Alchemy of Secrets, page 7
This was how she taught her class on the Watch Man, in a room buzzing with synchronized second hands.
When Holland had been the Professor’s TA, it had been her job to position all the clocks in the same sitting room, sync all their times, and then set their alarms so they would all go off at the exact same moment. When the Professor revealed what happened when a person asked the Watch Man for the time, all the clocks went off at once, filling the room with an ungodly trill that made every student jump or curse or some combination of both.
Holland could hear that trill now as she ran to her car.
She finally found her car on the far side of a crammed parking lot, its hood practically against the cement wall, its sides sandwiched between two cars she didn’t remember being so close. Everything felt closer than it should have, as if the cars, the apartment complex, all of Los Angeles were pressing in on her.
She squeezed in on her driver’s side and reached for the door handle, but it didn’t open. She tugged again. The door stayed locked. She fumbled in her bag for her keys. But even when she pressed the fob, her car wouldn’t come to life.
She swore she could hear a swarm of police officers in the distance. According to police procedure, they’d start canvassing the area. She needed to get out of there.
A dark SUV approached, window rolled down on the passenger side. “Having trouble?” the driver asked.
Holland shook her head. “I’m good.” She tried her fob again, hoping the driver would keep going—this guy was better off getting away from her—but he rolled to a stop, right behind her car, boxing Holland in.
“It doesn’t matter how many times you press that button. I made sure it’s not going to start.”
Holland’s stomach dropped.
“Now be a good girl and get in the car.” He opened the passenger door. Interior lights glowed, revealing a guy who could have been the reason you had to warn women they weren’t supposed to go off with strangers. He had an attractive face, wore an impeccable suit, and his square jaw was covered in just the right amount of dark stubble.
Holland backed up as much as she could.
The stranger didn’t take his eyes off her. They were dark and a little tortured. She got the impression he didn’t feel great about kidnapping her, but it wasn’t going to stop him. “That wall isn’t going to save you, sweetheart. And before you waste more time protesting, it’s either me or the cops. Or you can take your chances with whoever murdered your boyfriend.”
She didn’t bother to correct him about Jake being her boyfriend. She was more concerned that this guy knew about his death. “How do I know that you didn’t murder him?”
“You don’t know. But I didn’t.” The stranger gave her a hard look that said he wasn’t a liar. As if that sin was even worse than kidnapping or murder. “We’re running out of time.” He impatiently motioned toward the empty passenger seat.
That’s when she saw it, on the underside of his wrist: an indigo tattoo of an antiquity eye, with the symbol for tin——on top and the symbol for sulfur— —below.
Her breath caught at the familiar combination. Instinctively her fingers went to the chain around her neck. “You have the exact same tattoo as my sister.”
“Who do you think asked me to come here?” he said, and he looked as if he regretted saying yes to the request. “I’m doing this as a favor to January, but I’m only staying thirty more seconds. Then it’s you and the cops.”
There was a very strong part of Holland that wanted to jump over the car beside her and start running. She needed to get to the Professor’s house. She needed to find the Alchemical Heart. But he’d said her sister’s name, and he had the same tattoo.
Right after January had gotten her tattoo, Holland had thought it would be fun to get a matching one. But January had said she actually rather regretted it, and then she’d bought Holland a necklace like it instead. She’d given Holland an antiquity eye with the symbol for tin hanging from the bottom, and she’d bought herself the same necklace, except with the symbol for sulfur. January had promised to never take it off, and Holland did the same. Her fingers were now clutching the symbol for tin, as they did whenever she was nervous.
Even if this man knew her sister, he felt like a wolf in a suit, and she didn’t want to be his Little Red Riding Hood.
He sighed. “I swear, I’m not going to lay a hand on you.” He said it the same way he said he wasn’t a liar, as if there were some lines he wouldn’t cross, but not very many. “I only killed your car because I needed to get you to come with me.”
“Why not just ask like a normal, nonthreatening person?”
“Because I am not very good at pretending,” he said gruffly. “I’m here because I owe your sister. January told me to keep you alive, but I can’t do that if you won’t get in.” He cut a glance to his rearview mirror. “You have five seconds,” he warned. “If you want to live and find out who actually killed your boyfriend, come with me.”
The patter of footsteps sounded in the distance, followed by voices that made her think the cops were close. If they found her now, they’d have all kinds of questions about why she ran from the scene. She was trapped between two bad choices.
Get eaten by a wolf or questioned by the cops.
Holland knew she wasn’t thinking clearly. But that didn’t help her think more clearly, it just made her more aware that she was probably making a very bad decision as she got inside the car.
Folklore 517: the Chained Library
Driving through the Hollywood Hills makes you feel as if you’re playing a real-life video game designed by a sadistic city planner.
The roads are steep and dangerously narrow, cars going the other direction are always moving too fast. Then there are all the driveways, which always seem to have construction vehicles or moving trucks spilling out onto the street.
A red ball bounces in front of you. You slam on your brakes, afraid a child might chase after it. But it’s just the ball. It bounce-bounce-bounces down the road.
