'I take umbrage at your tone, sir. I take no pleasure in your pain.'
The chemist studied him, the old man’s face like that of a hawk seeking prey. 'If you’d shared with me your own secret, I wouldn’t have to suffer that pain at all.'
The air grew thick with tension. They had had this conversation before. Fulcanelli had found an alchemical solution to the problem of his aging but it was complex. When his physical body aged and deteriorated to the point where it could no longer function, his skin would slough off and his bones would collapse and he would ignite in a burst of flame that would render his body nothing but ash. Then, from the ashes, a young man of perhaps sixteen would crawl, skin gleaming and new.
Fulcanelli had made himself a human phoenix. It was eternal life, of a sort, but the price was the agony of the process.
Mr. Doyle did not age. Fulcanelli envied that.
'We have been over this,' Doyle said, narrowing his gaze. 'Those secrets are not mine to share.'
'So you say,' the man said, sniffing in derision. But he scratched once at the side of his nose and then let the debate retire, bringing the key once more to the lock. 'You have the money?'?Stinging from the man’s bitterness, Doyle made no reply. Rather, he strode to the counter and thrust out one fist, palm downward. When he opened his fingers, a dozen gold coins spilled from his grasp. They had not been there a moment before, but now they clattered down onto the countertop, several rolling or bouncing off onto the floor.
Fulcanelli smiled greedily. 'That’ll do.'
He opened the cabinet. It was filled with jars that contained strangely colored liquids, things floating in the cloudy contents of each jar. From an upper shelf, Fulcanelli drew down a jar filled with a viscous amber-colored fluid.
'Here we are,' the ancient chemist said.
Mr. Doyle drew a deep breath and let it out. At last, he thought. The ache in his skull had been a terrible distraction to him. And the worst was when, late at night, the vacant socket would begin to itch.
'The patch,' Fulcanelli instructed.
Doyle removed it gratefully, sliding the patch into his pocket.
The chemist whistled in appreciation. 'That’s a hell of a job,' he said, staring at the ruined eye socket. 'Someone did nasty work, taking that out.'
'Me, the first time.'
'The first time?' Fulcanelli replied. 'You didn’t mention anything about a second time.'
'It’s a long story. I replaced it with… another. A more useful eye. Like I said, a long story. But that one was taken away.'
Fulcanelli sighed, shaking his head. 'I don’t know why you do it, Arthur. You could have such an easy, quiet life, and you make it so difficult for yourself. Set up a little shop, like mine. Salves and potions. Yours could have books and weapons as well. Much less dangerous. Less worry. Nobody tearing your eyes from your skull. Or even borrowed eyes from your skull.'
Doyle smiled. The old man’s bitterness had receded, as it always did. They had known one another too long.
'I could do that,' he agreed. 'But then who would do the worrying?'?The ancient chemist clucked his tongue and unscrewed the top of the jar. He thrust two withered fingers into the amber liquid and withdrew, dripping, a tender, gleaming eyeball. The optic nerve hung from it like a tail, twitching and swaying, searching for something to latch onto.
Fulcanelli’s hand was shaking as he raised it toward Mr. Doyle’s face.
'Hold still,' the old man said.
Doyle did not point out that he was not the one who needed to be still.
After wavering for several seconds, the chemist’s hand steadied and he slid the eyeball into Doyle’s empty socket. The optic nerve shot into the open space, and into the raw flesh beyond, like a striking cobra. A jolt of pain spiked through Doyle’s skull and he recoiled, cursing. He gritted his teeth together, groaning, and clapped his hands over his eyes. It felt like his whole head was going to split open, like that nerve was worming its way through his brain, tearing it to tatters.
Slowly, the pain subsided. He pulled his hands away and blinked.
Both eyes.
Relieved, and with only the memory of that terrible itch, he glanced at Fulcanelli. 'You do good work, old man. You’re an artist.'
The chemist beamed. 'It is my calling.'
Something thumped to the floor in the back of the shop.
Alarmed, Fulcanelli spun, his fingers curved into terrible claws, and he reminded Doyle even more of a hawk. The door to the back of the shop was still partially open, but there were no lights on back there. The only illumination in that room was what little reached it from the front. Otherwise it was only shadows.
The door creaked as it swung open.
Squire stepped out. The hobgoblin was only slightly taller than the counter, so it was not until Squire had emerged fully into the shop that Doyle saw that he clutched a piece of notepaper in his gnarled fingers.
'Just got a phone call, boss. You’re going to want to hear this.'
CHAPTER TWO
Boston’s Newbury Street was abuzz with life and laughter, the sun glinting off of the plate glass windows of trendy clothing boutiques, art galleries, and bistros. Those who strolled along Newbury Street were either the idle rich or those who longed to be. College girls roamed in perfectly styled packs, and business types marched to lunch with tiny cellphones clapped to one ear. The buildings were comparatively old by American standards and yet the brick and stone had been sandblasted and treated and restored so that the entire string of blocks seemed to have been only recently erected. The sidewalks were in perfect condition. Even the cars that were parked along the curb gleamed new in the sun. BMW, Lexus, and Benz, oh my.
Milano’s Italian Kitchen was among the trendiest of the new bistros, with a sidewalk cafe in front and a menu of nouvelle cuisine, despite the homey name of the place. Clay knew that if he had wanted more authentic Italian food he could have chosen any doorway in the North End, where dozens of restaurants awaited that were less expensive and more generous with their plates. But the idea today was to spend a little time with Eve, and if he wanted to get her out — particularly when the sky was blue and the sun shining — he would have to lure her.
Newbury Street was irresistible to her.
They sat at the outdoor cafe, in the cool shade of Milano’s wide awning. Eve was always aware of the position of the sun. She had to be. It could kill her.
Though the weather was warm, a typical mid-June day in Boston, she was covered from head to toe. Ample sunscreen had been rubbed onto her face, and a red silk scarf tied in a knot at her chin covered her head. She wore a blazer-cut black leather jacket, a pair of thin calf skin gloves, and completed her ensemble with dark moleskin trousers and Tony Lama boots with a severely pointed toe. Eve was stunning. With that scarf and her designer sunglasses, she looked like a movie star trying desperately not to be recognized in that ridiculous, conspicuous Hollywood way. She drew a lot of attention, but Clay had been out with her at night as well as during the day, and Eve drew appreciative stares no matter how she was dressed.
His appreciation of her beauty was objective, however. There was no romantic entanglement between them. Clay and Eve were associates. Perhaps they might even be friends. He considered her a friend, certainly, but often felt an odd reticence in her when they worked together. That was part of the reason he had invited her to lunch today.
They had been sharing observations about Conan Doyle and some of his other operatives when the waiter brought appetizers to the table, including a white plate laden with stuffed mushroom caps. Clay smiled and reached for one.
'Alexander loved these,' he said as he popped it whole into his mouth.
'Alexander? As in, Alexander?' Eve asked, using her salad fork to help herself to one of the four remaining
