The Elusive Elixir Page 9

  Was this the same person who’d been spying on Ivan? How did they get in? And why look through my alchemy lab? Was someone spying on alchemists? Was I right after all that Madame Leblanc had tracked me down to expose me?

  I abandoned my nettle infusion and raced up the stairs. “Dorian!”

  “What is the matter? Is there news of my brother?”

  “Someone has been in the house.”

  His horns twitched in horror. “Mais non. C’est impossible. You installed security locks on the doors and windows, and no human can enter via my rooftop entrance.”

  “You weren’t doing anything in the basement alchemy lab, were you?”

  “How can you think this of me? I know you do not wish it to be disturbed. What did you detect had been taken?”

  I sighed. “Nothing is missing.” But I hadn’t imagined that the bottle had been moved, had I?

  “You have not yet recovered from making the Tea of Ashes. It was foolish of you to make it again. But I forgive you. I will cook a satisfying early summer meal. That will help you think straight.” He took my hand and dragged me back to the kitchen.

  “Alors,” he said, “no word of my brother?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wondering what Professor Chevalier’s reaction would be if the woman who’d brought a swarm of bees to his office called for an update on his gargoyle—excuse me, his chimera—statue. I also wondered how soon a locksmith could get here to rekey the house. With so many unexplained mysteries circling me, I at least wanted to feel secure in my home. I stared at an unfamiliar basket on the kitchen counter.

  “Where did these wild mushrooms come from?” I asked.

  “The forest.”

  “You know how to safely forage mushrooms?” Eating poisonous mushrooms was a complication not worth risking. I’d seen the effects on people who’d eaten foraged mushrooms that looked nearly identical to safe varieties. Sometimes I’d been able to help the unlucky people who’d simply been trying to feed their families, but more often it was already too late once the first symptoms appeared.

  “Do not worry,” Dorian said. “They are safe.”

  I couldn’t imagine a forager taking a gargoyle along with him on a forest walk. “How do you know?”

  Dorian looked everywhere in the kitchen except at me. He coughed. “Did I neglect to mention I have a job?”

  “A job? You? Without me as your cover?”

  He sniffed. “I had many jobs before I met you. I have impeccable references.”

  “You brought your references to Portland?”

  “It was not necessary. You remember Monsieur Julian Lake? Yes, of course you would. You may recall that the elderly gentleman is blind. What you may not have known is that he appreciates gourmet cooking. Unsurprising for someone from such a distinguished family. However, his housekeeper is a terrible cook.” Dorian shook his head and pursed his lips. “After Monsieur Lake tasted my cooking, when I was pumping him for information earlier this year, he desired more meals cooked by the great Dorian Robert-Houdin. Monsieur Lake wished to employ the services of the disfigured Michelin-star chef who does not wish to be seen.”

  “You have a Michelin star?”

  Dorian sniffed. “Not officially, no. One needs to be associated with a restaurant to receive the honor. May I continue?”

  “Please.”

  “His invitation was so insistent that I could not refuse without being rude. He would have gone to extreme lengths to find me, had I not accepted. He is a man used to getting what he wants.”

  “I see. How long have you been secretly working for Julian Lake?”

  “It is not a secret.”

  “You didn’t tell me about it, and I had no other way to find out. That makes it a secret.” Something seemed fishy.

  “I did not wish you to worry.”

  I thought about that. “I’m not really worried. He’s blind and you know how to hide from others. Why would you assume I’d worry?”

  “No reason.” Dorian became overly interested in brushing dirt from the mushrooms.

  “Dorian.”

  “Yes, all right.” He turned from the counter and looked up at me. His liquidy black eyes were imploring. “I did not wish you to think you had been replaced.”

  “Replaced?”

  “Bon. I should have known you have a big enough ego that you would not feel threatened. One would hope so, after living for so long.”

  “You were worried about me being jealous?”

  “It is a natural emotion, no? And Zoe, if you saw his kitchen! It is a thing of beauty. No, I shall never show it to you. For then you might succumb to a tremendous fit of jealousy. Modern stainless steel appliances including a subzero freezer, a five-burner gas range, and an island larger than your whole kitchen. Of that you should be jealous. And of the covered pizza oven near the backyard pool.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with this kitchen. Or my backyard. Modern amenities and square footage are overrated.”

  Dorian waved his good hand in a dismissive manner. “Yes, yes, I know of Julia Child learning the art of French cooking in her closet-size kitchen. Peutêtre. I will grant that you might be right about space not being a necessity. Yet modernity has brought such wonders.”

  I pointed at the vintage blender that had been my travel companion in my Airstream trailer since 1950, up to the simple copper pots hanging from the ceiling in the cozy kitchen, and down to the glass bottles I’d filled with infused olive oils, vinegars, and salts. “This is the height of kitchen technology right here. Haven’t you noticed the resurgence of young people embracing traditional methods?”

  Dorian rolled his eyes. He and Brixton were a bad influence on each other. “I do not understand your resistance to modern food preparation techniques,” he said. “You embrace modernity when it comes to language. You pick up modern vernacular like a house on fire.”

