Fire belched from the chamber, scorched bodies flying out, tumbling against the stone walls like dice.
The dungeon shook. The stone floor came up and smacked Kelley in the face, his sword clattering away, ringing in his ears, dust and screams and the smell of burnt fresh. He blinked his eyes, tried to see. Smoke filled the hall, crumpled blackened bodies, clothes still aflame.
Kelley forced himself to his feet, then shook his head and picked up his sword. He staggered into the stone chamber.
Roderick stood tall and straight in the center of the large room, a semicircle of blackened bodies in front of him. Edgar stood ten feet from Roderick, his face half bloody and charred, anger and pain alive in his one good eye. He lifted his sword, yelled, and charged the astrologer.
Roderick stretched out a hand, harsh words flying from his mouth. Jagged blue bolts left his fingers and slammed into Edgar's body. He shook and twitched as the blue lightning coursed through his body. His eyeballs popped. Bile boiled from his mouth.
Roderick released him, and Edgar collapsed into a smoking pile.
Kelley blinked at the scene, mouth agape. Oh. My. God.
Roderick poked at Edgar's body with a toe, satisfying himself that the man was gone. "Society do-gooders. I'd expected to see them long before now, I must admit. Fools."
Roderick looked up at Kelley, spotted the sword in his hand. "I appreciate your coming to my rescue, Kelley, but as you can see, I've handled the situation."
"Um... okay."
Roderick went from body to body, examining each one. "Help me get these corpses into a pile, will you, Kelley? They're a bit crispy, but they'll make for an interesting experiment when we zombie-fy the next batch."
THIRTY-FIVE
Three months passed like an eye blink. Even after the success with the bird, Roderick insisted on more odd experiments.
Kelley let himself go numb. He plodded through his daily routine with Roderick, adjusting lenses, lugging corpses, finding corners of the dungeon to fill with writhing zombies until they could be burned or hacked apart by castle guards. For about a week, Roderick called upon Kelley's skills as an alchemist to concoct a series of potions. It was hoped injecting the corpses with these potions might promote various effects when they were exposed to the stone's rays, but the astrologer soon grew tired of this avenue of experimentation.
They tried animals for a while. The dungeons echoed with the sound of fluttering wings as zombie pigeons filled the air, until their wings decayed and their feathers fell out and they could no longer stay aloft. The pigeons then scooted along the floor, flapping skeletal wings and going nowhere.
Zombie goats tried to butt Kelley, but there was no passion in it. They'd simply put their horns against Kelley's leg and lean into him without zeal.
Zombie chickens, zombie pigs, zombie ducks, zombie fish, zombie cats. One incident with a zombie bear that left two guards dead.
The pathetic sight of a zombie puppy made Kelley weep openly, and he was forced to retire to the White Tower for the rest of the day, where he drained a jug of wine. Maybe breaking down like that was good. Maybe it showed he yet retained some shred of humanity. Or maybe he was just that much closer to madness.
On his way into the dungeon the next morning, Kelley met Roderick on his way out. The astrologer carried an armload of diagrams and parchments. He looked happy and excited.
"Just in time, Kelley. Follow me."
"What's going on?" Kelley asked.
"No more cranking those lenses by hand, my good man. I think you'll be impressed. Come see."
Kelley followed the astrologer out of the castle to St. Vitus Cathedral. Halfway there he guessed where they were going. It had been a long time since Kelley had first encountered Edgar and seen the underground river in the caves beneath the cathedral. He tried to act surprised when Roderick led him down and through the vault.
Where there had been a ragged hole knocked into the wall, there was now a proper archway. The stonemasons had done their jobs. The tunnel beyond that was smoother and wider. When they reached the river, Kelley observed a row of wooden posts with thick rope strung between for safety.
"As you can see, we've diverted this underground river to open up the chamber beyond," Roderick explained. "We've cleared a number of areas for different purposes, but what I want to show you is just up ahead. Be careful going down the ladder."
The ladder had now been anchored more securely, and Kelley followed Roderick down to the trickle of a stream where the underground river had once flowed freely. Flickering lamps hung from hooks, illuminating the path-a flagstone walkway that now paralleled the water all the way into the main chamber with the waterwheel.
Kelley noticed that the trench had been deepened to allow a greater flow of water to the wheel. The wheel wasn't turning at the moment. Workers were busy installing a larger version of the apparatus from the dungeon, with more lenses, gears, levers, shafts-all of the astrologer's bright playthings. The money and man hours already put into the project must have been staggering. Kelley could only guess.
Roderick was showing off, gesturing grandly at the wheel. He dove into a tedious and protracted explanation of the machine's workings, the colossal efforts needed to divert the river and expand the chamber, the exact calculations to place the reflecting mirrors. Kelley let the information wash over him, the technical details becoming white noise in his ears.
He belched and tasted last night's wine.
