An hour later, I wouldn’t say I was wide awake, but I was too frustrated to sleep. I didn’t know what I was up against. An art historian—and possibly now the police—thought I had something to do with the theft of the Lost Gargoyle of Paris from an impenetrable museum. And my best friend might have been the one who did. Regardless of who’d done it, they’d pulled off an impossible heist.
So of course I couldn’t sleep and instead proceeded with my plan to find the alchemy lab in the catacombs.
I dressed in dark gray slacks, a black turtleneck under my silver coat, sturdy boots, and took two flashlights. I hesitated at the door of my apartment and closed my eyes, resting my forehead on the heavy door. I wasn’t totally confident it was the right decision to go without Dorian. I can die just as easily as anyone else.
Alchemy doesn’t grant eternal life. Alchemists who’ve discovered the Elixir of Life can still be killed. We simply don’t age. At least most of us don’t. As for me, most of me didn’t age. I must have gotten something wrong, just like I always do when I try to make gold, because every hair on my body turned white as time went by. Yet the rest of me stayed trapped in the body of a 28-year-old. Which is both a blessing and a curse.
Even though I think of myself as an accidental alchemist, that’s not entirely accurate. I knew what I was getting myself into. I didn’t choose the path for myself, but I gladly accepted it. I was desperately seeking the Elixir of Life to save my brother’s life. My efforts didn’t pay off in time to save him, and the guilt took a long time to get over. It was only recently, with friends I loved dearly, that I felt like I might be fully healed. Which is why Dorian’s betrayal felt all the more raw.
I found the metal grate that led into the secret entrance to the catacombs, and eased myself into the darkness.
Grasping one of the flashlights, and using the map I’d been given earlier that year, I made my way from the tunnels strewn with empty plastic water bottles and cigarette butts to the lesser-known tunnels that only the most hardcore urban explorers knew.
The walls were rough and the air was stale and metallic. The mineral content made the air feel heavy. After another ten minutes of walking on rough surfaces, I reached what at first glance appeared to be a dead end. This was where my map ended. Beyond lay the secret entrance to the backward alchemy lab.
The dead end was an optical illusion. I shone my light at the ground to find the opening. An overlapping wall disguised a two-foot gap that fed into a continuing tunnel. I stepped through, and the metallic scent grew stronger. This was it. I was on the right path to the alchemy lab.
The narrow tunnel gave way to a room with a high-vaulted ceiling. I hated to call this an alchemy lab. Even before it was destroyed, it had lacked the glass vessels, books, and assorted ingredients that true alchemists used. Instead, this was a dilletante’s man-cave. Next to a comfy, well-used armchair was a single table for alchemical processes. The table for actual work had barely been used.
Inside the space that should have been sacred, there was no evidence the backward alchemists had returned. There were no smells associated with any alchemical process, no matter how small. And no scent of the fire from Notre Dame above. But I was far from relieved.
It appeared that backward alchemists weren’t back. If Dorian had somehow pulled off the impossible and stolen the illustration, he’d done it for nothing.