Being immortal meant never having the luxury of surrendering to change. That was its only imperative: you must keep changing forever. You might as well be trapped inside a wall or a cave or live at the bottom of the ocean if you couldn’t keep pace with the world. And Adair refused to be made irrelevant. Besides, he had a mission to spur him on—finding the traitorous Lanore McIlvrae—and he knew to be grateful for such strong motivation. His hatred was a lifeline and he would use it to pull himself along, hand over hand, yard by arm-wrenching yard, until he reached the other end.
Although he noticed a strange change had taken place when he thought about Lanore (and he could not stop thinking of her). His stomach no longer churned, his guts no longer tightened in a lump. He no longer responded in the way he’d reacted to enemies in the past. The thought of her made his heart beat faster, but not from rage.
One afternoon, from down the hall, Adair heard Jude calling his name. Adair ignored him, appalled that one of his subjects had the impertinence to beckon him, as though the order of things had changed and Jude was the master and Adair his slave. But ignoring him had no effect—the man just continued to call for him, bleating like a sheep dumbly waiting for the shepherd—so Adair gave up and followed the voice to Jude’s office.
As always, Jude was sitting in front of the computer. “I got something that’s gonna make you happy, man. I found it. One of your books: the book of spells.”
Adair looked over Jude’s shoulder at the screen. “How did you find it?”
“The computer. I don’t know how we ever got along without it.” He rapped a finger against the image flickering on the monitor. “I think this is your book. Can’t know for sure: there’s no way to tell what was done to the contents of your house when you disappeared. The landlord probably presumed you’d abandoned it and auctioned off your possessions to pay whatever money was owed to the owner. So I did a little searching online: eBay, auction houses . . .” Jude prattled on, oblivious to whether Adair understood the terms he was using or not.
“I knew I would find it eventually, and I did. Voilà,” Jude said proudly as he swiveled the monitor to give Adair a better view. But what had he found? All Adair saw was a photograph of an attractive building and a second picture of a shining hall of glass showcases. Words were scrawled across the top of the page, but the script was still unfamiliar and he had to fight to make out each word. “The Venetian manuscript, the one with the insignia branded onto the cover,” Jude continued, “it’s here in this building.”
The Venetian manuscript was the lesser of the two major texts he’d owned. The book he desperately needed was the second book, a collection of alchemical recipes that he’d copied out from various tomes or captured by pen from the mouths of practitioners. It had been his life’s work, painstakingly amassed over his travels, the loose and mismatched sheets bound by wooden covers and lashed with a leather thong. Perhaps the Venetian manuscript—the prettier of the two, with its blue linen cover, the gilt illustrations and meticulous calligraphy—would lead him to the more important book. He could only hope.
“Where is this place?”
“Not far. Marblehead. An hour north of here. ‘North Shore Historical Society,’” Jude read, squinting through his eyeglasses at the screen.
“Write down the directions. I will pay them a visit.”
The drive was quick enough, following Jude’s directions, though he still had moments of unease alone in a car. (The contraption required you to do so many things at once and was so much less intuitive than a horse. He longed for a good horse.) He recognized the museum from its photograph on the website: a small brick building standing by itself on a narrow lot, surrounded by a grove of trees that filtered out most of the sound of highway traffic. It was not a popular establishment: there was only one car in the parking lot, and inside there were no visitors. Light filled the rooms from high windows, the kind that might be found in a church. Adair flinched at the echo of his own footfalls reverberating through the open space as he walked impatiently from display to display, searching for what he’d come for.
The majority of the items in the cases were unknown to him, having been invented after he was entombed. A large washbasin with a heavy iron mangle perched on top of it had a plaque that read “Clothes washer, 1907.” There was a small collection of scrimshaw, which he recognized, having seen examples of the whaler’s art from the sailors themselves, and a display of pistols and rifles, most from the late 1800s, looking handsome and well kept, gleaming with oil. Numerous photographs of Boston, aged when compared to the city today but more modern than the city Adair knew, hung on the walls.