Kelley realized he was killing himself. He'd fallen into a deep depression; drank himself to sleep every night and ate barely enough to sustain himself. For his health and his sanity, Kelley had to escape this place. As the astrologer droned on, Kelley thought how he could do it.
Kelley felt confident the spell on his ass-brand had been broken when Edgar had been killed, so there was no magical restraint on him now. But security in and around the castle was tighter than ever. People who knew the secrets of the castle dungeons-people like Kelley-were especially kept under lock and key. The emperor didn't want tales of the walking dead to spread throughout the city. The peasants were already wary enough of the strange goings-on at court, with rumors of alchemists and magicians. Turning lead into gold was one thing, but trespassing against the laws of God and nature was something else entirely.
He considered the tunnels. When Kelley had first encountered Edgar, the man had taken him through a twisting tunnel that had let out in the woods beyond the castle. It had been months, but could Kelley perhaps find that same passage, use it to escape? He looked about the chamber and spotted a number of caves leading off in various directions. He'd probably get lost, and anyway, there was an armed man at every entrance.
Never mind. He would escape or die trying. Kelley would form some kind of plan, and he would leave.
Kelley spent the rest of the day hauling items from Roderick's antechamber near the dungeon down to a workspace beneath the cathedral. There were some delicate instruments that needed careful handling, and the astrologer didn't trust the common laborers to take proper care.
That night Kelley lay awake in the White Tower. He'd already written the day's events into his journal, but he did not crawl into a wine jug as usual. Saving himself was his new purpose. That he might not deserve saving didn't enter the equation. He'd earn it later.
Perhaps he could get Roderick to send him on some important errand in town. He'd simply not return to the castle. Or maybe in the general work and confusion beneath the cathedral, he could find Edgar's tunnel and escape that way. He wouldn't be able to take much. Luggage would naturally draw suspicion.
A knock at his chamber door startled him. Nobody ever visited him in the White Tower. Ever. Not since Dee had gone.
He sat up in bed, hesitated. "Come in."
Roderick entered. "Good. You're awake. I took a chance." He glanced around Kelley's room. "Your accommodations seem adequate."
"I'm comfortable."
Roderick nodded, toyed with a rolled-up piece of parchment in his hands. He seemed to be considering it. Finally, he stepped forward, handed it to Kelley. "I need you to memorize this then return it to me in the morning."
"What is it?"
"Oh..." Roderick shrugged. "It's the final sequence. Instructions for the machine."
"What?" Kelley stood, unrolled the parchment. He looked over it quickly, trying to take it all in at once. "It's finished?"
"Fully assembled."
As much as he hated the machine, hated what it did, Kelley could not help but feel awe. Such an undertaking. Finished at last. What would it mean to the world?
"Why give me the instructions?"
"I just thought somebody else should know how to operate it," Roderick said. "It occurred to me only just an hour ago that I'm the only man alive that knows completely how the contraption works." He chuckled.
"Are you going somewhere?" Kelley asked.
"No, no. Nothing like that." Roderick waved the notion away. "Just a precaution, you know. What if I choke on a chicken bone or something? Wouldn't that give the emperor fits? It's simple common sense. Somebody else should know. But that's the master copy. Memorize it and give it back to me in the morning. There's a good fellow."
"Okay."
"Sorry to disturb you, Kelley." He flicked a wave. "Good night." The astrologer let himself out.
Kelley examined the intricate instructions, complete with diagram. Roderick must have been drunk or out of his mind. If Kelley had a year, he'd never be able to memorize all this. He took out his journal and began to copy the information. It took him two hours. He checked the information three times to make sure he'd duplicated it perfectly.
He had.
He laughed. So much time and effort. Who would ever read it?
UNDERSTANDING LYCANTHROPY
THIRTY-SIX
Ten minutes to closing, and Allen figured they would probably check the restrooms.
He'd spent the last hour scouting possibilities. Hiding in the reading room was his best option, since there was only one door between the reading room and the special collections, where they kept the handwritten manuscripts. At least, that's where Allen hoped they would be.
The reading room: Six rows of five desks each. A service window at the far end of the room where patrons checked out reading material. Enormous Czech flags on poles stood in each corner of the room, and various framed maps and portraits hung on the walls. Allen stood with his hands clasped behind his back and pretended to examine one of the maps. The monastery had almost completely drained itself of tourists and other patrons. Soon they would shoo out the stragglers. There was only one other patron in the reading room-a middle-aged man with a sizable pile of books.
Come on, dude. They're going to close soon.
Three minutes to closing, the man finally stood and began to gather the books. He took them to the window, and Allen held his breath, as he edged toward the corner of the room. The man at the window took the materials from the middle-aged patron, turned his back.
Now!
Allen leaped into the corner of the room, grabbed the corner of the big Czech flag, and spun twice, completely wrapping himself within the smooth fabric. He stood perfectly still next to the flagpole, only the bottoms of his shoes showing. Hopefully nobody would notice.
