Alchemystic (13 page)

Alexandra

T
here was little shame in falling asleep in my great-great-grandfather’s studio library. The shame came from waking up only a few hours later, sun high in the early-afternoon sky, lying sprawled out in one of the aisles with my head pressed into several books, drooling on the shelf as my phone went off in my pocket.

I pulled it out.
Rory.

“Hey,” I said, simultaneously wiping the drool away and attempting to sound awake, but failing completely on that last count.

“Were you
sleeping
? It’s, like, one thirty in the afternoon.”

“Let’s just call it post-traumatic stress after the cave-in last night,” I said. “My body really needed it.”

I didn’t necessarily feel rested, but then it struck me what I had been looking for before I fell asleep. I pulled myself together, stood, stretched out my pains, and stared at the massive aisle of books towering before me.

“Fair enough,” she said. “You working today? Or are you up for hanging? Marshall said he could bring over some of the new games that came in over at Roll for Initiative. I won’t play but I’ll watch you guys and provide snarky commentary.”

I usually welcomed the distraction offered from the types of games Marshall sometimes brought over, even if I didn’t get the references or why he would be practically bouncing in his seat with nerdiness, but not today. I was on a mission to prove that I wasn’t losing my mind.

“Can’t,” I said. “Not so much a workday here, but I have some…family business I need to look into.”

“Well, okay,” she said, disappointment in her voice. “But the invitation still stands. I don’t want to get trapped too long in his store. Despite the nerd renaissance the world seems to be having, I still draw stares just for being a girl in there when I stop by. So if you ch—”

“Yeah, sure,” I said, killing the call as the enormity of my task reclaimed my brain. I tried to begin last night’s search in earnest once again, but instead just found myself standing there, staring at all the books before me. And there were more aisles beyond the one that was already intimidating me.

Thing was, I had crashed out because trying to do a general search through my grandfather’s countless notebooks was proving fruitless without knowing
where
to start. Much like his collection of puzzle boxes, these books were a puzzle unto themselves. Thousands of notations jumped from one book to another, but the subject matter was so cryptic and vague that unless you knew and
found
the starting point subject, you were kinda screwed.

So my real question was: Where to effing start?

This wasn’t my first bout of frustration with my great-great-grandfather and his organization skills. I respected the cleverness and design that went into his statues and architecture, and especially the intricate puzzle boxes that filled the shelves of his art space, but he was crap on organization.

Unless, of course, that was what he
meant
others to think. I mean, maybe there was a method to his madness. If I had the secrets of being a “Spellmason” to hide, would I leave them in plain sight? No, I’d hide them carefully.

The question was: Where?

The puzzle boxes…Maybe there was a connection between everything Alexander did. Despite my not understanding
whatever system he had put in place, nothing he created was without purpose, so I set to thinking about what connections could be made between them all, starting with the most basic piece of the puzzle: the one thing that I knew so far.

I knew Stanis existed, and, as far as I could tell, was his most impressive creation ever, easily outdoing any piece of architecture around Manhattan. I started there by going and grabbing the statuette of him off the art studio table I had left it on. If I was looking for information on Stanis, how would this possibly relate? Looking it over, I wasn’t sure. Other than the name
Stanis
carved into the base of it, there were no other markings.

Unless you counted the base itself as a sort of marking. Which, I decided, was just want I wanted to do. The stone base’s shape was different from that of every other statue, roughly the shape of an octagon but with two flared-out sections on either side that mirrored where the wings of the creature hovered over them.

I had grown up knowing there were several octagon-shaped puzzle boxes scattered along the art studio’s shelves, but never really paying
that
much attention. Resolved, I set off to find them, running into the studio section and pulling down puzzle box after puzzle box, until I found one that held the corresponding shape. It was twice the size of my head and the stone of it was heavy, set in blocked-out areas that reminded me of a strange Slavonic script–covered Rubik’s Cube. I set to twisting and turning it, searching for some rhyme or reason to the markings on it. My knowledge of the old country’s written language was shaky, but several of the letters were more familiar than others on the moving pieces, and, keeping with my plan to simplify my approach to puzzle solving, I set about making them spell out the one word I thought might fit.

Stanis.

The box sighed with a soft
click
as the bottom of it popped free, a small but thick Moleskine-like notebook set into the hidden space. Age had been kind to it, perhaps from years of being perfectly preserved in the box itself, and with excitement I carefully removed it from the slot, falling into the task
of unraveling my great-great-grandfather’s most hidden secrets.

The notebook, however, proved to be just as puzzling as any other book in the library. Parts of his cursive scratching were in English, other parts in a broken Slavonic and Lithuanian that Devon and I used to use as kids when playing, but
none
of it organized in a linear fashion. In order to make some sense of it, I ran over to the regular stock of paper and notebooks I kept in the studio’s supply cage and grabbed a fresh Moleskine of my own. I settled in at one of the art tables, laying out my blank book next to my ancestor’s one, and set about trying to trace my way though his notes.

