The Apothecary's Curse (10 page)

“Do not come near me, Handley. I've the upper hand now. Not a freak anymore. I'm a fucking superhero—genetically enhanced with high-test telomerase, don't you know? This is the fucking twenty-first century!”

But the gathered punters were not listening, instead, encroaching on him five, then ten until half the audience rushed toward him, horrified concern on their faces. “Someone call 911!”

“No, I'm fine, no need to call. I'm only just joking. See? It's a magic knife—pure fakery—” His shirtsleeve fell away to his elbow—not a scratch where blood had just poured from an open wound! “It is magic. Ancient, ancient magic, my dear punters. Wrought of the fairies and elves a millennium ago. Do not be fooled into thinking it is anything else. Science is a lie. . . . It is all magic.” Now Gaelan sliced his other wrist, observing it close with detached interest until the only remaining evidence of a wound was the red-black of congealed blood on his white shirtsleeve. . . .

The pounding of his heart jolted Gaelan from the dream; he was gulping air and soaked through to the skin. Shivering, he willed his pulse to slow until its rhythm matched the steady beat of his ancient mantel clock. He must've slept; three hours had passed since he'd last noticed the time.

Post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD—a nice, sterile self-diagnosis; he remembered when it had been called shell shock or just plain fear. He needed neither Freud nor Jung to name it. Whatever it was called, Gaelan had not been free of its clutches, not in more than 170 years.

Nothing worked for very long: not cocaine, not even heroin, nor any manner of concoction he might conjure in his private workroom at the back of the shop. What he wouldn't give this very minute for a sip of laudanum to still his trembling hands, chase away the pounding in his head, each beat hurling a pitchfork of lightning through his temples.

The empty Lagavulin bottle was a problem. He'd not consumed nearly enough, and he had neither the reserves nor motivation to go out into the snow for another.

He massaged his brow, thoughts meandering to the familiar place where fragmented memory had played in an incessant loop since he'd read the
Guardian
story. “Stop! Just fucking stop!” he wailed, certain he would burst every blood vessel in his head. “Please just bloody stop!”

For a long time, life had been palatable: three hours of undisturbed sleep a night had been more than adequate to face the morning, followed by siesta at three for the remainder. For years, he had been comfortable in this little corner of the world called Evanston, and he'd enjoyed it. And now?

With an angry sweep of his arm, Gaelan sent books, papers, and his computer flying across the room—a sea of paper and gadgets, his laptop sitting at the top. “Well that bloody helped,” he mumbled. “Fucking hell.”

Disgusted, Gaelan surveyed his handiwork.
Pathetic. Bloody pathetic.
Retrieving from the chaos a small packet of Rizlas, he flicked out a thin rolling paper.
Ah, there you are. . . . 
An ounce of the best
Cannabis sativa
money could buy, better than his homegrown. His shaking hands could barely manage rolling the herb into the tissue. Three strikes of his ancient flint lighter later, Gaelan collapsed into the waiting arms of a wasted refuge.

LONDON, 1837

CHAPTER 11

Gaelan Erceldoune worried a corner of the ouroboros book, wondering whether Bell had by now administered the elixir—and if it worked. He would inquire in a day or two, ready to stretch out a hand in friendship. Grief had robbed him of life beyond the confines of his shop, and it was time to rejoin the world. He had Bell to thank for bestirring him from this woeful lethargy.

Now that the book had come down from its nook at the top of the bookcase, Gaelan had a mind to bury himself in it, scrutinize each page to truly comprehend the application of its odd and ancient science. Especially if Sophie Bell had been cured.

Allowing himself a moment's quiescence, Gaelan remembered the stories Papa would tell to him at bedtime after long hours of study and recitation. . . .

“The Tuatha de Danann had amongst them great healers—fairy folk, they were called,” his father had explained. “Dian Cecht, god of medicine, had two children: Miach, the god of surgery, and Airmid, the goddess of healing. They knew all of healing, every cure, but Airmid was the most skilled. All the herbs and minerals, elements, for all of medicine's . . . science's magic she concealed in her magnificent cloak. This was her book—gift to our ancestor Lord Thomas Learmont, a gift to us for all time.

