Alchemy of Secrets, page 3
The Professor laughs, dry and raspy. Not quite amused. “You do not find these cards, young man. There’s only one way to obtain one.” Finally, she launches into her story. “There are a number of haunted hotels in Los Angeles, and there is one in particular that the devil favors. It’s said he enjoys drinking their sidecars.”
The person next to you whispers, “What’s a sidecar?”
“I think it’s a drink,” you murmur.
“It’s a cocktail,” the Professor says, looking right at you. “Made of cognac and citrus, the sidecar has been around for over a century, and if you buy one of these for the devil, he’ll give you one of his business cards. Each card may be used only once for an appointment with the devil, where you can make a deal for whatever you want, and then—”
She waves her fingers in a gesture that universally means magic, as she explains that this is why the cards are all blank—they have been used for deals with the devil, and thus the writing has disappeared.
You’re skeptical. Her only proof is the photographs, and you’re not even sure they’re real. Anyone could have created these images.
The devil is a myth. One you don’t believe in.
But when you walk out of the theater, you want one of those cards.
CHAPTER THREE
For the past year, all Holland’s graduate classes had been in the evening. It felt different to walk around campus now, when it was still light out.
Everything smelled like freshly cut grass and looked like the glossy cover of an admissions brochure. The late October sun was shining on students riding bikes and playing frisbee. Trees shaded a couple who were laughing in between sips of iced coffee, while a portable speaker played a familiar song on repeat. It was a little unnerving to hear the song over and over as she walked, but perhaps that was the point?
It was the day before Halloween.
The music faded as Holland stepped inside the building that housed the Folklore department. Her cork heels softly tapped against the tile as she made her way toward the stairs. Holland had always loved the sound. But every time she wore high heels, she remembered why she never liked to wear them.
Unfortunately, the cork heels were the closest thing she had to anything professional. The Coffee Lab didn’t have a dress code, so Holland usually just wore flowy skirts until the weather got too cold. She was wearing one now, a knee-length white one, paired with a pale pink cropped blouse that barely skimmed the waist of her skirt. A leather messenger bag hung from her shoulder. January had bought it for her the first time she’d gone to Italy for work, and Holland took it everywhere.
The sound of Holland’s heels disappeared as she reached the second floor, which was covered in unfortunate green carpet that didn’t allow for clicking. The hallway was decorated with a few plastic pumpkins and lined with closed doors bearing dull bronze name plaques.
Adam Bishop’s door was at the far end, and it was already cracked.
“Hello!” Holland knocked. The door stretched open wider, welcoming her into an empty office. The air conditioner must have been broken, because it was warmer here than it was outside. It felt like a summer day that had been left behind.
There were no Halloween decorations in here. There wasn’t much of anything. The walls were white and bare, save for a trio of diplomas from very posh and impressive schools.
“Either this new professor hasn’t finished unpacking, or all he wants people to know about him are the overpriced schools he attended,” muttered Holland.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” said a soft voice from behind her.
Holland spun around.
In the doorway stood another grad student, in ripped jeans and a plaid shirt. He looked about her age—and, for lack of a better word, he was hot. Unfairly hot. Even for LA standards, where everyone was some level of attractive. He must have been from a different department, because she definitely would have remembered seeing him before. He had tousled golden hair, tan skin, and nice arms—the kind of arms that said he worked out, he cared, but not too much.
Not that she should have been looking at his arms.
But he appeared to be checking her out as well. His eyes were on the necklace dangling just above the neckline of her top. She started to follow his gaze, but then she stopped herself.
Holland was dating Jake. Although, even as she thought it, their brief relationship already felt as if it had ended a long time ago. She remembered him the way she remembered the people she’d met when she’d first moved back to LA, the ones who had only spent a few chapters in her life.
“So which one do you think it is?” the grad student asked, motioning toward the black lacquered frames.
Holland’s gut said that only hanging these diplomas was an intentional choice. But she felt the stupid urge to impress this guy, so she opted for the kinder response. “I’m going to guess Professor Bishop hasn’t finished unpacking.”
“Then you’d be wrong. He’s a pretentious bastard.” The grad student said it like a statement, not a guess.
Holland was surprised. So far she’d only heard positive things about Professor Adam Bishop. “Why don’t you like him?”
“I didn’t say I don’t like him.”
“You called him a pretentious asshole.”
The grad student quirked a brow. “I actually think I called him a bastard.”
“No, you—” She swore he’d said the word asshole, but now as she replayed the last few seconds, she heard him saying, You’d be wrong. He’s a pretentious bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Asshole. Bastard. Asshole. The words skipped through her head like a broken track of music. Until she felt something that wasn’t in her head.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Holland lifted her fingers to catch the blood falling from her nose. Red drops landed on her palm before staining her white skirt.
“Here, use this—” The grad student pulled a red handkerchief from his back pocket. Because of course he would have a handkerchief. It was perfectly normal to have a handkerchief—sixty years ago.
