The Alchemist's Illusion Read online

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  The Alchemist’s Illusion: An Accidental Alchemist Mystery © 2019 by Gigi Pandian.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2018

  E-book ISBN: 9780738755229

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Cover illustration by Hugh D’Andrade/Jennifer Vaughn Artist Agent

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Pandian, Gigi, author.

  Title: The Alchemist’s illusion / Gigi Pandian.

  Description: First Edition. | Woodbury, Minnesota : Midnight Ink, [2019] |

  Series: An Accidental Alchemist mystery ; #4.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018036981 (print) | LCCN 2018039695 (ebook) | ISBN

  9780738755229 () | ISBN 9780738753010 (alk. paper)

  Subjects: | GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3616.A367 (ebook) | LCC PS3616.A367 A77 2019 (print) |

  DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018036981 Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

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  Manufactured in the United States of America

  For Joni.

  one

  The last rays of daylight were descending over the Willamette River when I looked into the eyes of a man who’d been buried six hundred years ago.

  I grasped the chain I wore around my neck, now bearing both my gold locket and the pewter carving of a phoenix that my friend Dorian had given me as a good luck charm. The commingling metals were cool against my chest.

  “Are you okay?” A young man with flecks of dried red and orange paint on his hands startled me as he touched my elbow. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  He wasn’t wrong. Not exactly.

  “I’m all right,” I said.

  He looked unconvinced as his gaze fell to my tightly clenched fist, but he nodded politely and pulled open the glass door leading into the art gallery. The narrow space along the river was wedged in between larger warehouses. I hadn’t noticed it on my last waterfront walk the day before. Which wasn’t surprising. The Portland art scene was thriving, with new spaces popping up all the time. But that didn’t explain the painting visible through the glass front window.

  The man who’d shaken me to the core wasn’t flesh and blood. But his presence shone as resolutely in pigments as it had in life. Nicolas had never let a living soul capture his image. It was impossible for this painting to exist. Yet here it was.

  How had an artist painted such an accurate likeness of my mentor, Nicolas Flamel?

  I hadn’t seen Nicolas in over three hundred years, and he’d officially been dead for many more. The Paris grave in which he’d supposedly been buried in 1418 was discovered to be empty when it was exhumed years later. The graves of both Nicolas and his wife, Perenelle, had been a ruse so that no curious Parisians would believe they were alive and look for them. They hadn’t wanted to risk being burned as witches. Which was fair enough, considering they weren’t. But if people knew the truth—that they practiced alchemy—they would have been condemned for practicing witchcraft anyway, just as I had been. So they’d fled and reinvented themselves.

  I stepped closer to the portrait. The deep charcoal blacks in the background were at first glance merely shadows, but within those shadows were lush reds and indigos that hinted at the materials in a workshop that lay beyond the subject. With rows of oddly shaped glass jars filled with indistinguishable contents, this could have been an apothecary’s home. Normally I would have been more interested in those ingredients hidden in the shadows, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the man in the center of the painting.

  Many artists had come up with their own imaginings of Nicolas Flamel, once he’d become famous a century after his supposed death. Those sketches looked nothing like the man. Yet in front of me was the real Nicolas, with his sunken cheeks and wild hair the color of sulfurous ashes tossed in a haystack. The painter had even captured the haunted look in his piercing silver-blue eyes.

  Nicolas had never agreed to sit for a portrait. Never. Just as I never let myself be photographed. If I did, people would see that I’d been twenty-eight years old for much longer than they believed natural.

  I’m Zoe Faust. At least that’s what I’ve called myself for over three hundred years. Aside from every hair on my body having turned white, I stopped aging the year I turned twenty-eight, in 1704. I was born with the name Zoe, but I christened myself Faust because I felt like I’d made a deal with the devil when I accidentally discovered the Elixir of Life. If only I’d listened to Nicolas … But that was a long time ago.

  I touched my hand to the glass between me and the painting. The artwork bore no signature, nor was there an explanatory placard nearby. The eyes in the portrait were unnerving. Whoever painted it must have known Nicolas personally. I was certain of it.

  I shifted my position as a gust of cool wind blew my hair into my eyes. From a new angle, I noticed a strange detail in the painting. The walking stick resting against the cabinet of glass jars took on a different appearance. The ornate carvings now looked like calligraphic letters. I moved closer. The walking stick was also a book. Alchemia.

  I smiled. The painting was using anamorphosis perspective—meaning it altered the viewer’s perception when observed at different angles. Together with the rich colors applied with thick dabs of paint that stood out on the canvas and gave it its personality, it reminded me of the work of the famous Renaissance artist Philippe Hayden. Nicolas and Perenelle had appreciated the alchemical subject matter of Hayden’s paintings. They’d owned several of his works of art. Unlike me, the Flamels were good at turning lead into gold.