The going was slow thanks to the cryptic order of his words and the arduous task of deciphering it, but after countless hours cramped and hunched over his notes, I had assembled some notes of my own:

Not the most cohesive note taking I’d ever done, but considering the web I had been sorting through all day until the sun had gone down, it was a start. As a bonus, I felt a little less like I was cracking up now that I had something tangible in hand, something concrete that told me I wasn’t crazy. Unless I was imagining all this as well.

No. I pushed that thought aside. Red pilling, blue pilling it was a road to madness. Still, I had little belief in magic or matters arcane, save my experiences from last night, but seeing the words in my great-great-grandfather’s script made starting to accept its existence easier to swallow. Yet my mind held fast to its nervous reluctance. I needed to prove something to myself.

Alexander’s notebook held a map, one I recognized, of this very studio, which I knew oh, so well, but not, apparently, as well as I thought. I scooped up the book and took it with me to the metal-barred supply cage near the back right corner of the studio, entering it. Tools, paint, clay, and a host of my modern art supplies filled the old area, but I was looking for something more. The map showed an area sequestered behind one section of ancient tooled shelves built into the wall, and after several minutes of examination, I came across two different pressure plates both the size of the tips of my fingers. They clicked in, locked; then the entire shelving unit slid in and rolled behind the one next to it.

I stepped forward into the space, the light of the studio allowing me to see the racks and shelves full of metal flasks, glass tubes, and jars, all stoppered one way or another, some still filled with their contents.

What a lovely little alchemist’s kitchen.

I grabbed a small tin flask marked with the one familiar name mentioned in my great-great-grandfather’s book,
Kimiya
, and stepped out of the space, my heart starting to race in my chest. I ran to one of the clear art tables, laid out Alexander’s notebook, then pulled the chain from around my neck, placing the stone sigil of it flat on the surface. The “recipe” listed in his book didn’t include measurements. Hell, it barely contained a phrase to go with them, and
that
was in Slavonic. Erring on the side that my will wasn’t necessarily all that willing a guide, I unscrewed the top of the flask and coated my small stone with the slow-pouring crimson liquid that came out of it. I set it aside, then placed my hands to either side of the stone, reading the phrase in its native tongue, although the phrase filled my head in English.

My words, my bond.

Not sure what I was doing—trying to perform magic?—I stared at it hard, wanting it to do something, but as the moments passed, I was basically looking at a wet, reddish stone on a length of fine silver chain just sitting there. So much for my will being my guide…

Although, if I was honest, had I really expected it to move? Who knew what the shelf life was on tin-flasked alchemical substances, anyway? No, I hadn’t given it my all, because if I was being honest with myself, I felt foolish.

Which, maybe, was part of my problem, wasn’t it? If I felt a little ridiculous, I wasn’t really giving all my will over to the attempt, now, was I? I looked down at the stone, still sitting there, doing jack.

Screw it,
I thought, and settled my hands back down on the table, one to either side of the sigil. If Rory and I played at having magical powers like Hermione Granger ten years ago, I could certainly go all in and give this a bit more of my all.

“My words, my bond,” I said, and I let my desire to control the stone of my necklace take over, imagining my will rolling off me like a wave toward the necklace.

It
twitched
. It not only twitched; it began to rock, the motion in it increasing until the rocking became a gentle spin that coiled the chain around it as it went.

I stepped back, my hands coming away from it, and the stone was already slowing, but for a brief second I had felt the connection. I was practically beside myself, giddy with a fresh rush of excitement. It felt like I had passed my O.W.L.S.! I thought of Rory, who would have pooped herself had she seen it, which caused me to laugh out loud. It was strange to hear the sound, but I welcomed it and the return of hope that came with it.

Yes, there might be men trying to kill us, but with Stanis we had a powerful ally. Or at least I thought we did. What I really needed to do was try to communicate with the creature some more. Excited and—dare I think it—hopeful, I grabbed up my necklace, Alexander’s book, and my own Moleskine, heading for the stairs at the back of the house, hurrying my way up to the roof.

The chill in the air was a bit more pronounced this early-October night as I stepped with care among the blocks of unfinished statues. I didn’t know what I was going to say to the creature, rolling a myriad of questions through my head as I went to the edge of our building that faced Gramercy Park,
but I needn’t have worried. The winged creature was gone from where I had stood yesterday, back when I was wondering whether my mind was playing tricks on me. This was no trick. The statue had gone somewhere, presumably under its own power, confirming that everything I was reading had some merit to it.

My excitement died down a little, but I had to admit it was probably all for the best that it wasn’t there tonight. Given my lack of sleep and hours of bleary-eyed research, the odds of me even being capable of asking anything coherent were slim. Besides, tomorrow was another night, and if I hoped to get anything accomplished, I should probably catch up on sleep before then.

Wouldn’t do to try to make nice with a gargoyle with bags under my eyes.