He stood there like a flag mummy, wrapped up, the fabric tight on his face. Within three minutes he was hot, and it was hard to breathe. Allen thought maybe the flag was some synthetic fabric that didn't breathe well. Sweat fell from his neck and down his back, but he didn't budge. He developed an itch at the very top of his ass-crack.
No. Put it out of your mind. Don't move.
He finally heard footsteps, the jingle of keys. Allen held his breath. A bead of sweat trickled down his back. He wanted to swipe at it, squirm. The sound of a door opening. The lights went out. The door closed again, the sound of locks tumbling. Footsteps fading away.
Allen stood perfectly still another five minutes, then slowly unwrapped himself from the flag. The room was nearly pitch black, a feeble glow of light from beneath the door. He felt his way forward and tried to recall the layout of the place from the guidebook. The special treasure room was beyond the service window and down a short hall.
His knee smacked sharply into a desk, and Allen swallowed an expletive.
Any cartoon cat burglar would have invested in a flashlight. But Allen was a grad student specializing in the Brontës. How incredibly useless. He bumped his other knee into a different desk.
"Fuck!"
He clapped his hand over his mouth, held his breath, listening. No security guards. No blaring alarms.
This is stupid. He went to the wall, felt along until his hand passed over the light switch. He flipped it on. No windows. Nobody would see the light.
He went to the door next to the service window and tried the knob. Locked. He yanked on it, nudged his shoulder against the door experimentally. Very locked.
Okay. An experienced cat burglar would have had a flashlight and some tools. Maybe he could look around the room, find something to jimmy the lock. The hinges. Maybe he could knock them out somehow, take the whole door off. He was an intelligent guy. He just needed to figure this out. He glanced at the service window.
It was open.
He hopped up on the counter, swung his legs around, and dropped into the little room beyond.
A chair, a desk, a phone. A small TV with a cold-war antenna. Something that looked like a card catalog, but it was in Czech. Only one other door, so that had to be it. He tried the knob. Locked. No surprise.
He searched the desk, then the shelves. He ran his fingers along the ledge above the door and hit something metallic; he knocked it off, and it clanged on the tile. He got on his hands and knees, searching, crawling under the desk until he found it-a dull copper key.
Allen unlocked the door and entered a short hall. This cat burglar stuff was child's play. He found another door, open this time. He pushed it open, and its hinges squealed with ancient rust. He entered. This time it was a little harder to find the light switch-a black push button installed sometime between Hitler and Khrushchev. He pushed it, and dim lightbulbs in wire cages overhead spread halfhearted illumination through the long room.
Imagine any old university library, with shelves floor to ceiling. Now imagine nobody had dusted the place since moveable type had been invented. Add a sort of musty basement smell. Now pile old papers on all these shelves. Label everything in Czech.
Might as well be looking for the fucking Holy Grail.
Okay. Where to start. Find a system. Maybe not the system, but something to get walking in the right direction. That was the key. Even the most half-assed library has some kind of order, even if it's something that evolved by accident. He couldn't read Czech, but names and dates would be recognizable. He picked up the first stack of papers he could reach.
They fell apart in his hands.
I hope that wasn't important.
The conditions here were appalling. Allen considered his library experience quite good; he'd always admired the ones that had taken special care to restore and preserve their special collections. The items in here seemed to have been dumped in any old manner, happily forgotten. Allen supposed that since material in here dated back to before the first library in America had even been built, he could maybe cut them a little slack. Much of this material had been low priority during the Soviet occupation, and it was only in the past decade that professionals had begun to sort through it all.
Okay, find something less fragile. Get your bearings.
He scanned the shelves, found something bound in leather, lifted it carefully and opened it in the middle, to find pages filled with tiny, uneven scrawl. He presumed it was in Czech, but it might have been some other language. He searched for a date, turned each page with care. Finally he found it, at the top of a page-1897. He replaced the manuscript, continued a few paces down the aisle. He repeated the procedure, paged through eight manuscripts until he found the next date: 1765. Was he going in the right direction, or was it arbitrary? He checked two more manuscripts ten feet down the aisle-1760 and 1746. He jogged farther down. False starts ate away the time. So many manuscripts were illegible. Slowly he marched backward through the centuries.
1701.
1640.
1598.
He'd arrived. Could it really be this easy? Allen indeed had a knack for research, an almost preternatural talent most of his professors envied. His eyes seemed to gravitate to the right passage. An instinct for cross-referencing. Imagine a superhero whose mutant power was prying out a library's secrets. Perhaps in his youth he'd been bitten by a radioactive librarian. That was Allen. He should have worn a cape.