“Yet it possesses a dangerous knowledge for these times. But some day, when you are ready, long after I am gone, which I fear will be soon, given the change of wind in the kingdom, you must, my son, study it thoroughly as you ply your trade. Do not fear it as others shall, yet use it only when you are absolutely certain it is necessary, and even then only with meticulous care. Its recipes are as fragile as the illustrations are intricate, but more powerful than the strongest medicines known to men.”

The flames burned bright on the hearth, providing warmth and light, but as with all of earth's elements, fire could be used for ill—just as any medicine. These were but things without motive, clay in the hands of the skilled tradesman. And whether good or ill came of them was in the hands of the maker.

Gaelan sighed, setting aside the book, his thoughts random and unsettled, alighting now upon Sophie Bell, curious how she had fared. Should he presume to stop by Bell's home on the morrow and inquire after the patient?

Restlessness gripped him as he wandered the sitting room, halting hearthside. Propping his elbow on the mantel, Gaelan stared into the blaze, finding comfort in the crackle of wood as the flames licked and sputtered.

The roar of shattering glass came from below, jolting Gaelan from his thoughts and frightening the dogs of Smithfield, whose howls echoed through the streets. Had a stall crashed to the cobblestones, disrupting the quiet of the marketplace?

Another explosion of glass, this time closer. The shop! And now footfalls thumped heavily on the stairs.
Tremayne or his blackguards!
Of course, come to hector him about Lil or some other matter. Four times this year alone they'd bullied their way past the door after hours, laying wreckage to the shop. But never had they broken the lock to the back stairway.

He would not give into Tremayne's bludgeoning; the scoundrel might tyrannize the whole of Smithfield, but Gaelan Erceldoune would not surrender. There was little that could be done to him—physically—from which he would not recover, and no damage to the shop was irreparable.

Gaelan could afford to ignore the threat and the attempts to intimidate. Yes, the shop would be in ruins again—windows smashed and bottles askew, hundreds of pounds' worth of herbs and chemicals strewn about. None of it signified, and Gaelan would persevere to aid Tremayne's whores, treat their maladies, insist they take the time to heal, urge them from the scoundrel's nefarious influence, even if only to find a less brutal employer.

After swiftly tossing the ouroboros book in his messenger bag, Gaelan flung it to the bookcase just as the door splintered in two.

“I hear tell you've taken up with my Lil, Erceldoune!” Predictably, there was Tremayne, flanked by two men, each dragging a cudgel.

Sucking in a breath, Gaelan stood firm, unmoving. “Not taken up, Tremayne, fixed up, and from what
you've
done to her!”

“Ain't none of your bloody business to tell my Lil she shouldn't be working. You cost me, Erceldoune. Every bloody time. Lil's my best girl, and she refuses to work this night or the next, or the one after that, till you say it's bloody all right!”

This was different from the usual—rarely would these encounters evince conversation.
What is he up to?
Staying calm was his best ally. Aggression was as pointless as trying to appeal to whatever feelings Tremayne might have toward a girl he housed and clothed. “Lil is sick. She shall grow sicker still if you force her—in any way—to work or anything else, if you catch my drift, Mr. Tremayne.”

“Ah, never mind all that, Erceldoune. Never mind at all. My sweet Lil has told me a lovely little tale about some sort of special concoction you've made up for some highborn gent, something to cure . . . cancer, is it? And from what I've heard, nothing can cure that scourge. So I have to think, what are you up to, a reputable apothecary like you? You're no street mountebank, and I've got to thinking that you've got something might make me a pretty penny, more than the girls do, I venture. I could retire in fine fashion, wash the stink of this place from my clothes at last!”

What had Lil overheard?
Gaelan shoved down a growing panic. “I've no bloody idea what you're talking about. You're not making sense, sir!” Gaelan stared straight ahead, hands balled into fists, trying to recall what she might have been privy to while sipping her tea. And even if she had heard—and understood—any of his conversation with Bell, she would never betray him to Tremayne. Unless he'd beat it from her, or . . .

“Ahhh. Go on!” He laughed. “You know exactly what I'm talking about. They know it too.” Tremayne gestured to the men at his side. “Were right there with me, listening to Lil squeal like a gutted pig.”

