The Alchemy of Forever (5 page)

Claudia and Cyrus enter the lounge, and I close the heavy walnut door behind us, locking it. Cyrus is surprised—I know he wants it open for Jared and Amelia in case anything goes wrong—but he doesn’t say anything.

“It’s beautiful,” Claudia says breathlessly, taking in the walls made of milky green glass, backlit by twinkling lights. The ceiling is covered with gossamer fabric, billowing softly in the breeze wafting in from the open balcony doors. This private room with its balcony is exactly why I asked Cyrus to hold my party here.

“Glad you like.” Cyrus’s voice is slightly slurred as he steers her toward a cluster of couches and sits down. He rubs his eyes as if to clear his vision. I take a nervous gulp of air and hand Claudia a glass of absinthe, trying to find a comfortable position on the pillows piled on the floor. I try not to look at the balcony doors. Even in his impaired state, I’m terrified that Cyrus can read my intentions. My good-bye note feels heavy in my pocket.

“So, Claudia, tell me about yourself. You’re not from San Francisco, are you?” I lace my fingers together to keep from tapping them impatiently. Cyrus’s wine is half gone.

“No,” she replies. “I am from Munich.”

“Traveling with friends?” I ask.

“Oh no, traveling alone. I adore it. I’ve been all over, but San Francisco is an amazing city. That’s why I want to get a job here, so I can stay.”

Even though Claudia will ultimately survive the night, rage courses through me. Cyrus knows my one criterion—that I only take bodies ready for death, either physically or spiritually. But Claudia is clearly healthy and happy and looking forward to her future. She is alone and beautiful—all that Cyrus needs to know to decide she deserves death.

Cyrus, pale and with dilated pupils, shoots me a smile devoid of any trace of remorse. I close my eyes for a moment, willing myself not to give in to the anger that’s sparking in my heart.

Claudia smiles shyly. “So tell me about the photo shoot.” She crosses her legs and touches her hair. “I have done some modeling.”

I stand up, needing to dispel my anger somehow, and the effort causes the room to swim briefly in misty gray. I walk slowly over to the bar, feeling their eyes on my back. I pull a bottle of water out of the minifridge. “The shoot, right.” My voice sounds thick. “It’s an editorial piece. It should feel like a fairy tale.”

“Like Snow White?” she asks. “That is my favorite story.”

I glance at Cyrus. “You remember that story. Is it like that?” I ask him.

His expression is dreamy. “The wicked queen demands Snow White’s heart,” he whispers, and something snaps inside of me. I walk over to the leaf-green sofa where he sits.

“But she doesn’t get it!” I say. “Snow White tricks her and sends her the heart of a deer instead.”

He sees my rage, but just smiles and drains his glass in one swallow. Suddenly I realize just how much I’m going to enjoy what’s about to happen.

One,
I count silently.

His eyes, which had begun to close, fly open, and his hand snakes out and grabs my wrist.

“What’s going on?” asks Claudia.

Two.

I lean close to Cyrus, ignoring the pain in my wrist. “She doesn’t deserve to die. None of them did.”

“Sera?” His voice is weak and his grip on my wrist loosens.

“Good-bye,” I answer.

Three
.

His eyelids flutter, then close, as he slumps forward. I plunge my hand into my dress and pull out the note, slipping it into his pants pocket. I feel his hand fall away from my arm as he crumples onto the low table, his head making a loud thump as it hits the glass.

Claudia lets out a scared gasp. “Run!” I whisper. Then I dash toward the balcony doors, and like a bird taking flight, I am free, out into the night.

The balcony swirls with fog. I swing my legs over the railing, slippery with marine air. I lose my grip and force myself to focus. One misplaced hand and I will tumble to the concrete below. I do intend to die tonight, but not here. Not like this.

I can hear Claudia yelling inside and grit my teeth. I should have spiked her drink too. One of my shoes slips off. As it disappears into the fog, I picture it bouncing on the sidewalk. I struggle to find a foothold. Amelia had trained me as an acrobat, but that was a long time ago, and my body is very weak.

Breathing hard, I kick off the other shoe and ignore a pounding sound above—Jared and Amelia kicking in the door. I can’t afford to dwell on it, so I keep moving. Bit by bit, I make my way down.