He came at last to the book, lying in a display case in a narrow hall at the back of the building, sent to a lonesome corner like an unloved stepchild. “Book of magical spells, in Italian, ca. 1700, from the collection of Mrs. Brittany Leigh Hendrickx, Boston,” read the small label affixed to the wall. Adair knew immediately that it was his book, the one he’d acquired as a young man studying medicine in Venice. He’d bought it in the late thirteenth century, not the seventeenth century, as the label said; obviously the fools had no idea what a rare find they had in their possession. His seal was branded into the cover, now faded blue linen stretched over a wooden board. The book was opened innocently to a ghastly spell that would make its victim break out in toadish warts, if someone could make sense of the old, formal Italian.
“May I help you?” Adair hadn’t noticed a woman approach him. Middle-aged, she wore a knit vest and a wool skirt that hung almost to her ankles, and she held a pair of bifocals in one hand almost expectantly.
“This book—” Adair began, but she cut him off.
“It is a curiosity, isn’t it?” she said, cocking her head like a bird. “It’s part of the permanent collection. We’re not sure if it’s a reproduction, which is why we keep it in the back. Are you interested in old books?”
He ignored her question. “How did it come to be in your possession?”
“We’d like to know the provenance of all the items the museum owns, but often that’s not possible.” She smiled warily, as though unsure about engaging the visitor any further. “This piece was donated by a collector who moved to Marblehead from Boston. Mrs. Hendrickx, I recall, loved to collect things at estate sales. Couldn’t bear to see really old things thrown away. I can check our records to see if there’s any more information. . . .” She tilted her head in the other direction. “Is there a particular reason for your interest in the piece? Are you doing research, writing a paper?”
Because it belongs to me. The words floated through his head, but instead he said, “Yes. I am a collector myself, of such . . . oddities. I would be interested in purchasing this item, if you would be willing to sell it. It is, as you say, probably a reproduction and of dubious historical value. Hardly worth keeping in this noble institution.”
She furrowed her brow, making a show of her attempt at concentration, or perhaps to indicate that he’d said something wrong. “That wouldn’t be up to me. I’d have to ask the museum director. If he were to agree to your request, it would still have to go before the museum board of directors.”
“I see,” Adair answered, clasping his hands in front of him, trying to suppress the urge to simply snatch up the book and run, happy to have found even one of his treasures. “And . . . could you find out if you have similar items in storage? Perhaps more curiosities from Mrs. Hendrickx’s collection?”
“We have a catalog of our entire inventory,” she said with a hint of impatience, “but it will have to wait. I came over, actually, to tell you that the museum will be closing shortly.” She gestured to the empty room. So that was why there were no other patrons. “If you give me your name and a way to contact you, I can call you once I’ve had a chance to do some research. But for now, if you don’t mind . . .” She gestured in the direction of the door.
“Perhaps—since it appears there are no other patrons, and you are here alone—you would take the time to
check your inventory now? I don’t get out this way often. I would certainly appreciate your making this special effort on my behalf.”
Adair saw his mistake right away, pointing out that the two of them were alone. She became nervous, glancing over her shoulder toward the office, perhaps thinking how she might trigger an alarm or summon help. She stepped away from him. “I’m afraid I couldn’t take the time just now. . . . I have an appointment elsewhere soon, and they’ll be worried if I don’t show up. . . .” She was bluffing, Adair guessed, from her edgy tone.
He took her by the elbow—momentarily surprised by her fragility, her bones like dried twigs—nearly lifting her off the ground, and when she tried to pull away, he jerked her arm sharply enough to make her cry out in pain. “You will do as I asked.” She opened her mouth to protest but the words evaporated as she began to understand that she was in trouble.