  “That’s not quite the right idiom—”

  “You have proven my point. You understand slang in ways I never could, yet you do not try to adapt your methods of preparing healing foods.”

  “Adapting to language lets me fit in without raising suspicions.” At least it did when my worlds didn’t collide. I tensed as I thought about my carelessness in Paris. The city had transported me back to a century ago, and I’d spoken the French that I’d spoken at that time, not thinking how it would sound. “But preparing foods, teas, and tinctures isn’t something I do publicly. The old methods are what speak to me.”

  “D’accord. We shall agree to disagree, as always, mon amie.”

  “How did Julian Lake find you in the first place?” I asked. “He didn’t come over to the house, did he?” A worrisome thought.

  “Non.” Dorian jumped off his stepping stool and opened the recycling bin under the counter. He pulled out a wrinkled newspaper dated earlier in the month. He opened the pages to the Classifieds section and shook it in front of me. “Modern technology has not completely replaced civilized communication.”

  “Stop shaking your fist. I can’t read what you’re trying to show me. Let me guess. Missed connection, seeking a Frenchman who’d visited him with vegan pastries this spring?”

  “Close,” Dorian said. “Very close. The newspaper advertisement is what caught my eye. Only I never told him the pastries I brought him were vegan. This advertisement offered a modest reward for anyone who put him in touch with the disabled French chef. When I called him, he remembered my voice.” Dorian’s snout twitched as he gave an indignant sniff. “Can you believe that he gave me a test before hiring me? A test! He did not trust that I had baked the food I brought him.”

  “Sounds like a smart man.”

  Dorian chuckled. “He would not accept my suggestion of plant-based cooking. I knew right away he was not a man to lose an argument, so I stopped arguing. Instead, I simply did not tell him I w
as not using the meats he purchased to use as starters in my soups and casseroles. He declares he has never eaten so well. Between smoked salts, infused oils, and creamy nut sauces, he never had a chance.”

  “With Julian Lake’s setup, I’m surprised you’re still doing any cooking in my kitchen at all.”

  Dorian pointed a clawed fingertip at my midsection. “You are skin and bones, Zoe. What would you do without me cooking for you? When I met you, though you did not cook feasts on par with mine, you ate well. You took care of yourself by fixing yourself smoothies with vegetables from your garden, soups with oils and salts you infused yourself, and an assortment of healing teas you created with the power of the sun and moon.”

  I twirled my hair around my finger. “I still do those things.” Did I, though? I’d let Dorian bring me food while I was sick before leaving for Paris. While in Paris, I’d bought fresh food daily, like other Parisians, but I didn’t have my blender, which is what allowed me to make healthy meals easily. And since returning, I hadn’t followed my usual morning practice of starting the day with a glass of lemon water, tending to my garden, and fixing either a smoothie of fruits, vegetables, and nut butter or a bowl of slow-cooked porridge with dried fruits, nuts, cinnamon, and sea salt.

  “You have not noticed that we are out of half of the flavored salts in the cabinet,” Dorian said, “nor that I used the last of your favorite cayenne-infused olive oil.”

  “We have enough left. My first priority is finding a cure for you.”

  “Food is life, Zoe. I appreciate the sentiment, but you must first slow down and take care of yourself.”

  A faint buzzing sounded. My shoulders tensed for a fraction of a second before I realized it was my phone. Not bees. I went in search of my phone and found that I’d missed a string of text messages from Brixton, as well as two voicemails.

  A fist banged on the front door so loudly that I dropped the phone.

  I opened it to find a trembling Brixton. When he spoke, his voice shook as well. “He’s dead, Zoe. He’s dead.”

  Eighteen

  The frazzled teenager pushed his way past me into the house. He ran his hands through disheveled hair and took several deep breaths. “I’ve never seen a dead body before.”

  “Who—”

  “It’s not like it is in the movies, or even photos of real corpses.”

  “Brix—”

  “I tried calling you, Zoe.” He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and paced the length of the living room. “When you didn’t answer, I called Max. I didn’t know what else to do! I didn’t want the killer to get away.”

  Killer? “You saw someone murdered? Oh, God, Brixton. Who—”

  “I didn’t see the actual killing, just the dead guy with a gash in his head.” Brixton broke off and flung himself onto the green velvet couch. He put his head in his hands. He brushed off my attempt to put my hand on his shoulder, so I gave him space.

  When he looked up at me, his face was calm. So was his voice. “I screwed up, Zoe. I was far enough away that the killer slipped out without me seeing where he went.” He punched the coffee table.

  I cringed. So much for forced calmness. I’d get him a poultice later to help with the inevitable bruise. For now, an injury was the least of my concerns for Brixton. If a killer had seen him, he’d have suffered a lot worse than a sore hand. “You did the right thing getting away and calling the police. You should have called them first. Why did you call me?”

  I dreaded the answer I expected: that it was someone I knew.

  “Didn’t I say? It wasn’t a random dead body I saw. The killer was the same man who Dorian and me saw spying on Ivan.”

  “Ivan.” I sank onto the couch, my legs no longer steady enough to support me. “He killed Ivan?”