He needed to give himself a ten-year margin of error in each direction. He sorted through the stacks, looking for anything in English. His heart leaped when he found something in his own language, and he rapidly consumed each line with his eyes until he discovered it was the log of a stained-glass-window maker who'd come to trade techniques with the glassblowers of Prague. He almost replaced the manuscript on the shelf, but some instinct urged him to keep reading. A clue. The window maker had been staying at Rudolph's court. If this log had been among the materials transferred to the monastery from Prague Castle, then Allen might be close.
More manuscripts, accounting ledgers, private journals, letters. Very few manuscripts in English. His eyes blazed over words, phrases, diagrams, dates, a maddening blur of script. The dust sent him into fits of sneezing on multiple occasions. He wiped sweat from his brow, smearing himself with dust and grime.
Some luck! He found a number of manuscripts in English and pored over them.
... should get a new shipment of fruit as soon as...
... My Darling, how I miss you. I should be home in spring...
... Roderick's experiments continue to worry me...
... The German ambassador was a delightful fellow, but his pig-faced wife...
Wait.
Allen backed up to the previous manuscript. The handwriting was ugly and slanted, just barely legible. He read with growing excitement. Yes! This was it, the alchemist's journal. The diary of Edward Kelley. Allen Cabbot held it in his hands, the account of the alchemist who'd helped discover the philosopher's stone. It had been here in the monastery the whole time, hidden for more than four centuries.
It had taken Allen just over three hours to find it.
THIRTY-SEVEN
"This is getting us nowhere," Penny said. "We can't just keep wandering aimlessly through Prague."
They walked along one of the city's small parks, their footfalls echoing along the cobblestones. The street was deserted.
"I thought he might go back to the Globe," Amy said. "He can send email there. He hasn't been in the city long enough to know any other places. And he didn't go back to his dorm room."
"He's not that stupid," Penny said. "Anyone looking for him will check the dorm. He knows that."
"I'm out of ideas. If you'd just let me contact my people, they could help search for him. We have resources."
"Not any more than you'll let me contact Father Paul. We had a deal. Can't you cast a spell to find him?"
Amy shook her head. "It's not as easy as it sounds, you know? Casting a spell isn't like wiggling my nose on Bewitched. I need materials, a safe and quiet place to cast. Witchcraft is a subtle and complex art."
"I think Allen was right," Penny said. "I don't think you really have any powers at all."
"Don't start!"
Penny sighed. "Listen, I think I can do something that will help, but you've got to promise not to freak out."
"Why would I freak out?"
Penny took Amy's hand, led her behind a row of thick hedges, out of sight of the street or any houses. "Sometimes people freak out."
"I'm in the Society," Amy said. "Freaky stuff is my business."
"Just don't freak out."
"Stop saying that!"
Penny began to unbutton her shirt. Amy raised an eyebrow. Penny took off the shirt, gooseflesh rising on her white skin. She reached back to unclasp her bra.
"Okay," Amy said. "Now you're freaking me out."
"Just watch for anyone coming." Penny took off the bra, her small, pert breasts bouncing into view. She bent, pushed her skirt down, kicked off her shoes.
"Is this a sex thing?" Amy asked. "Because I don't go that way."
"Last warning," Penny said. "Don't freak out."
Jackson Fay emerged from the terminal with his carry-on bag slung over his shoulder. He immediately spotted the two girls waiting for him on the other side of customs.
He approached them, smiled. "Hello, Clover. Sam."
"We got your message," Clover said. "There's a taxi waiting outside."
"Well done," he said. "I'll have questions."
"We'll fill you in."
Fay looked around. "Where's Amy?"
"We had to scatter," Clover told him. "We think she's with Cabbot. She checked in to say she was safe but refused to give her whereabouts. She said the situation was awkward. It's... suspicious."
"Yes." Fay scratched his chin, wondered what the girl could be up to, where she might be. He wasn't in the mood for complications.
"We attempted a tracking spell," Sam said, "but they must be blocking us somehow."
Yeah, right.
"I'll need a hotel," Fay said. "Let's go."
Father Paul stood next to Finnegan. They looked down at Evergreen's pale, lifeless body, the fleshy pink gash in his throat garish and horrible.
Father Paul sighed, stuck a cigarette in his mouth. "You got a light?"
"I don't smoke," Finnegan said.
"Really? Since when?"
"About a week. Ten days maybe. It'll kill ya."
"I'll quit after this job."
"You said that before."
"Well, I'm saying it now."
Finnegan nudged the body with his foot. "What about him?"
"If she doesn't need Evergreen anymore, then she's got her hooks into somebody else," Father Paul said.
"The Cabbot boy?"
"What do you think?"
"Yeah." Finnegan rubbed the stubble on his jaw. They both needed sleep. "And Penny wouldn't say?"
"Poor girl's in love."
"Damn," Finnegan said. "Maybe we can still get through this without love fucking it up."
"From your lips to God's ears, Father Finnegan."