She first consulted a computer in the office, Adair standing at her side to monitor every keystroke to make sure she wasn’t sending a warning, and then they went down a dark stairwell to the basement. Whimpering under her breath, she led him between rows of tall shelving, each shelf loaded with boxes or holding items draped in heavy plastic or shrouded with a drop cloth. She pointed to a stiff gray cardboard box on a high shelf. “That’s the rest of the items from the Hendrickx collection,” she said, drawing her arms across her chest and backing away from him, at once indignant and frightened.
Adair pushed the lid back and poked through the contents. If these paltry items represented the sum of this Hendrickx woman’s life, it made for a poor showing. There were more books, though of worthless pedigree, and a few items whose purpose eluded him. The basement was dimly lit, and so he resorted to using his hands to feel his way through the assortment of bric-a-brac, but was rewarded when he touched an object made of moldering wood, bound with a cord of greasy leather.
He pulled out his ancient chapbook. It was reassuring to see the edges of various papers peeking out beyond the scarred wooden covers. He unlashed the leather and shifted through the pages; he couldn’t be sure everything was there, but at least most of the recipes were, and that was more than he had dared hope to find.
He tucked the book under his arm and turned to the docent, who had backed to the very end of the aisle, as far as she could get from Adair. “This is exactly what I was looking for. I thank you for your assistance. Now, you’re to stay here until I’ve left the building. . . . Wait at least fifteen minutes before you go upstairs. If I hear that door open before I’ve left, you’ll leave me no choice but to do something you will find very unpleasant. I would prefer not to harm you, since you’ve been so very accommodating. Do we have an agreement?” She just stared at him, frightened and scornful, no doubt upset at being made to feel helpless. “Do we?” he asked, more menacing this time, and he only needed to take one step toward her for her to squeak out “Yes.”
He was almost at the door when he remembered the Venetian manuscript, and doubled back to the rear of the building to fetch it. He tried to find a way into the display case, but there didn’t seem to be one, not a hinge or lock to be seen, so he punched the box full force with his fist. Only, it didn’t break. It wasn’t made of glass. It splintered into a spiderweb of cracks under his knuckles. He punched it again, buckling the Plexiglas this time, so he could reach in and snatch up the book. Jagged edges cut into his hand and he spouted blood, but only for a minute, a few drops splattering against the white wall. Book in hand, he left through the main entrance and went straight to the car, waiting for him like a trusty horse.
FIVE
OUTSKIRTS OF LONDON
Luke knew something was wrong even before he opened his eyes. He and Lanny were most connected when they were in bed: they’d slept together every night for the past three months, and took every opportunity to nap just for the excuse of nestling close to each other. He’d gotten used to the feel of her tucked next to him, of breathing in the scent of her shampoo from the crown of blond curls nestled right under his nose.
Now the covers hung too sharply from his shoulder, like a tent that had collapsed, and the sheets had gone cold around him. When he slept with Lanny, his troubles sloughed off and he was able to forget everything: the divorce, the monotony of his job, finding a buyer for his parents’ house, missing his kids, the police back home waiting to talk to him. Yes, being with Lanny had been like living in a sweet narcotic dream with no responsibilities, no worries, no bad memories.
Luke sat up and rubbed his eyes awake. He ran his hand over the crater where Lanny’s body had lain: cold; the bed had been empty for hours. He looked around the hotel room, quickly noticing that one of the suitcases was missing. His stomach dropped like an elevator in free fall. He jumped out of the bed, checked the closet and the dresser drawers even though he didn’t need to; he knew all her stuff would be gone. Luke slammed his hand flat against the dresser and made everything jump: pocket change, passport, cell phone. He snatched up the phone and looked at the screen: no calls. She hadn’t tried to reach him. Pride kept him from calling her immediately, but he knew that pride would give way to desperation before long.
It was then he noticed the small pile of things left on the bureau. A haystack of crumpled banknotes, all their cash. A bank card. Instinctively, he looked back at the bed and it was then he saw the envelope left on her pillow.