Holland might have thought the handkerchief was part of his Halloween costume. But Halloween wasn’t until tomorrow, and the rest of him appeared normal.
“Who are you?” she asked.
He flashed an absolutely perfect grin. “I’m Adam Bishop.”
Holland laughed. “Oh really.” She had a quick thought that being hot and funny was a fantastic combination. But he wasn’t smiling. Instead, he was nodding, unnervingly serious. And she felt a sudden, painful flash of embarrassment.
“Maybe you should take a seat,” he said. And now he sounded serious, too. There were no more smiles or grins, and she felt ridiculous for thinking he’d maybe been flirting with her. Except …
This was not how she had pictured Adam Bishop. Ripped jeans, plaid shirt, sexy smirk. Strike that. He was a professor. He didn’t have a sexy smirk. Except he absolutely did, even if he was no longer wearing it.
She tried not to stare at his mouth. But then she made the mistake of looking up, at the dash of freckles across the bridge of his nose. And then there were his eyes. Hazel, with lots of green, flecks of gold, and a dark circle of blue, and she was definitely staring now.
“I really think you should take a seat,” he said. “You’re looking a little flushed.”
“I’m not flushed. Just surprised.” But she was definitely flushed. She could feel it, and she knew he could see it.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. A gesture clearly meant to show he was closing himself off to her because she’d definitely misread the situation. Then he took an intentional step back toward the desk. “Let’s start over. I’m Adam and I asked to meet because I’m going to be your new thesis adviser.”
“I’m sorry. What?” she blurted.
“I’m going to be your new thesis adviser,” he repeated.
“But I already have an adviser.”
“That’s why I said I was going to be your new one.”
“You can’t be.”
“Why?” he asked innocently, but then she saw it again. A new smirk that briefly seemed to ask, Is this because you find me attractive?
“I think there’s been a mistake,” she managed calmly. “Professor Kim has been my adviser since I started the program.”
Adam frowned at the mention of the Professor. “That’s why I asked you to come here in person. I’ve been told the two of you were close.”
“What do you mean were?” Holland asked nervously. “Did something happen to her?”
Holland thought back to the last time she’d seen the Professor. It was near the beginning of the month. Holland remembered the Professor being unusually excited that it was finally October. She hadn’t seen her in person since then, but earlier that day she’d received a package from her.
“Far as I know she’s fine,” Adam said.
“Then why are you replacing her?”
“You really have no idea?” He suddenly looked sorry for Holland, and for a second he didn’t say anything, as if he wasn’t sure how to phrase whatever he needed to say next.
“Has the Professor been fired?” Holland asked.
“No,” he said carefully. “I’m not at liberty to say anything else about it, but she can’t be your adviser anymore.”
“Wait—why?” Holland interrupted. “The Professor is one of the most beloved faculty members in this department.”
“But her classes are full of lies,” Adam cut in.
Holland flinched at the sudden sharpness in his tone.
“I’m sorry to say this,” he said more softly. “I know you look up to her, but you really shouldn’t. That woman is a liar and a fraud.”
He said something else along the lines of not being allowed to answer any more questions on the subject, but Holland was having a difficult time focusing. She needed to get a hold of the Professor and find out exactly what was going on.
Holland knew there were some faculty members who didn’t take the Professor seriously. But most of those people considered her classes harmless fun. And they didn’t usually call her a liar.
“Well, thank you for this information. It was nice to meet you,” she lied.
“Wait,” Adam said. “We still need to talk about your thesis.”
“I’m good.” Holland was already backing away. If she stayed, she was either going to get into a fight with him or burst into tears, neither of which she wanted to do.
“This isn’t an optional conversation,” he said. He reached behind him and grabbed a manila folder from the desk. It was blank, save for Holland’s name in one corner, written in severe capital letters.
Holland had the sudden impression that she was in trouble now, too. And this time she didn’t need to ask why.
Her palms started sweating and her fingers started toying with the chain around her neck as she watched Adam open the folder.
Holland was extremely proud of what she’d written, but her thesis was supposed to be between her and the Professor. She’d shared pieces of it with January, which actually hadn’t gone very well, and she had a feeling things wouldn’t go much better with Adam Bishop.
After opening the folder, Adam looked inside for what felt like an eternity, then finally said, “What you’ve written is good.”
“Really?” Holland asked, relieved.
“You’re an excellent writer,” he said sincerely. “The Professor’s notes mention that you were briefly a Storytelling major in your undergrad, and it shows. You pulled me in right away with your version of Natalia West’s death. The way you connected her rapid rise to fame in the 1950s with her mysterious death was smart, and you did a clever job of drawing parallels between the strange details of her death and those of other celebrities who died under tragic or unexplainable circumstances.”
Adam flipped through a few more pages. Holland tried not to grin. She was still upset by everything he’d said about the Professor. But she also couldn’t help thinking that maybe there was more nuance to Adam Bishop than she had given him credit for. He seemed to really understand what she was doing. And he’d called her smart.
“Unfortunately”—Adam shut the folder and looked up at Holland with eyes that had lost their smile—“you can’t use any of this.”