Once on the sidewalk, I can’t hear anything else from above; all other sound is swallowed by the dance music pouring from the club. I shove through the crowd still waiting to get in to Emerald City, then start running up Spear Street.

Each time my foot lands on the pavement, hot pain shoots up through my body. My breath comes in rasps and my lungs feel as though they’re collapsing. But I know what I’m running toward and push myself forward. It’s 11:17
PM;
I have ten minutes before the next train leaves the BART station.

I hear a shout behind me and whip my head around, nearly losing my balance. It’s only an old homeless man having an argument with a street sign. After that I keep my gaze focused straight ahead, too terrified to glance backward.

“Sera! Stop!” Jared yells. I run even faster, my dress swishing against my thighs and my hair lifting high behind me in the damp wind. It feels like my skin is falling off my bones, and I know my bare feet are probably bleeding. My failing heart beats erratically in my chest, fluttering like a trapped bird. I pray I have the strength to reach my getaway car.
That’s all I need
, I plead with my body.
Please.

Finally daring to look behind me, I see Jared gaining on me, Amelia only a few steps behind. He would love nothing more than to drag me back to Cyrus like a puppy who’d gone off leash. Amelia, on the other hand, would probably be happier if I disappeared forever, though loyalty to Cyrus is all the impetus she needs to join the pursuit.

The BART station sign looms in the distance, its black-and-blue logo illuminated but out of focus in the fog. There’s more foot traffic as I get closer to the Embarcadero stop, and I shove people out of my way. “Watch it!” I hear as I blaze by.

It’s a game night, and every other person is wearing the Giants’ colors. A woman decked out in an orange-and-black jersey pushes an empty stroller. I misjudge her direction and trip over the stroller, falling to my knees on the sidewalk.

“Sera! Stay there!” Jared’s voice has an undercurrent of panic. If he goes back empty-handed, Cyrus will surely “have words” with him. I know all about the very real scars those words can leave.

Scrambling to my feet, I take off again, Jared and Amelia only a block behind me now. I look back once more and make sure they’re watching as I finally reach the BART station entrance, shoving through drunken baseball fans down the escalator. I hop the turnstile without paying, hurrying toward the rising wind and industrial screech of the trains rumbling into the station.

The platform is packed with Giants fans, all orange and disorganized and jubilant. The arriving train is headed for the East Bay, and the crowd struggles to board. I catch sight of my reflection in a window: wild-eyed, hair a tangled mess, dress torn, blood dribbling down my knees.

“Seraphina! You need. To. Stop!” Jared’s voice is urgent and close. I turn around and catch his eye, then push my way onto the East Bay–bound train. People give me a wide berth, and I feel someone touching my hand. I gasp and look down—but it’s only an older woman sitting near the doors. “You okay, honey?” I nod wordlessly, eyes trained on the platform. Amelia and Jared dash into a car two down from mine.

“The doors are closing. Please stand clear,” says the conductor.

That’s my cue. I spring into action.

The rumble and horn of an approaching train—heading in the opposite direction—are the only sounds I hear. I dart out of the car just before the doors close and dodge across the platform, sidestepping people and slipping toward the front of the crowd as the San Francisco–bound airport train opens its doors with a sigh. Pinned by the window, I turn and look behind me, where the East Bay train has yet to depart. Jared and Amelia are still on the other train, scanning the crowd.

Amelia’s eyes lock with mine. I’ve been seen. It doesn’t matter. Their train is already chugging to life and sliding out of the station. They’ll be stuck on it for the long ride under the bay, between the Embarcadero and West Oakland stations, giving me a good twenty-minute head start if they decide to come back after me.

I ride for only two stops and exit with the crush of people at Powell Street. No doubt Jared and Amelia will think I’m headed deeper into the city, toward the airport. But when Cyrus wakes up, he’ll find my note and realize I haven’t boarded any planes.

The rush of adrenaline has worn off, and I’m exhausted. But still, I am free to follow this night’s course of action to its dark finish. The wind has stopped, allowing the fog to settle thickly over the neighborhood. It turns city blocks into something more private, like small, silent rooms. Through the haze the fractured beam of a streetlight glints off a metal surface. I squint—it’s the car. I had kept it hidden near our apartment and driven it over earlier today. Two soggy parking tickets are plastered to the windshield, but I say a prayer of thanks that it hasn’t been towed.