You drive a little slower, which is all right because you’re practically there. A few cars are already parked. You recognize one of your classmates’ vehicles; it has an old bumper sticker that says Birds aren’t real. You feel relieved at the sight of it. You’re in the correct place.
The Professor has been getting more cryptic with her clues. The last one you pieced together said There will be an Earthquake in Chinatown on Halloween. It’s October, and you’d wondered briefly if this was a prediction, not a clue. Then you noticed Earthquake was unnecessarily capitalized. You did some digging and discovered that all three of the capitalized nouns are names of movies with scenes filmed at the Hollywood Reservoir.
You visited here once, when you first moved to Los Angeles. They say it has the best view of the HOLLYWOOD sign, and you have to agree. It’s the sort of place that makes you want to take up jogging. You imagine running along the water, a resurrected song from the ’80s playing in the background, making you feel as if you’re living inside one of those movie montages.
There’s no music today, just dry wind and heat. You feel closer to the sun at the top of the hill. The Professor is wearing round black sunglasses that cover half her face. Her back is to the water and the mountains and the perfect view of the HOLLYWOOD sign. The rest of the class forms an eager horseshoe around her. There are now only nine of you left.
Everyone is waiting for her to speak and she is waiting for you. She stays still for a full minute after you arrive, so the rest of the class knows you’re the cause of the delay. Then, so quietly that everyone has to move in a little closer, she begins. “There are several places in Los Angeles where time moves differently. LAX is one of them. All of you have probably noticed how time often slows to a crawl in those terminals.”
The student next to you giggles. The Professor ignores her and continues.
“It slows down here as well. People attribute the peaceful, unhurried feeling of the reservoir to the water and the view, but I’m here to tell you that it’s magic. Real magic that dates back to the story I’m going to share today. Have any of you ever heard of the Chained Library at the Hereford Cathedral?”
Three hands go up. It sounds so obscure, you’re surprised a third of the class is familiar with it.
The Professor looks disappointed. “In the Middle Ages, books were extraordinarily valuable, and it was common practice to chain them up to protect them from theft. About five hundred years ago, a large number of these chained-up books and manuscripts began to mysteriously arrive at the Hereford Cathedral. No one knew why, but so many of them appeared that someone decided to form a library.
“Most people consider it a curiosity, a place to take pictures that can be posted with pithy captions. However, my dear students, there’s a reason all those chained manuscripts showed up at that particular cathedral. The Hereford Cathedral is dedicated to two saints, one of whom is Saint Æthelberht the King. I’d ask if any of you know who he is, but I don’t want to be disappointed again, so I will just tell you. Æthelberht was a ruler during the Middle Ages who was betrayed and murdered by the parents of his betrothed.”
The Professor mimes a knife slashing across her throat. And you feel slightly disturbed by how animated she becomes whenever she speaks of someone’s demise.
“Recordkeeping was abysmal in the Middle Ages, so Æthelberht’s life would have been forgotten by history, except that the events after his death are quite remarkable. As Æthelberht’s body was on its way to be buried, the stories say his severed head rolled out of a cart and restored the sight of a blind man. Even more miracles were reported at the location of his grave.
“Rumors spread that the grave was magic. A church was built there, which turned into the Hereford Cathedral, and then the chained books began to arrive. But it was not all by happenstance, as the stories say. There was one chained book in the library that was locked up not to keep it safe, but to protect the world from what had been hidden inside it. The other chained books were all just decoys to camouflage the existence of this volume and the magic that it concealed.
“But even bound in chains, protected by a dead saint, and hidden among stacks of other chained volumes, the magic locked inside this book made its presence known. Stories started spreading around England about people who visited the library receiving preternatural gifts. The most notable of these was a woman from Dewchurch named Mary Young—although it’s doubtful that was her actual surname. After visiting the Chained Library, Mary Young didn’t age a day. Eventually, she was labeled a witch and killed for this, but not before her story traveled across England. Other stories spread as well, until one day the book disappeared from the shelves.”
The Professor pauses dramatically, letting her story sink in. This is the first time she’s told a tale that doesn’t relate to Los Angeles. But you’re already imagining how she’ll bring it back around.
“To this day, no one knows who took it,” she continues. “But after it vanished, there were more stories of peculiar magics all over England. There were whispers of time stopping, of loved ones returning from the dead, of a young boy who could kill with his mere words. For one hundred years, there were stories of ordinary people receiving extraordinary magical gifts, until one day the stories stopped. The book that had been stolen reappeared at the Chained Library. Only now the volume was without chains, and it was completely hollowed out. The magical object inside was gone. All that remained was a slip of parchment with a series of numbers on it. I don’t usually share this next part with students, but let’s just say the time feels right.”
The Professor begins to rattle off a list of numbers. It’s a long list. Finally you think she’s near the end, because she pauses and then she finishes with “One zero two zero two five.”
You’re working on doing some math in your head when the person beside you says, “The numbers are dates. Months and years.”
Someone else says, “The last one is this month.”