“But—wait—” she stammered. “You just said it was good.”
“It is. Your theory that some of the most famous deaths in Hollywood were actually murders committed by the devil is extremely entertaining, for fiction.”
The word fiction hit her like a slap. For the second time since meeting Adam, she could feel her cheeks turning red. She wasn’t sure if he was doing it on purpose or if he was just a jerk, but she felt like he kept tricking her.
“You’ve been in this department since undergrad, so I don’t think I need to explain what we do here. I just need you to come up with a new topic.”
“What if I can prove I haven’t made any of this up?” Holland asked.
Adam looked at her as if this was not what he’d expected her to say. For a second, she swore he looked impressed, but, like his enigmatic smirk, the expression was there and then gone. “You want to prove the devil is real?”
“Yes.” Holland felt a terrified thrill as she said it. It was the same way she felt whenever she worked on her thesis. It was a dark topic—delving into old Hollywood deaths and connecting them to deals with the devil that were never paid back. Holland struggled mentally with researching it for extended stretches of time, which is why she was behind. If not for all the Professor’s encouragement, and for the fact that this topic meant so much to Holland personally, she would have given up on it.
“I get it,” Adam finally said. “The Professor is very convincing. But I think chasing after any of her stories is a dangerous idea. So, no. I’m not giving you the chance to prove the devil exists. I need you to submit a new potential topic to me by next Wednesday.”
“That’s not enough time,” Holland protested.
“That’s why I’ve already come up with a suggestion for you.” Adam gallantly pulled a page from the folder and held it out to Holland.
“No thank you,” she said, refusing to even touch the paper.
Shock flitted across Adam’s handsome face, as if, once again, her response was not what he’d anticipated. “Take it just in case,” he insisted.
“I don’t want your help,” she said. And she didn’t need it. Holland didn’t care what he’d just said. The Professor wasn’t a liar. Holland wasn’t naive and she was going to prove it, for her mentor and for her parents.
* * *
As soon as she left Adam Bishop’s office, Holland pulled out her phone and called the Professor.
“Hello, you have reached the voicemail of M. Madeleine Kim. I am not in the habit of returning calls, I prefer meetings in person. If you truly wish to reach me, I can be found during my office hours, or I can be reached via physical correspondence sent to my house—if you are lucky enough to have the address. You may also send letters, telegrams, or packages to my office.” Her final word was punctuated with a long slow beep.
Holland hung up and sent her a text.
During the three years Holland had known the Professor, she had never replied to a text, and truthfully she was terrible at answering her phone.
That’s when Holland remembered the business card from Manuel Vargas. She pulled it out from her messenger bag. The emerald ink shimmered in the low hall light.
Earlier, Holland had convinced herself it was all a scam. But what if it wasn’t?
In Holland’s mind, the Professor’s Folklore 517 stories were all connected. She always imagined they lived in a world together, similar to that of the Brothers Grimm fairytales. If she was right, then it could make sense that finding the Watch Man didn’t unlock a door just to him, but to the Professor’s entire world of myths and legends.
Holland dialed the phone number on the card.
“Good afternoon, thank you for calling the First Bank of Centennial City,” chirped an automated voice. “If you know your party’s extension, please say it out loud or enter it now using your keypad or rotary phone. If you do not know your party’s extension, please say the last five digits of your account number.”
The voice continued to list selections that didn’t apply to Holland, until finally she was given the option of leaving a message.
“Hello, my name is Holland, and I’d like to make an appointment tomorrow, with Mr. Manuel Vargas,” she said. “I just found out that there is a safety deposit box in your bank that was willed to me, and I would like to open it.”
Folklore 517: Hollywood Forever Cemetery
It’s supposed to be a perfect day, sunny with a light breeze, but you don’t feel the breeze, just the sun, as you reach the towering iron gates of the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. It’s pretty beyond them: green grass, tall trees, stained glass, and marble buildings.
It feels more like a movie set than a cemetery. In fact, you think they might be filming something to the right. You see a series of black pop-up tents, a few golf carts, and a number of people strutting around importantly, much like the many peacocks that call this place home. You avoid them—the people and the peacocks—choosing to walk straight down the middle of the cemetery.
The back of your neck is sweating. You always thought graveyards were cold, but this one is hot, all sunshine and palm trees. And yet you have the prickly sense you’re being watched.
A dried palm frond drops to the ground behind you and you turn. That’s when you notice the view. The center path you’re on is lined in dark graves and spindly palm trees; they point straight toward the hills in the distance, where the famed HOLLYWOOD sign looks down on the dead.
It’s a great view of the iconic sign, but you don’t linger. You’re running late for class.
Everyone else must have already found the right grave because you don’t see any other students. To your left, your eye snags on a tombstone with an unexpectedly familiar phrase. Above the name Mel Blanc are his famous words “THAT’S ALL FOLKS.” The phrase always seemed cheerful to you in cartoons, but now it feels sad. The sorrow stays with you as you make your way toward the mausoleum in the back.