He pored over her note while standing up, one hand pressed against his stomach as he read it through twice, three times. I’m sorry if I hurt you. It was selfish of me to ask you to come away with me. . . . You have children to think about. You should be with them. . . . You were kinder to me than I had any right to expect. I hope one day you can forget me.
Luke felt his anger build. The letter immediately brought to mind the story Lanny had told him of Jonathan leaving her at a hotel in Fez: after all those years together, he fled under cover of night and left a cowardly note to make his apology. Luke recalled the emotion with which she recounted the centuries-old story and how it crippled her still. And yet, here she’d done the same thing to Luke, leaving nothing but destruction—to his life—in her wake. How could she do this to him? And how could he have been so naïve to believe that she wouldn’t?
Then again, maybe these dramatic departures were a test; maybe he was supposed to run after her, find her, and tell her he loved her no matter what and he couldn’t live without her. She needed reassurance and this was how she got it: by forcing a little drama. He resented the hell out of being made to play a role like some poor weak-kneed bastard in a play. Besides, he had a right to be angry: she’d left him, after the chance he’d taken by helping her escape, after he’d given up everything—his career, the home he’d grown up in, even regular contact with his children.
His ex-wife, Tricia, had flipped out when she found out about Lanny and the circumstances under which he had run away with her. She accused him of having the most predictable of midlife crises, falling for a woman so young, and then asked if he’d lost his mind in doing something so irresponsible and dangerous. She told him he was no role model for their daughters and she didn’t want “that woman” anywhere near the kids. Luke tried to bring her around slowly, making weekly phone calls to show her what a devoted and patient father he was—and decidedly not crazy, just living for the first time in ages, and how could she begrudge him that?
Only he was crazy now, teetering on the verge of nausea . . . and why? Because she’d left him. He felt as though she’d gutted him and scooped out his vital organs. How foolish he’d been to trust her.
Luke packed his bag and stuffed himself into his clothes, then walked briskly to the front desk, which was manned by the same clerk as the night before. He tapped the counter for the clerk’s attention. “The woman who was with me, did you see what time she left last night?”
“Left, sir?” By his expression, Luke saw that the clerk didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Never mind,” Luke muttered. “Checking out.”
&nb
sp; Luke hailed a cab out front. Nothing to do but head to the airport, though he wasn’t sure where he’d go. Not back to St. Andrew, that was for sure: Joe Duchesne, the sheriff, would be waiting to question him and might even put Luke under arrest. He had family to the south of St. Andrew, but they’d probably heard what had happened, why he’d disappeared. They’d know the law was looking for him, and he couldn’t in good conscience ask them to harbor a fugitive. Luke fingered his luggage tag, still brand-new, wondering: When had his life become so small? When did he become such a loner that he didn’t have a single friend to turn to for help?
It galled him that the only logical thing to do was to go to Tricia, just as Lanny had suggested . . . as though—ever the tactician—she had seen everything two jumps ahead. And yet, he had no choice. With his heart beaten to a pulp, he needed to see his daughters, needed the kind of unreserved love they would give him like a transfusion. Tricia, always practical, would let him hide out there and take care of him until he could think straight. He needed his family.
And who knew: maybe this was Lanny’s way of telling him where to wait for her, like pointing to a map. Not promising that she’d come looking for him, but if she did, she expected him to be with his daughters in Marquette. She seemed to love his daughters sight unseen; wasn’t she the one to bring them up at every opportunity, to ask if he’d contacted them recently, to find the perfect gift to show them he was thinking about them? It was as though that had been her chance to be a mother, to see what it was like to have that life of domesticity that had eluded her, and that had been Luke’s private fantasy: that they’d settle into a house not far from the girls. That Lanny would’ve become a part of their lives. That he and Lanny would live cozily in Marquette when it suited them, then fly off for distant lands when it got to be too stifling. He’d wanted it and believed she had wanted it, too. Now he had evidence to the contrary.