The Professor’s expression is difficult to read with her giant sunglasses, but you think she sounds pleased as she says, “You’re both correct. The list is indeed a series of dates, and each of those dates has coincided with the reappearance of the object that was hidden inside the book.”
“What was hidden?” asks the same student who first figured out the numbers were dates.
The Professor scowls. “I just told you. The most powerful object in the world.”
“Are we supposed to find it?” you ask boldly.
“My advice would actually be to stay away from this particular item, but if you hear any rumors about it, please let me know.”
CHAPTER TEN
The stranger drove fast and sharp, as if car crashes only happened to mortals, and he wasn’t one of them. Holland hadn’t even finished shutting the door before he sped away. Engine revving. Tires taking corners too fast.
“Are you trying to kill me?” she wheezed, fumbling to buckle her seatbelt. The vehicle was cold, pouring out aggressive California air conditioning. Yet her palms were clammy and her skin was burning, and she wasn’t entirely sure if it was because she’d just gotten into a car with a complete stranger or because of everything else that had just happened.
Maybe it was both.
Her heart was racing faster than the car. She felt as if it would never slow. It raced as if she needed to move, as if she needed to outrun everything. She needed to outrun Jake’s death and the sirens and the words of the Watch Man.
You will die tomorrow, Halloween, at 11:59 p.m.… The only way to live past tomorrow is to find the Alchemical Heart.
That’s what she needed to focus on—finding the Alchemical Heart.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked.
“Somewhere safe,” the stranger replied.
“No,” Holland argued. “We need to go to the Professor’s house.” She rattled off the name of her street, along with the exit he needed to take.
“Yeah, that’s not going to happen.” He careened onto the 405, accelerating to an ungodly speed that made Holland grip the armrests so tightly she worried her fingernails would break.
“Listen, I’m not sure why my sister sent you. But…” She didn’t know how to finish the sentence because for a second she couldn’t help wondering if her sister actually had sent him.
Yes, they had the same tattoo, which felt significant. And Holland could absolutely picture her sister sending a bodyguard—even though they were twins, January had always taken on the older, more responsible sister role. But that didn’t help explain why she had sent him.
Holland carefully pulled out her phone.
The stranger grabbed it from her hands, rolled down the window, and threw it onto the freeway.
Holland let out an involuntary shriek. “Why would you do that?”
He shook his head, as if she was the one who’d just done something wrong. “January told me to keep you safe.”
“January is who I was trying to call.” Holland glared at him. “I wanted to make sure you’re not a sociopath.”
“Here.” He tossed something onto Holland’s lap. It looked like one of those pay-as-you-go phones, with actual buttons instead of a touch screen. “Go ahead, call your sister. She’s in my contacts under J. Ask her whatever you want about me.”
“It might help if I knew your name.”
“It’s Gabe.”
“Do you have a last name, Gabe?”
“January knows who I am.”
Holland didn’t doubt it. Gabe was the sort of guy you didn’t forget. In the car’s dim light, Holland couldn’t tell if he had scars, but he seemed like the sort who would—she imagined one on his right cheek, just below his eye. His jaw was square and hard, as if he exercised it by munching on rocks. His brows were thick and she imagined his eyes were lined in thick, dark lashes as well. But she still said, “Gabe is actually a pretty common name, and my sister knows a lot of people.”
A muscle ticked in Gabe’s jaw. And she felt a small amount of triumph that, for a second, she wasn’t the only one who was uncomfortable. “It’s Cabral,” he muttered.
Gabe Cabral.
Holland had a sudden feeling she’d heard the name before, but she couldn’t remember how. Could January have mentioned him after all?
She opened Gabe’s contacts. There were only five of them. All were either letters or numbers, as if he wasn’t mysterious enough. “Do you have something against names?”
“No, just against women who snoop through my phone.”
Ignoring the barb, Holland pressed the letter J. For the third time that day, she reached her sister’s voicemail. At least Gabe actually knew her sister. “Hey JJ, it’s me, Holland. I need to talk to you. I’m calling from the phone of your friend Gabe Cabral. Call me back as soon as you can at—”
Gabe rattled off a number, which she repeated.
As soon as she finished, he took the phone back. “Better?” he asked.
Holland laughed. “You think that letting me make one call after you destroyed my phone and killed my car is going to make me feel better?”
Gabe twisted his mouth. He looked as if he wanted to say yes. As if for him, acting like an actual human was a colossally good deed.
“You basically kidnapped me.” Holland opened the glove box.
“Hey, stop snooping,” he ordered.
“As an abductee, it’s my job to look for any clues I can.” Sadly, the glove box was immaculate, aside from an insurance slip that belonged to Rita Meeker. She held it out for him. “Thought you said your name was Gabe Cabral.”
He glared. “Would it make you feel better if I said I’ll give her back the car when I’m done?”
“Only if I believed you.” Holland still had a number of questions as to why her sister had sent him. “Only half of this even makes sense. How did my sister know I was in trouble?”
Traffic came to a halt. Gabe scowled as he checked all the mirrors. “This is what your sister left for me.” He handed Holland a slip of paper. She immediately recognized January’s handwriting.
