The Apothecary's Curse (45 page)

“Is there a formulation in your magical book that perhaps only reverses the effects?”

“You see, my dear Anne, this is the problem; it is not magic. The immortality, if that is what you want to call it, is a side effect. The recipes—the medicines—work in a very specific manner. In all cases, whatever happens does so at the cellular level, and if done with absolute precision, just enough. But vary it one way or the other, it could either kill or make a person immortal.”

“How would you even know which one to use to—”

“I have found hidden bits and pieces that point me towards what I seek, fragments scattered throughout the manuscript; I haven't yet pieced together anything remotely complete. Another day or two, I think.”

He raised her hand to his lips, his eyes locked into hers, brushing his lips across her fingers one at a time. “I'm sorry. I truly am. I have not been drawn to a single soul as I have been to you since Eleanor. I didn't understand why; now I suppose I do. So many generations removed, and you yet have enough of her in you that my very spirit perceives it—”

“We should go. Get you checked into a hotel under an assumed name—at least until you can finish work on the book—find the pois . . . the antidote.”

Tears had gathered on her eyelashes. Gaelan forced himself not to be distracted. He realized in that moment how impossible it would be to leave her, even as the germ of an idea flitted through his brain.

The buzz of the intercom jarred Gaelan from his thoughts. “Is it . . . ? Did you tell your ex how—”

“It cannot be Paul. He doesn't even know where to find you.”

But who would be coming round at sunrise? He pressed “listen,” saying nothing.

“Buzz me in. I've no desire to stand a moment longer under your bloody elevated tracks!”

What the devil was Simon doing outside his building? “No, I'll come down. I can do with some air.”

CHAPTER 52

Simon eyed Anne suspiciously, motioning Gaelan to a distant spot in the alleyway. “That man I spoke of . . . about the book . . . And who is
she
, by the way? I thought you never—erm . . .”

Gaelan glared at him.

“It's her?”

He nodded. “Leave it be, Simon. And yes, I know. He's on a plane.” Gaelan glanced at his watch, looking back toward where he had left Anne standing.

“How do you—”

“It is a bit of a story, but I haven't the time right now to explain—”

“I couldn't reach you. I thought—”

“I am quite fine.” He turned. “Anne, there's someone I'd like you to meet.” She joined them. “Dr. Anne Shawe. This is my friend . . . the author Anthony Danforth.”

“Those Holmes novels, of course,” she said flatly. “I've heard of you. Sorry, I tend to read only the Conan Doyles. Bit of a purist, I guess.”

Simon shrugged. “I—”

“
Anthony
,” Gaelan interrupted testily. “What's so urgent?”

Simon cocked an eyebrow toward Anne. “I would really rather not—”

Anne placed her hand on Gaelan's sleeve. “I should get back to my hotel, luv. I'll be back in what? An hour?” She started off, but Gaelan stopped her, taking her hand.

“It'll be all right. I promise,” he whispered into her hair before kissing her. “Now you can go.” Gaelan reluctantly let go of her hand and returned his attention to a stunned Simon, whose mouth hung agape.

“Look,” Gaelan said finally, “we've much to do.
I've
much to do, and very little time. Walk with me. I could use an espresso.” They ducked into the corner Starbucks.

Gaelan was silent until they were on their way back to his shop. “I have discovered, Simon, what I believe will be an antidote to the elixir.”

He was clearly not listening. “You do realize she works for what might possibly be your worst nightmare. And that is saying quite a lot. Are you completely mad?”

Gaelan shook off the remark. “I've no time to explain Dr. Shawe. Look. Are you interested in this, or would you rather question my . . . relationships?”

“Go on. Of course I'm bloody interested.”

“I realized, finally, all of it came down to the manipulation of catalysts embedded within the manuscript text. It's hard to explain, but if we have time . . . later . . . I'll show you. Puzzles within puzzles.”

“And the antidote is somewhere within these . . . puzzles?”

“Deeply hidden, and you have to know where to look, build one bit of knowledge on the next. I guess the author—or authors—of the manuscript understood that poisons should not be easy to conjure.”

“What about the woman? How much does she know?”

“Anne knows . . . about
me
. I've told her nothing about you at all.”

Simon looked horrified nonetheless. He pounded his hand into a lamp pole. “Bloody hell, Gaelan, you
are
insane!” he said sotto voce.

“Perhaps. It's all a bit weird, and, to be honest, I've not entirely wrapped my brain around it all yet. There will be time, I hope, later, to explain, and you will find it quite interesting, to say the very least. But for now, I can only tell you, I've a . . .” Gaelan took out his key, but the shop door was unlocked. “Did you unlock . . . ?”

Simon shrugged. “I never tried it; it's early, and I know you've not reopened since the accident. I assumed you were upstairs in the flat. You must've forgot to lock up. Wouldn't be the first time.”

Gaelan shook his head. “I don't think I . . .”

They entered the shop; a man was sitting in an easy chair, an iPad on his lap.

“We've tried getting hold of you for days, Mr. Erceldoune, but you've not answered your e-mails.”

“So you thought it was fine to break into my place of business? And you are . . . ?”

“My name is Dr. Paul Gilles. I work with Anne Shawe. I hoped you wouldn't mind.”

Gilles didn't strike Gaelan as Anne's type at all. He reeked of corporate ambition, PhD geneticist or not. Bespoke suit, wingtips.
Manicured nails?
“I thought your flight wasn't due to arrive until this afternoon.”

“I caught an earlier flight. Lucky break.”

Or a lie to catch them unawares and unprepared. Or Anne had lied. Gaelan pushed that thought from his mind, refusing to allow that she would be a part of this.

“This is—”

“Danforth. Anthony. And so we meet in person.”