Gaelan knew this was not to end well. “To speak true, Mr. Tremayne, I do not know what you're talking about.” He ventured a step back, then another, until he felt the smoothness of the wall behind him.

“No? More's the pity. I can only assume, then, that Lil was lying to set me off her and on a merry little worthless chase to you. Well, she'll pay for it; make no mistake. As for you, I've warned you 'fore this many a time to keep your bloody hands off my girls. And apparently, you place no value upon your life or business.” Tremayne's soft sing-song belied the menace in his voice.

Gaelan shuddered, remaining silent, his gaze fixed upon one of the cudgels, as he waited for the first blow. Instead, the men doused the clubs with pitch and oil before touching them to the hearth flames; a suffocating-sweet haze filled the room.

Gaelan smoothed his hands along the wall behind him until he reached a small bronze knob beside the bookcase. Counting his breaths, slow and steady, without taking his gaze away from the silk window curtains now ablaze across the room, he pressed the knob. The bookshelves slid from view, replaced by a masonry wall.

Done.
Now to escape . . . somehow.
But the broken door was many feet away; the only other exit was in the next room.

Tremayne smirked. “
Clever
, Erceldoune. I've a mind to get me one of those; never know when it will come in right handy. However, your books, wherever they have gone off to, will not be safe from fire. Paper burns, just like wood and silk, only quicker. I thought you would know that, being you're a very clever man an' all!”

Little time remained until the entire building would be engulfed in flames. Once the fire reached his laboratory . . . Gaelan held up his hands in appeal. “Tremayne. Hear me. Hear. Me. Now. There yet remains but a small window through which we may back away from this precipice. I serve you and your men, repair their wounds and treat their ailments. There is none other in Smithfield. If you destroy my business—kill me—”

“You think much of yourself, Erceldoune. Enough talk.” Tremayne nodded, and instantly the floor was ablaze. “See you in hell, apothecary!” he called out as they fled.

Alone at last, Gaelan withdrew to his bedchamber and down the back passage toward the alleyway.
Timothy!
Oh, dear God.
Black smoke followed him down the stairs as fire crackled and spat out burning embers of paper and wood. In moments, the conflagration would spiral through the turret and up to the laboratory, transforming it into a noxious cauldron of chemical reactions.

The blaze had not yet reached the shop, but already smoke billowed through the ceiling from above as Gaelan made his way through the sea of shattered glass, rousting Timothy from his sleep.

The entire building shuddered as they escaped into the street. People shouted, screams muffled by the fire's roar as the laboratory went up, sending flares and flames like rockets into the night sky before the entire structure imploded. In the end, there was naught left of Gaelan's home but steam and smoke, smoldering wood and fused glass.

Gaelan led Timothy to a small iron grate set into the cobblestones. “Come quickly, Tim.” A steep ladder carried them from the street down into a deep cellar. The choking, acrid stink of burned wood and smoke faded from their nostrils as they descended farther into dark, stale air, the grate fast fading from sight high above them.

Perhaps this is a sign that it is long past time to depart this place.

They emerged into a large stone room, air chill and breathable, a welcome relief from the smoke and ash. Gaelan edged his way along the wall in the dark to a table. The room was bathed in a soft light as he touched a match to a filament inside a glass globe.

Across the space, Gaelan spied his bookshelves, slid into place from the flat above. Pleased that his bit of ingenuity had actually worked, he allowed himself a moment to admire the achievement.

“You see, Tim . . . ?” Gaelan turned around, ready to explain just how several hundred books managed to travel from the second story of the building into a hidden cellar—a lesson in ingenuity for his apprentice. But Timothy had already found the straw pallet, long ago prepared, and was sound asleep.

Exhausted as he was, sleep was not something Gaelan could afford—not right now. Some unfinished business, and then he must depart London, soon as he was able.

CHAPTER 12

Simon refused to believe it as he stood in horror over Sophie's prone body. She could not be dead.
She cannot be dead. She cannot be dead!
Simon reeled backward, staring in disbelief.
It is not possible.
“No! No, no, no!” he howled again and again, as if saying it would make it true.