it.
âGo ahead, take it. Itâs the Elixir.â
Cal stared morosely down at his shoes. From the corner of his eye, he could see the escaped salamander swatting around the errant mercury bead. âI havenât got any money.â
âItâs okay. Itâs a gift.â
Cal swallowed hard and took the vial. âThanks.â He didnât like owing the Alchemist anything.
Stroud smiled. âIâll send someone to search for your friends. You rest.â
Cal nodded. âThank you.â The vial burned coldly in his hands.
Stroud turned back to his measurements, and Cal retreated back up the steps. Back into the light.
The kitchen of the old farmhouse was bathed in glorious golden sun, illuminating a sink full of filthy dishes. A cereal box scuttled across the floor until a turned-Âaround mouse emerged with his cheeks full of Froot Loops. Beer bottles were lined up against the window, casting green and amber shadows on the sticky linoleum.
Upstairs, Cal could hear somebody fucking. He banged through the torn screen door, past a limp figure in a plastic lawn chair who smelled as if heâd pissed himself.
Outdoors sprawled the Garden. At least, that was what Stroud called it. Cal thought the old man must have a secret sense of humor. Trailers were parked in uneven rows around the old farmhouse, bounded by woods, corn, and blond field grasses. A chicken wandered by, ignoring a skinny dog chained to a clothesline post. The only thing that resembled a garden here was a bit of Indian paintbrush growing wild in the field.
Cal found a downspout at the corner of the farmhouse and shimmied up it to the sheet-Âmetal roof of the porch. He sat down on the hot steel and fished his pipe out of his pants pocket. He tapped the contents of the vial that Stroud had given him into the bowl of the pipe, and reached for his lighter to heat it.
Cal waited impatiently for the liquid to begin to fade to vapor and crystallize against the glass. He inhaled deeply, holding his breath and staring up at the clear blue sky.
This was what Stroud called the Elixir. A piece of immortality. As the ghost of the Elixir soaked into his brain, he began to feel a sense of peace steal over him. This sensation, this presence, was what Stroud said that yogis and bodhisattvas chased.
The pastâÂthe fight with Justin, the miserable conditions of the GardenâÂfell away.The futureâÂworry for what had happened to Adam and DianaâÂfell away.
He was one with the sky and the heat of the day radiating from the metal at his back. He was one with that clear blue. Feeling nothing but the rise and fall of his chest and the beat of his heart. Thinking nothing.
A sublime smile curled the corner of his mouth, and Cal sank into oblivion.
He didnât see the raven perched on the edge of the gutter, watching.
S tanâs Dungeon was not what Petra expected.
Bells tied to the iron-Âlaced door chimed as Petra pushed into the gloomy pawn shop. The shop was stacked floor to ceiling with shelves, dusty glass cases, and gun racks. It smelled of new tobacco and old gunpowder, and racks of military surplus clothing cluttered the floor.
But there was more here than just guns, old musical instruments, and militaria. Stan was apparently a collector of antiques. A cigar-Âstore Indian stood just inside the door. An old saddle was suspended by rope from the ceiling, and cases of coins and grainy photographs of the Old West hung from the walls.
Petra paused to look at the collection of photos in metal frames. The sepia-Âtoned posed shots showed wooden buildings on a dirt street and men and women in hats and bonnets. She saw some familiar contours to the buildings and layout to the streets. ÂPeople in dresses and shiny boots stood around a building she knew. Church clothes, she realized. The Compostelaâs earlier incarnation as a house of worship.
âYou like old photos?â
Petra turned to
âGo ahead, take it. Itâs the Elixir.â
Cal stared morosely down at his shoes. From the corner of his eye, he could see the escaped salamander swatting around the errant mercury bead. âI havenât got any money.â
âItâs okay. Itâs a gift.â
Cal swallowed hard and took the vial. âThanks.â He didnât like owing the Alchemist anything.
Stroud smiled. âIâll send someone to search for your friends. You rest.â
Cal nodded. âThank you.â The vial burned coldly in his hands.
Stroud turned back to his measurements, and Cal retreated back up the steps. Back into the light.
The kitchen of the old farmhouse was bathed in glorious golden sun, illuminating a sink full of filthy dishes. A cereal box scuttled across the floor until a turned-Âaround mouse emerged with his cheeks full of Froot Loops. Beer bottles were lined up against the window, casting green and amber shadows on the sticky linoleum.
Upstairs, Cal could hear somebody fucking. He banged through the torn screen door, past a limp figure in a plastic lawn chair who smelled as if heâd pissed himself.
Outdoors sprawled the Garden. At least, that was what Stroud called it. Cal thought the old man must have a secret sense of humor. Trailers were parked in uneven rows around the old farmhouse, bounded by woods, corn, and blond field grasses. A chicken wandered by, ignoring a skinny dog chained to a clothesline post. The only thing that resembled a garden here was a bit of Indian paintbrush growing wild in the field.
Cal found a downspout at the corner of the farmhouse and shimmied up it to the sheet-Âmetal roof of the porch. He sat down on the hot steel and fished his pipe out of his pants pocket. He tapped the contents of the vial that Stroud had given him into the bowl of the pipe, and reached for his lighter to heat it.
Cal waited impatiently for the liquid to begin to fade to vapor and crystallize against the glass. He inhaled deeply, holding his breath and staring up at the clear blue sky.
This was what Stroud called the Elixir. A piece of immortality. As the ghost of the Elixir soaked into his brain, he began to feel a sense of peace steal over him. This sensation, this presence, was what Stroud said that yogis and bodhisattvas chased.
The pastâÂthe fight with Justin, the miserable conditions of the GardenâÂfell away.The futureâÂworry for what had happened to Adam and DianaâÂfell away.
He was one with the sky and the heat of the day radiating from the metal at his back. He was one with that clear blue. Feeling nothing but the rise and fall of his chest and the beat of his heart. Thinking nothing.
A sublime smile curled the corner of his mouth, and Cal sank into oblivion.
He didnât see the raven perched on the edge of the gutter, watching.
S tanâs Dungeon was not what Petra expected.
Bells tied to the iron-Âlaced door chimed as Petra pushed into the gloomy pawn shop. The shop was stacked floor to ceiling with shelves, dusty glass cases, and gun racks. It smelled of new tobacco and old gunpowder, and racks of military surplus clothing cluttered the floor.
But there was more here than just guns, old musical instruments, and militaria. Stan was apparently a collector of antiques. A cigar-Âstore Indian stood just inside the door. An old saddle was suspended by rope from the ceiling, and cases of coins and grainy photographs of the Old West hung from the walls.
Petra paused to look at the collection of photos in metal frames. The sepia-Âtoned posed shots showed wooden buildings on a dirt street and men and women in hats and bonnets. She saw some familiar contours to the buildings and layout to the streets. ÂPeople in dresses and shiny boots stood around a building she knew. Church clothes, she realized. The Compostelaâs earlier incarnation as a house of worship.
âYou like old photos?â
Petra turned to
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