he always wore on its silver cord. “You can come live with us, Amelia. And if you choose, you can be young forever.”

The look on her face said she wanted to believe it was possible. “How? Magic?”

“No,” said Cyrus, opening the vial and taking a whiff. “Alchemy.”

I rouse myself from my memories. Enough time has passed. Noah has probably made it home by now. I shake my head to clear it from the ghosts of the past. I take out Kailey’s iPhone and call a cab to take me to the bus stop, where I’ll set off for Texas, then maybe try to cross the border into Mexico. “I’m waiting in the parking lot of the Golden Gate Bridge,” I tell the operator. She replies that a car will be there in five minutes.

I hurry to the middle of the bridge. There are cameras, but I know the fog will obscure any recording. I take off my jacket, shivering, and put Kailey’s ID in the pocket before draping it on the railing. Then I pull out the phone again to compose a text message to Kailey’s family.

Mom, Dad, Bryan—I’ve been living a lie. I’m so sorry, but I can’t keep pretending. Believe me when I say I’m in a better place and I love you all.—K

I’m about to hit send, but I hesitate. Does it say enough?

I want it to be better. I want it to convey the love I truly do have for them. The sorrow that I share. I glance at the time. Only two minutes before my cab arrives, and I still need to get down to the parking lot. I sigh. It will have to do.

But before I can press send, a message appears from Leyla.

A chill runs up my spine to the roots of my hair.

The message reads:

Mr. Shaw is dead!

My knees grow weak and stars swim in my vision as I sink to the wet ground. I feel like I’ve been punched in the solar plexus and can barely breathe. Cyrus, dead? Could it be true? Or has he simply jumped into a new body, to disguise himself as he tracks me down? I don’t know what to believe.

I leave Kailey’s jacket on the railing and run toward the parking lot, sneakers pounding on the walkway. My good-bye message to Kailey’s family is still unfinished, but I can always send it on the way to the bus station. A couple minutes won’t make a difference. I spot the cab, bright yellow dodging in and out of view through the mist. It’s about to leave. “Wait!” I yell, ribs aching, breath frantic. It does.

“Well, well, well,” the cabbie says as I slide into the backseat. “Here you are!” He’s an older man wearing a dark green suit and his dashboard is covered with fake flowers.

“Here I am,” I agree breathlessly. “Can you take me to the bus depot?”

He frowns, no doubt taking in that I don’t have a bag or even a coat.

“I travel light,” I say sharply, pulling out my phone and calling up the
San Francisco Chronicle
website on its Internet browser.

He nods and turns up the heater. I flash a grateful smile. The glow from the phone’s screen lights up my face. It takes an eternity to load. “Come on!” I whisper urgently, shaking the phone. Finally the site loads. And there, at the very top, is an article about Cyrus.

OAKLAND — A Berkeley High substitute science teacher was shot to death this evening in an apparent robbery on the shore of Lake Merritt. After suffering multiple gunshot wounds, the victim fell into the water. His body has not been recovered. Multiple eyewitnesses claimed to have witnessed the killing. A San Francisco man, 19, who spoke to the
Chronicle
under the condition of anonymity, said that three or four young men had accosted the victim, demanding his wallet. According to the witness, when the victim gave it to the muggers, one of them pulled out a gun and shot him. “It was terrible—I saw him die in front of me.” Another witness, a 22-year-old woman from San Francisco, corroborated the story. “He didn’t even have a chance,” she said. No arrests have been made.

I set down the phone and lean back. Is it possible? If he really did die, they wouldn’t find his body. It would have disintegrated into dust the second he hit the water, like Nathaniel’s did when Cyrus killed him. But I can’t believe that Cyrus has actually fallen victim to such a mundane act of violence. He’d lived for six hundred years. He was a survivor. He must have taken a new body. And yet . . . an inkling of doubt, one I don’t dare to encourage, takes root in my heart.

Multiple eyewitnesses. It was possible that he had been mugged. Random crimes like this occur all the time. I pull out the phone and reread the article. “Multiple eyewitnesses.” The phrase echoes in my brain. Witnesses who saw him get shot, who saw him die. The more I consider it, the more plausible it seems. It feels morbid to think it, but could I be so lucky?

“Miss, I don’t mean to pry”—the cabbie makes eye contact with me through the rearview mirror—“but you seem troubled. You sure you want to go to the bus stop?”

His deeply lined face radiates kindness. “No,” I admit. “I’m not sure.”

“Take your time,” he says.

I pause, considering. There are only two ways to go. And if I leave, send the suicide note, I know I can never go back. But if Cyrus is dead, I don’t have to. I tap the phone to life and reread the article. I think back to when I was hell-bent on killing myself, how every action I took toward that end was thwarted. Now I sense that invisible hand again, steering me to the correct path.

But if he didn’t die, if it’s all a setup, he could be at the Morgans’ right now.

“You know what?” I say. The cabbie looks up. “I changed my mind. Will you take me to Berkeley?”

“Of course.” He executes a screeching U-turn.

We get off the freeway in Berkeley, and I direct him to the Morgans’ house, tapping my foot impatiently the whole time. If anything happens to the Morgans, I will never forgive myself. We pull up in front of the driveway, I pay the fare, and rush inside.

Relief courses through me as I see the whole family is curled up on the couch, sleeping. A movie plays, unwatched, on the TV screen. Mrs. Morgan is snoring loudly. “I’m home,” I say softly. Bryan mumbles something and shifts, pulling a blanket up over his face. I turn off the TV and walk softly into Kailey’s room.

