Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

He kept low, below the rolling smoke, searching in all the corners. When he could find no sign of anyone, he grabbed the ladder to the loft. He was coughing now and closed his eyes as he climbed each rung, saving his eyes the pain from the heat. Once he gained the top, he looked around. “Flamel! Jack!”

Flames licked at him from the railing and the now rickety floorboards. In the smoke, the brass planets continued their slow progress, oblivious to the carnage around them.

Crispin looked up. In the rafters he caught sight of a square that looked like the sky, and when he coughed enough, and blinked enough, he saw that it was the sky. A trapdoor to the roof yawning wide open.

He stumbled his way toward it, trying to breathe only through his damp cloak, and stood under the door. No ladder. The remnants of it were burning nearby. They must have made their escape that way.

He looked back the way he had come.

The flames covered the railing now, engulfing the ladder to the loft. That way was barred. And the fire was gaining on the floorboards. Already some of the floor had given way and gaping holes with spitting flames were all around him. The roof was his only exit, but how to reach it?

Everything was aflame. Even the bed was smoldering … but not yet engulfed. He grabbed it and pulled it away from the wall. It was heavy. It dragged across the floor with a great groan. All at once, part of the floor gave way, and one corner of the bed sank into the fiery hole. Crispin grabbed hold of one post and heaved. It swiveled on its one axis in the breached floor and one post was suddenly poised under the trapdoor. That would have to do.

Crispin climbed atop the bed and jammed his foot on the carvings on the post, hoisting himself as high as he could go. It wasn’t quite enough. “Dammit.” He looked down. The room was red and gold, with more heat than he’d ever encountered before. It was not a good way to die, he decided, and turned back up toward the square of sky, trying to breathe any air filtering down.

He’d have to jump for it.

Just as he positioned himself to climb again, the bed lurched.

The hole in the loft widened and the bed tilted into it. The mattress caught fire and began to smoke furiously in black billows.

Quickly, he jumped away just as the bed, in a loud bellow of creaking timbers, crashed through the floor, sending up a great belch of dark smoke and shooting flames.

Trapped.

The planets whoosh ed slowly by and Crispin saw it was his only hope. The railing was barely intact. He waited till the sun on its outer arm swung closest toward him before jumping onto the rail. He sprang forward and grabbed hold of one of the sun’s rays, wrapping an arm around it. The contraption groaned and wobbled under his weight but continued to move slowly toward the trapdoor. He knew he had only the one chance left. If he missed it …

The brass sun finally creaked directly beneath the trapdoor. Crispin prayed and leapt.

His fingers caught the edge of the opening and he dangled over the fire crackling and spitting upward from two floors below him.

With a grunt, he slid an arm up and over onto the roof, gripped tight, and swung his leg up, catching it on the opening’s edge. Gritting his teeth and bellowing with the rest of his strength, he used his leg muscles to pull himself up the rest of the way until he was able to grab hold of the roof itself. His arms did the rest of the work and he slid across the broken tiles to fresh air.

Once his feet were free of the fiery room, he lay on the tiles and breathed.

Where were they, the Flamels and Jack and Avelyn? Were they safe?

He gained his feet. The tiles were hot under his boots. The roof wouldn’t last long.

When he looked up, he spied figures being hauled into an attic window on another rooftop across the lane. A woman was being handed down, assisted by a soot-covered blond-haired girl. Avelyn, helping her mistress. And there was Flamel, with Jack last.

“Jack!” He waved his arm.

Jack looked up and saw him. “Master!” he called across the rooftops. “Come on!”

Crispin moved, but out from behind a chimney, a figure in a long black gown emerged.

“You can’t help but get in my way, can you, Guest?”

“Malemeyns.” He drew his dagger. “I was hoping I’d have my chance at you. You started this fire.”

“Of course I did. My son died in a fire. Why not Nicholas?”

“He wasn’t responsible for that.”

“No, Lancaster was accountable for it. But Nicholas killed my wife, stole my Perenelle. He ruined my life and I’ll ruin his.”

“It’s over. You won’t be committing any more murders.”

“It is justice. What would you know of that? Oh, I know your tale. I weep for it,” he said sarcastically. “But it was different for me. All was lost, never to be recovered.”

“And so, too, was my life lost.”

“But now you thrive, is that it? I should do the same? You are clever, I will give you that. But you have no one to blame but yourself. I have Nicholas. And Lancaster. And I’ll have my revenge.”

Crispin heard the joists give way beneath him and he leapt aside. Flames shot up from the rafters.

Piers smiled. His teeth gleamed from a sooty face … all but his one gray tooth. He, too, had a dagger in his hand. “Who will triumph, I wonder?” He cocked his head toward where Flamel had escaped. “He can try to hide from me, but I’ll never stop harrying him. I will prevail. Perenelle will be mine one day. For I have already made the Elixir. I have time. All eternity, in fact.”

“I think you’re lying. Perenelle told me you didn’t know what you were doing.”

He ticked his head. “Poor deluded Perenelle. She chose so unwisely.”

“But she didn’t choose. You lost her. In a game of chess. Isn’t that right? You like to play games.”

He frowned. “So I did. The next game won’t be as easy to lose. Nicholas never would have found her without your help. And you won’t be there the next time.”

“Oh? I was rather thinking that this was your last game.”

“A game?” His face brightened. “Shall we play one? One last time?”

“I’m through with your damn games.”

“Oh, no! Games are always appropriate. What can we play up here?”

“How about catch the dagger?” Crispin lunged with his blade … but Piers stepped aside. Almost skidding off the roof, Crispin windmilled his arms and righted himself at the last moment. It was a long way down.

“But I already told you, Guest. I have taken the Elixir. I cannot be killed. I know the potion worked. I prepared it myself with the use of the Stone. You will always see me just as I am now. Vigorous. Invincible. For now I shall never age.”

He stomped down hard. The roof cracked, buckled … and suddenly gave way under Crispin.

A fireball leapt up, barely missing him, and Crispin fell through the roof. He barked his chin on the way down, but it bounced him enough that his arms reached out and gripped the edge of the broken tiles.

Piers approached and crouched down to face him. “Looks like you lose.”

Arms trembling, Crispin slammed a fist on the tile nearest Malemeyns’s foot. It crumbled and the man slipped. He lost his footing and toppled, rolling to the edge of the roof.

Crispin used that distraction to haul himself up, and none too soon. He could feel the fire licking at his boots. When he looked down, the leather was singed and smoking.

By then, Piers had regained his footing. He was wagging a finger at Crispin. “You must have nine lives, Crispin Guest.”

“I must,” he agreed.

“It’s a pity. Such a keen mind and a nimble body.”

“Why did you lead me to Old Fish Street? I never would have found you had you not left clues.”