I bought the dusty old Ford off Craigslist a few weeks earlier. I gave the seller a fake name and paid his price without complaint, though I knew it was high, handing over an envelope filled with cash. I’d been saving money bit by bit for years—ten dollars here, twenty there—small enough amounts that Cyrus would never notice. I didn’t even start saving it consciously—it was more instinctual. One day after buying a coffee I slipped the change into the book I was reading, then told Cyrus the cashier must have shorted me. It gave me a small thrill to disobey him, to finally have something that was mine.

I reach into the bodice of my dress and unpin the key I’d affixed to my bra strap. In the trunk I find my getaway bag—it holds a change of clothes, Cyrus’s book, and the rest of my emergency money. I’m going to drive down to Big Sur tonight. I want to be among the redwoods and waterfalls when I die.

I tug on my jeans and sweater, dropping my soiled dress in the trunk and slipping my bruised feet into a pair of sneakers. My hands shake as I slide into the driver’s seat and press the key into the ignition. The throbbing in my temples and the blue hue of my fingers tell me I may not make it to Big Sur. But I have to try.

The engine starts and I pull out into traffic, heading toward the bridge. I shake my head with disbelief—after six hundred years with Cyrus, I am finally free. I will never again, I promise myself, kill an innocent. I press harder on the accelerator as the car rumbles onto the bridge, leaving San Francisco—and my past—far behind.

I drive with the windows wide open, drinking in the world and fresh air while I still have time. The pavement thrums under the wheels, carrying me forward, and I feel a flush of excitement. I know it’s morbid, but death is unexplored territory. Not even Cyrus knows what happens after we die.

With every mile I put between me and Cyrus, I feel a weight lifting. Even in the rain, California has never looked so beautiful and alive. I glance up at the stars, pinpricks pushing through the clouds, like they might fall into the bay.

I hope you’re out there, Mother,
I think,
because I’m coming.

But my euphoria comes at a high price, quickly sapping my remaining energy. My hands shake on the steering wheel and my vision blurs, turning the oncoming headlights into long yellow ribbons. I barely have enough energy to push the gas pedal. A car honks and swerves around me, and I fear that I’m no longer in charge of my body.

I let out a little sigh and tighten my grip on the wheel. I had wanted to go all the way to Big Sur, to be deep in the pines, listening to nothing but the cold wind and the hooting of owls on gnarled branches, but I’m fading—fast. I won’t make it to Big Sur. Even if I tried, I would probably get into a car accident and end up killing someone else in the process.

Oakland, I decide, is as good a place as any to die. The road turns sharply as I begin the descent from Treasure Island toward Oakland, passing a tattered and faded billboard advertising a judgment day that never came. Beyond that, an eerie cluster of shipping-container cranes look out over the Oakland port like ancient guardians of the city.

I guide the car down Franklin Street, toward Jack London Square. A lone light shines on the loading docks of Second Street, illuminating the small droplets of mist that hang in the night air. I pull over on a side street, holding my head in my hands. The wave of weakness crests, then recedes. Trembling, I pull the key from the ignition, hoist my bag on my shoulder, and set off silently through the gloom. Sidestepping slicks of oil and crumbling potholes, I make my way toward a neon sign that reads
SALOON
, tucked under a termite-gnawed eave.

I know my time is short, but still, I’m not going to die sitting in my car. Though our original bodies die a human death, our stolen bodies collapse into dust when we leave them, exhausted from the energy it takes to host a foreign soul. I want my dusty remains to return to nature, not add to the layer of grime in this old Ford.

I decide to go in and get something to drink. I have to admit I’m scared, and wine will take the edge off my nerves, make me brave, before I chase my destiny into the great beyond.

Once inside I set my getaway bag on the ground and slide onto a heavy oak bar stool, smiling briefly at the two older men who sit next to each other not talking. After a moment I feel their eyes fall away, and they return to their beers. Catching sight of my high cheekbones and espresso-colored hair in the mirror behind the bar, I understand why they were looking. Even this close to death, I am beautiful.