I lie on the bed, pulling the coverlet over me, my mind whirling. Does the fact that Cyrus isn’t here mean he really, truly is dead? Did he get so arrogant that he forgot how dangerous the world is? As I stare up at the stars on Kailey’s ceiling, I dare to believe it’s true.

I find Kailey’s phone and delete the message I composed earlier on the bridge. It seems so long ago, like another life. Even though sand still fills my sneakers, even though I’m still cold and damp from the fog. I send a text to Noah:

home safe & sound. see u tomorrow. <3

Could it be,
I think as I drift off to sleep,
that this is the life I was meant to have?

It’s the same nightmare that I used to have, back when I lived with the coven. An endless walk up the gallows steps, a scratchy rope looped around my neck.
Don’t I have wings?
I think, frantic.
Someone told me I could fly. If I could only remember who said that, I could run away.
At the top of the structure stands the police officer who arrested me for truancy. He’s holding a stack of printed e-mails, shaking his head.
But I tried to save her!
I try to scream, to explain what happened, but no sounds come out. I try again and again, my mouth open in a desperate, silent cry. The force of effort finally wakes me up, and I gasp, choking, my hand to my throat.

A small clock on Kailey’s nightstand illuminates the room: 2:13
AM
I sink back onto the pillow, so glad to be awake. I turn over and close my eyes again, when I have a terrible realization: Cyrus’s room is filled with evidence. The article about my crash, the e-mails, the photos. The bracelet. The police may have decreed his death a textbook robbery-homicide, but how long before some intrepid detective decides to take a closer look? The evidence may not lead directly to me, not yet, but it will raise questions.

I need to go down there and remove it. I swing my legs out of the warm bed and throw on jeans, a long-sleeved undershirt, and a heavy wool sweater. Moving softly, I slip out of the house. Kailey’s bike is still chained up downtown, so I grab Bryan’s instead, wheeling it slowly out to the street, stepping as lightly as possible.

The night’s fog is still thick as I ride down the street, mist clinging to my eyelashes and hair. I pedal quickly and fly through stop signs and red lights. I race through Berkeley’s deserted downtown, all shuttered windows and locked doors, through North Oakland’s Temescal neighborhood, squinting my eyes against the damp air, till I reach my destination: the Fireside Inn.

Again, I stash the bike behind a Dumpster and cautiously enter the parking lot. As I approach Cyrus’s room, I am inexplicably sad for him. I imagine his last moments—the final fleeting emotions of a boy who never expected to die, who had seen so much—had witnessed such a stretch of human history, lived through wars, through the birth and death of countries. He must have been terrified. And now, where was his soul? Dissipated into the ether? Or hovering close by, watching my every move, but unable to affect the world any longer, tormented?

I shudder. I hope he lets go, so he can be set free. As much as I hate him, I can’t wish that kind of torture upon anyone.

Despite how much I’ve done to be rid of Cyrus, I feel lonely now that he’s gone. He was with me for six hundred years. He was the only other person on Earth who could truly understand where I came from. Who knew my mother, my father. Who was by my side through lifetimes, many more lifetimes than anyone should be able to live. I have my clean slate now, I realize. It’s what I wanted, what I needed. But it’s also overwhelming.

You’re not alone,
I remind myself as I ascend the staircase.
You have Noah, Leyla. You have Kailey’s family.
And now that Cyrus is dead, I might be able to get word to Charlotte, let her know I’m safe. The idea fills me with hope as I quickly pick the lock, open the door, and step inside.

As before, I am overcome with his presence. I can smell his soap, the lingering traces of his leather briefcase. I flick on the light and see the room’s been completely scrubbed clean, emptied of all its evidence. All of Cyrus’s things, his elegant suits and polished shoes, his bulletin board—gone. I sigh. Nothing I can do about it now. I’ll just feign ignorance if the police come asking. It won’t be the first time I’ve had to put on a performance lately.

I pull Kailey’s phone from my pocket and check the time. It’s nearly four o’clock—I need to get back. But I sit on the bed for a minute, running my hands over its scratchy, faded polyester surface. I am reminded of when I addressed Kailey’s spirit this morning as I sat on her bed.

“Good-bye, Cyrus,” I whisper, knowing he probably can’t hear it. But it doesn’t matter. Kailey wasn’t listening, either. “I’m not sorry I left you. But I’m sorry you died like this, afraid and hurting. I hope the pure light of the planets calms you down, that the anger you always carried is released into the air and dissipates like smoke. I hated you. But I loved you once. Now that you’re gone, I am free. I hope you are too.”

I stand and walk slowly around the room. It’s time to go. I pause in front of the desk, running my hand over its dented oak surface. It’s covered in gouges and burns, drips of candle wax and random nicks. I feel a vibration from the phone in my pocket and pull it out. There’s a message on the screen: “Words with Friends—Your move with Noah.”

He’s up late,
I think as I tap through to the game board.

When I see the word he has played, my fingers involuntarily clench around the phone. I stare at the letters, willing them to rearrange themselves, to form any other word.

No.

My hand starts to shake and I drop the phone. It seems to fall to the floor in slow motion, and I close my eyes.

Cyrus used to love to play chess. I’d lose pawn after pawn, bishops and knights, as he advanced on my king. How his pupils would dilate, his breath quicken. He was so good at laying traps. But that was a game, and this is real life, and the consequences of mistakes can be deadly. How could I have been so dumb?

He’s not dead—He must have switched bodies. The witnesses were mistaken, or they were bribed.

I’ve lost the game. I don’t cry, not yet. That will have to come later. The room swims and blood roars through my ears like static.

The word on the screen is “alchemy.”