“Mr. Danforth, you've probably worked this out already, since it is clear you know each other, but Mr. Erceldoune is now in possession of that item you seek,” Gilles said.

“Dr. Gilles, would you like some tea?” Gaelan asked, sitting in the other chair.

“No, thank you.”

“I would. Simon, might you do us a favor and put the kettle on in my office? I believe Dr. Gilles has some questions for me.” Gaelan sat, resolute and calm. “I'm afraid you've broken into my shop needlessly. I am perfectly willing to come back with you to London. You've caught me; you know what I am. I suppose there is no particular value in fighting a game that is lost. The question is, what do I get out of it?”

Simon emerged from the back room, and set down the tea service. “Might we have a word, please?” Gaelan ignored the urgency in Simon's request.

“In a moment. Please. Join us.”

“Mr. Erceldoune, I believe we can arrange quite a nice contract for you—as a consultant, if you will. You know, your new friend, Dr. Shawe, is under the impression you'd not want to be found, much less . . . collaborate with us. She did you a disservice.”

“Did she, now? There's something else—a problem, I suppose, not difficult to fix.”

“I'm listening.”

“A passport. I don't have one, and as you might imagine, I've no papers of citizenship that would stand any sort of a security or immigration check. You'll need to provide that for me.”

“I am certain it can be arranged. I'll call London this morning. Contract, passport, airline ticket. One way.”

“I'm not done. I insist that the contract stipulates I can never be named, never suffer indignities the nature of which I've been subjected to previously. No publicity, no connection to any Miracle Man. Complete, total anonymity. Can you promise that? Contractually, I mean.”

The door opened, and Anne walked in. She blanched as she looked from Paul to Gaelan. “Paul!” she stammered. “I thought you were on a much later flight—”

Gaelan observed the ex-lovers. He saw nothing between them but bitterness and decay. “Got lucky. Your Mr. Erceldoune and I were just having a very productive chat. He's not at all reticent to join our endeavor; I can't imagine why you thought otherwise. He quite sees the opportunity in it.

“Are you sure, Anne, you won't reconsider and re-up with the team? Forget Salk. Your knowledge of telomeres will be invaluable to us. Think of the good you'll do. Curing cancer? Lupus? Scourges and plagues of all sorts? Finding a way to prolong life and increase its quality for all? In answer to your question, Mr. Erceldoune, yes. I think we can put language of that sort into the contract. We want to please you. A collaborator, not an experimental subject. A partner in this endeavor.”

The very idea brought the taste of bile to Gaelan's mouth. He chased a horrific image from his mind: battalions of warriors equipped with his DNA, precisely tuned, commanded by one immortal megalomaniac or another, able to stay in power lifetimes beyond lifetimes.

Anne glared at Paul, then turned her attention toward Gaelan. Her hurt, stupefied expression distressed him. He ignored her as best he could. There was nothing to be done about it, at any rate.

Paul Gilles removed a large envelope from his briefcase. “Just a few formalities to verify you are the person we're seeking.” He was staring at Gaelan's left hand. “How did that happen?”

“Severed by a sadistic doctor called Handley. At Bedlam, July 1842. As you are well aware.” He was satisfied that he'd managed to say it with any sort of calm detachment. But the effort cost him; it was all he could do not to retch. He struggled to focus the entirety of his attention on Gilles—and away from the baffled looks Anne Shawe and Simon Bell shared between them.

Paul placed a battered daguerreotype in Gaelan's hand. He flinched, recognizing himself: skeletal, hair a tangled mane; he was filthy to his bare feet, his clothes caked with his own blood. Shoving away the photograph, he swallowed hard. “It is me. Taken sometime in 1841 or '42, I think.” There were few photographs taken.

“Might we get a sample of your blood to run through a DNA sequencing device?” A request, not a demand.

“No, not yet. In London. You get nothing until I'm back in the UK, the contract seen by my solicitor, approved and signed.”

Gilles smiled. “Very well.”

Anne crouched at the arm of his chair. “Gaelan, what are you doing?” she whispered, breaking his concentration.

He paid no mind to the thousand questions lurking in her eyes, which even now searched his for reasons far beyond his ability to express. “It's as you said, luv,” he replied lightly, “the greater good. So many can be helped; it would be simply selfish of me to deny the world my presumably extraordinary DNA. Besides that, what's the point of fighting it anymore, with such damning proof staring me right in the face? I've made a decision, and I'm not unhappy with it. One more thing, Dr. Gilles. I'd like to fly back to London with Dr. Shawe. I've never flown on an airplane before, as you might imagine. I came over to America by ship long ago. It would make me a trifle less nervous about all of this if I could travel with a companion. And since I am acquainted with your colleague . . .”

Gaelan turned to Anne. “I know it's an imposition, Dr. Shawe, but would you mind delaying your trip to California just a few days more?”

She hesitated only a second before responding. “Of course not, Mr. Erceldoune. Paul?”

She agreed. Good. She was playing along with him a game that right now must seem to her utter madness. She was trusting him without knowing what with.
Patience, my love. I know what I'm doing here.

“Lovely,” added Paul. “And maybe on the flight, Mr. Erceldoune might convince you not to return to the States at all once you've arrived back home. So it is settled. I shall fly back tonight and oversee the contract personally. Meantime, I'll see about getting Mr. Erceldoune a passport and have it overnighted. Expect the contract in your e-mail within the next forty-eight hours. I'll need a place of birth and birthdate for the passport.”

Gaelan couldn't help but laugh before considering what to say. “Er . . .” He coughed. “Edinburgh. But I'm not sure you'll want to use my actual birthdate.”

“Obviously. I am curious, however.”

“Twenty-four March 1586.”

Gaelan watched as the door to the shop closed and Dr. Paul Gilles exited. He held up a hand, saying nothing, and nodded toward the door. “Has he gone?”