  Brixton swore. “I didn’t mean it’s Ivan who’s dead. Sorry to scare you. I don’t know who the dead guy is. I mean, I kinda thought he looked familiar, but I probably just saw him around somewhere. But Ivan is probably in danger now, right? Since the spy who was spying on him killed someone?”

  I desperately hoped Brixton truly had been far enough away that the killer hadn’t seen him, otherwise he’d be the one in danger. “You told all this to the police?”

  “Yeah, Max was on some other case and said he couldn’t just assign himself to whatever case he wanted. But he made sure some cops showed up real fast. I told them everything. They made me call my mom too. Not cool. She totally freaked.”

  I could imagine. “Brixton. Back up a sec. How did you find the dead body?”

  “You know we’ve been following Ivan, right? How Dorian had the idea to figure out what Ivan was doing now that he knows alchemy is real—in case he was going to expose you and D.” Brixton’s voice shook as he spoke. “So, this dude we saw at Ivan’s, we didn’t have a clue who he was.” Brixton hit the coffee table with his fist again. At least it wasn’t as hard a punch this time. “It doesn’t matter, really, cuz we know the important thing now—that he’s a killer.”

  “We should get Dorian,” I said, surprised he hadn’t heard us and come downstairs already. I ran up to the first flight of stairs and called to him. He had to have heard me, but he didn’t reply. “Hang on one second, Brix.” I continued up to the attic, slowing only on the narrow steps leading up from the second floor to the attic. The attic door was closed. I turned the handle, but it was locked. “Dorian, let me in.” I shook the handle. “Dorian?”

  “He’s not there?” Brixton startled me from the landing below me. “Weird.”

  “He must have snuck out just now. Now that he has my cape, I think he’s getting more brazen.” I whirled around. “Don’t follow his example.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Like I’d imitate a gargoyle.”

  A perfectly sensible response. “Let’s go back downstairs. You were telling me how you found the man.”

  The detour to look for Dorian seemed to have given Brixton the time he needed to collect his thoughts. He was more relaxed when he continued.

  “There’s this cabin that looks like an old shack. It’s in the woods past Ivan’s house, in one of those greenbelts in between housing developments. The cabin is boarded up and there are signs saying to keep out. It’s where Dorian saw this guy go a couple of nights ago. So I went to check it out during the day today.”

  “And you stayed, even after you saw there was a dead body? You stayed in the woods with a killer out there?”

  “I went far enough away.” Brixton rubbed his hand.

  Brixton’s temper worried me. He was a teenage boy, so some outbursts were to be expected, but I hoped he would grow out of the uncensored temper that had already given him a juvenile record. “All that matters is that you’re safe. Next time you see something like that, you get the hell out of there. No, there’s not going to be a next time, because you’re not going to be involved in this. Or anything like this. Ever. Again. Is that clear?”

  Brixton rolled his eyes. “I had to see what was going to happen.”

  “I know a crime scene can seem intriguing—”

  “That’s not what this is about! The shed, Zoe. God, aren’t you listening to me? It wasn’t a normal shed. The stuff inside—” He broke off and shook his head. “It’s why the killer was following Ivan. What they have in common. It’s what you have in common with them too.”

  I felt a cold shiver tickle its way down my spine. The look on his face terrified me.

  “It was an alchemy lab, Zoe. The dead guy and the killer, they were practicing alchemy in the woods.”

  I stared at Brixton. This wasn’t a joke. “You’re sure?”

  He nodded “What’s going on? I mean, I thought there weren’t hardly any of you guys around. There are more alchemists here in Portland?”

  “I didn’t think so,” I said, but I wasn’t so sure. My head swam. Had I been drawn to Portland on
a subconscious level not because of its welcoming people, splendid food options, and lush greenery—but because alchemists were here? Could that have been the reason Portland felt immediately like home? As a female alchemist, I’d always been an outsider. Only Nicolas Flamel, who thought of his wife as an equal, had deemed me worthy of an apprenticeship. But I’d left abruptly, after a personal tragedy, and had lost touch with him.

  “Tell me what you saw.” My throat was so dry that my voice cracked.

  “Do you need some water or something?” Brixton took me by the hand and led me to the kitchen. His hands were clammy but strong.

  I was still in a daze as he poured me a glass of water. It was the people that drew me here to Portland—normal, everyday people like Brixton, Max, and Blue. Alchemists aren’t drawn to each other like that. We’re not magical beings. We’re simply people who’ve tapped into different energies, performing different experiments than mainstream science.

  There was another explanation, but I didn’t like it one bit: that alchemists were here in Portland because of me, Dorian, and his backward alchemy book.

  I accepted the glass of water from Brixton and drank it in five gulps. The liquid revived me. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be taking care of you, kiddo.”

  Brixton shrugged.

  “I’m all right,” I said. “I don’t know what came over me. Go ahead and tell me what you saw.”

  “I don’t know how to describe it exactly.” The frustration was clear in every aspect of the boy in front of me. The expression on his face hovered between innocence and angst, between boyhood and adulthood. “Stuff like in your alchemy lab.”

  “You haven’t taken chemistry yet, have you?”

  “No, I just finished freshman year. Chemistry is later. Why?”