  My silver raincoat blew in the wind as I stepped backwards, away from the window, looking for the name of the new gallery. My breath caught when I saw the distressed wooden plank hanging above the entrance. Two chains squeaked as the sign swung gently in the wind. Painted script as thick and black as tar spelled out the purpose of the place: Logan Magnus Memorial Gallery.

  Logan Magnus. A man who had killed himself two weeks prior in a most di
stressing way—poisoning himself by swallowing container after container of the toxic paints and binders he used in his artwork. Had he discovered an unknown work of art by Hayden? Or could Logan Magnus have been the one to paint this portrait? I would never be able to ask the artist how he had possessed the only true likeness I’d ever seen of the man I was desperately trying to find.

  two

  I met Nicolas Flamel in the year 1700. He was the only person who would work with me in spite of the fact I was a woman. He recognized my aptitude for alchemy, and saw that my brother and I were in a desperate situation. Perenelle was less convinced, but she went along with Nicolas’s wishes.

  My brother and I had fled Salem Village as teenagers, when my aptitude with plants had convinced the townspeople I was a witch. After leaving Massachusetts and making our way across the Atlantic, we nearly starved to death in London until I began selling my healing plant tinctures, which caught the attention of an alchemist who thought my brother was the apothecary.

  I knew nothing of alchemy at the time, until Nicolas took me on as his pupil. He explained that alchemy was about transformation, whether transforming homegrown plants into healing elixirs, impure metals into pure gold, or a crushed spirit into a happy one.

  I had always excelled at one of those three types of transformation: plant transformations. In alchemy, plant-based herbal medicines are created through spagyric transformations, using the same steps used in making gold, including fermentation, distillation, and extracting elements from the ashes. I never got the hang of making gold, but I understood plants. And here in Portland I was working hard on the third type of alchemy: finding happiness. For a long time, I hadn’t thought I deserved it.

  In my windy spot in front of the painting that reminded me so much of a time long ago, I lifted the chain I wore around my neck to look at my locket and phoenix pendant. The locket served as a reminder to honor the past. It held a miniature portrait of my brother Thomas and a photograph of my love Ambrose. Until recently, I had always felt responsible for both of their deaths. But now the new phoenix charm served as a symbol of hope for the future.

  After spending most of my life on the move so that nobody would notice I didn’t outwardly age, I’d put down roots in Portland nearly a year ago. I was tired of running. Tired of hiding. My cozy Craftsman house in the Hawthorne District no longer contained a hole in the roof, my backyard vegetable garden sprawled into the front yard, and I had a unique roommate who was my best friend. I could walk out my front door and down the street to the farmers’ market and Blue Sky Teas, the teashop where I could always find a group of friends—and I’d fallen in love with one of them. Max and so many others I’d met over the past year made me hope I could stay here in Portland for at least a little while longer. As for what would come next … I yearned for the day Max would be ready to learn the truth about me.

  The art gallery’s sign above me squawked more loudly in the increasing wind. Summer was coming to a close and the autumn equinox was approaching. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and I cinched my silver coat more tightly around me, but I remained outside on the threshold of the gallery.

  Oregonian artist Logan Magnus was a local celebrity in my adopted hometown. He was known as an experimental modern painter, which was ironic because he mixed his own pigments and used organic materials rather than modern synthetic ones, so he was more old-fashioned than I was. Lead, mercury, and turpentine were reported to have been the main poisons he’d swallowed. I knew the substances well. They overlapped with materials I used in alchemy.

  Could Logan Magnus have been an alchemist who’d known Nicolas centuries ago? It would certainly explain his use of pigments … No, I knew that was impossible. Not because Logan was dead. Alchemists can die just like anyone else. But one thing you can’t do is grow up in the public eye, which Logan Magnus had done. His father had been a famous artist as well, so there were plenty of photos of Logan growing up in the 1960s and 1970s. Besides, this painting looked like a Philippe Hayden. Was Logan Magnus experimenting with a new style?

  The sun dipped below the horizon. Max would be expecting me soon, but I needed to get a better look at the painting first.

  All I had left of Nicolas was a note I’d discovered when I returned to Paris earlier that summer. The blue ink had faded over the years so I hadn’t been able to read it beyond the two lines written in old French. Dearest Zoe, If you find this one day … and an even more important one: I hope you can help. I didn’t know what I could help him with, or even if he was still alive. That uncertainty left me feeling like a fraudulent painting, with my inner reality different from my outward appearance—but if you peeled away the slightest bit of paint, you’d see the truth.

  The door of the art gallery was within reach. Poised between stepping inside to chase my past or walking on to embrace my future, I hesitated. Taking a deep breath, I took a step forward, only to stumble backward as the door flung open.

  A beautiful woman in elegant all-black clothes stepped outside. In shiny black heels, she stood several inches taller than me. Bright streaks of silver-white cut through her long black hair like impossibly thin bolts of lightning slicing through the night sky. Instead of pushing past me, she stopped inches away. She clasped a strong hand around my wrist.

  “You,” she said. Her voice was calm but filled with a smoldering rage. “It was you. You killed him.”

  three

  Normally the people of Portland were a friendly lot. I could occasionally upset someone when they thought I was proselytizing about my plant-based diet, but strangers didn’t frequently accuse me of killing people. Though admittedly it had been known to happen more than I would have liked. Alchemy comes with a lot of baggage.

  But it wasn’t supposed to happen here in Portland, my fresh start.

  “You have the wrong—”

  “It was you,” the stunning dark-haired woman said again, tightening her grip until it was sure to leave a bruise. “You have his—” Her voice broke off as I twisted free. “Stop her!” she cried.

  A group of joggers turned their heads in our direction, but I didn’t stop to see if they acted beyond craning their necks. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in over three hundred years of staying alive in war and peace, it’s that it’s best to get away from people trying to harm you.

  But as I ran down the waterfront path, not pausing to look back, I wondered … who did she think I had killed?

  My heart beat as furiously as it had during the Red Phase of an alchemical transformation, but for less pure reasons. It was the fear of being exposed. I’ve stayed alive by helping people while living a quiet life. It’s an existence that requires moving frequently, which is why I’d lived out of my 1950s Airstream trailer for years. I’m fearless when it comes to many things, but I’m terrified of being thrust into the spotlight.

  In her high heels, there was no way she’d be able to keep up with me. I hoped nobody else tried, but I wasn’t taking chances. My rust-colored boots splashed through a puddle from the previous day’s storm. I kept running until I could no longer catch my breath. I slowed to a walk, hoping nobody had followed. My entire body was shaking.

  I was in no shape to see Max. Dorian expected me to bring home groceries after visiting him, so I’d reverse the order and pick up groceries for Dorian before heading to Max’s house. I couldn’t lie to Max. I hadn’t yet told him the whole truth about myself, but lie to his face? That, I couldn’t do.

  Twenty minutes later, as I walked up the sloping driveway to my house, I was no longer as apprehensive, but I couldn’t stop thinking about both the strange accusation and Logan Magnus’s painting of Nicolas. With a brown paper bag blocking most of my view, I unlocked the front door of my house. As soon as I’d closed it, I felt fingers wrap themselves around my wrist.

  Again.

  I dropped the bag and spun around, my heart racing. So much for not being on edge. There
was nobody at eye level, but the grip on my wrist was very real. It came from someone two feet shorter.

  “Je suis désolé for startling you,” Dorian said, his black eyes innocent as he looked up at me. “I am so pleased to see you. I was getting very hungry.”

  He let go of my wrist and jumped up and down impatiently, his bare feet thumping on the hardwood floor, then scooped up the slightly squished bag of produce and scampered toward the kitchen.

  Dorian isn’t my child. He isn’t even a child. Dorian Robert-Houdin is a nearly-150-year-old gargoyle. Who’s also a chef. It’s a long story.

  The key facts are that Dorian was once stone but was accidentally brought to life through a dangerous form of alchemy. I met him when he snuck into a crate I’d shipped to Portland from Paris. Dorian wanted my help deciphering the ancient alchemy book that had brought him to life as a living gargoyle in the first place, but its alchemy was unraveling and causing him to die a slow, unnatural death that would keep him awake but trapped in stone forever. Through our efforts this past year, he’d recently discovered the true Elixir of Life for himself. The once-perilous book had been stolen before we could destroy it, but it was no longer a danger. I hoped.

  Dorian could hold still and pretend to be stone if anyone not in our inner circle were to see him. Though it was a perfect way to hide, he rarely did it these days. He was still traumatized from having been taken into police custody in stone form before.

  Now he flapped his wings with glee as he removed the stalk of brussels sprouts sticking out of the bag. “Très bon. We have caraway seeds, garlic-infused olive oil … ”

  I forgot to mention what is perhaps the most important thing about Dorian. He’s French.

  I could see the wheels spinning in his mind as he thought about transforming the raw ingredients into sumptuous meals. He’d apprenticed for a blind chef before going to work as a personal chef for blind people, all of whom believed his lie that he was a disfigured man uncomfortable being seen. Until Dorian met me, he’d lived a lonely and secretive life.