The Alchemy of Forever Read online

  I pick up a stack of photos of Kailey and her friends. Kailey’s eyes stare out at me, shining with life.

  I regard my new body in the mirror. This is the first time in centuries I’ve been a sixteen-year-old girl.

  There’s no tangible difference between the face in the mirror and the face in the photos, nothing I could point out to prove that everything has changed. And yet I don’t think I look like that smiling girl in the pictures.

  “What do I do now?” I ask the stranger in the mirror. “Do I keep being you?”

  Her first love made her immortal. . . .

  Her second might get her killed.

  After spending six hundred years on Earth, Seraphina Ames has seen it all. Eternal life provides her with the world’s riches, but at a very high price: innocent lives. Centuries ago her boyfriend, Cyrus, discovered a method of alchemy that allows them to take the bodies of other humans by jumping from one vessel to the next, ending the human’s life in the process. No longer able to bear the guilt of what she’s done, Sera escapes from Cyrus and vows to never kill again.

  Then sixteen-year-old Kailey Morgan gets into a horrific car accident right in front of her, and Sera accidentally takes over her body while trying to save her. For the first time, Sera finds herself enjoying the life of the person she’s inhabiting—and falling for the human boy who lives next door. But Cyrus will stop at nothing until she’s his again, and every moment she stays, she’s putting herself and the people she’s grown to care for in great danger. Will Sera have to give up the one thing that’s eluded her for centuries: true love?

  Born the day after Halloween in Los Angeles, avery williams has since lived in five different states due to her father’s job as a radio disc jockey (though she sometimes claims her parents were in the circus). Now she makes her home in Oakland, California, with her husband and two dastardly kittens. She enjoys riding her bicycle around town and working on her hundred-year-old house. She is also a poet.

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  Jacket design by Elizabeth H. Clark

  Jacket photo copyright © 2012 by Luc Coiffait

  Simon & Schuster • New York

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  the

  alchemy

  of

  forever

  an

  INCARNATION

  novel

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real

  people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places,

  and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance

  to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 by Alloy Entertainment

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part

  in any form.

  is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live

  event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon &

  Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at

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  Produced by Alloy Entertainment

  151 West 26th Street, New York, NY 10001

  Book design by Liz Drezner

  The text of this book was set in Janson.

  CIP data is available from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-1-4424-4316-7

  ISBN 978-1-4424-4318-1 (eBook)

  for conor

  He ne’er is crown’d

  With immortality, who fears to follow

  Where airy voices lead.

  —John Keats

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  prologue

  london, 1349

  I feel as though I’ve been waiting for the masquerade ball for my entire life. At fourteen, I am eligible for marriage and finally old enough to attend. The torchlight flickers on the sandstone facade of Lord Suffit’s palace on the Thames, and the roses woven into my hair are heady and sweet. I remember to push my mask up over my face before I walk through the great arched doorway.

  I catch sight of myself in a mirror.

  I wear a high-waisted white gown—punctuated with golden threads on the seams—that flows over my body like water. The sleeves are fitted at the tops of my arms and flare out at my elbows like wings. The mask is golden and shaped like a butterfly, dotted with crystals and glass beads. It points back from my face toward the silver net that holds my hair in a thick bun at the crown of my head.

  I am momentarily disoriented by my mask, not sure if the reflection I see is really me. I tentatively touch my hand to my cheek, and the mirror-girl follows.

  Satisfied, I turn around and follow my parents and the sound of the music—lyres and lutes, tambourines and drums—until we arrive in the ballroom. I stand there for a moment, watching the masked dancers: women in silk and velvet gowns that brush the floor as they twirl in a circle, men forming a larger circle around them, the sinuous glow of the candelabras glinting off their headpieces. Although I have spent my entire life in London, I don’t recognize anyone.

  I feel a presence at my side and turn to look. A young man, all in black, with a red mask and white-blond hair, is standing next to me. He offers me a goblet of pomegranate wine, and I take a sip, feeling the burning sweetness in my throat. “You should dance,” he tells me.

  “But I don’t recognize anyone,” I answer, wondering if I know him.

  “That’s the point,” he replies, his blue eyes vivid beneath the scarlet mask. “The disguises are meant to offer freedom, to let us do things we wouldn’t normally do, to let us be someone entirely different for one night.”

  I study him for a moment. “Do we know each other?”

  He tilts his head back and laughs. “I don’t think so. I would remember you, I’m certain. But then again, maybe we do. We’ll never know.” He offers me his arm and leads me toward the dancers.

  We are partners only briefly, soon separated as we move down the line in formation. But I glance up at him more than once, and each time he is looking at me, following me around the room with those vivid blue eyes. I am grateful that my face is covered, as I feel my usual blush heating up my cheeks. But when the song is over, he is gone.

&nb
sp; I wander alone through the crowd, feeling hot and dizzy. The wine, the dancing, the press of people—it is too much. I follow torches down a stone-walled hallway through a courtyard, then outside to the garden, where a magician is entertaining a group of people. I watch, amazed, as he produces a dove from the empty air, then releases the bird above his head.

  “He’s a charlatan,” says a voice behind me. I whirl around to see the man with the scarlet mask.

  “It’s amazing!” I exclaim. “He conjured a bird.”

  “He did no such thing. He merely tricked you. But”—he holds out his hand—“if you will join me, I will show you something truly amazing.”

  I am intrigued. I take his hand and let him lead me away from the crowd. When we reach the palace gates, I hesitate.

  “I should not leave. My parents will worry.”

  “It is just here, on the street,” he promises, and I reluctantly follow him around a corner toward a garden of rosebushes just opposite from the Thames. I can smell their sweet blooms mingling with the torch smoke. We stop next to a stone bench, and he lets go of my hand.

  “May I?” he asks.

  I am not sure what he is going to do, but I nod my assent. He reaches for my hair, gently pulling out one of the roses and cradling it in his palm. It is still deep red, but wilted, the edges of the petals already drying out.

  “People are always looking for magic, when the natural world holds true miracles,” he says, pulling a small glass vial from his pocket. “This flower is dead. No offense meant, my lady.” He smiles. “But the roses here in the garden are still very much alive.”

  He opens the vial and lets a few drops of liquid fall onto the base of the dead rose’s stem, then holds it up to a thorny branch of the living rosebush. After a few seconds he takes his hand away, and I gasp.

  The red rose I had once worn in my hair is in full bloom, the velvety surface of its petals no longer dried or wilted.

  “Magic?” I whisper.

  “Science,” he replies.

  I am astounded, and delighted. “I don’t care what you call it,” I say. “It’s still magic to me.”

  “Will you take off your mask?” he asks, looking deep into my eyes. “I must know who you are.”

  “Only if you remove yours as well.”

  He nods, and I untie the ribbons that hold the butterfly mask to my face, and pull it aside. He does the same with his scarlet mask, the same color as my rose.

  We look at each other and let out small gasps of surprise.

  “Seraphina,” he says breathlessly.

  “Cyrus,” I say wonderingly. Cyrus is the apothecary’s son, and I’ve stolen more than a few glances at him when he and his father come to the house to visit. He is handsome with his white-blond hair, solid cheekbones, and vivid eyes. When I dream of my marriage, I often imagine Cyrus as my husband.

  “You are even more beautiful than I remember,” he says, and it is clear that he has thought of me, too. “And so I give you a promise. I will come to your home to speak with your father. And next time I will bring you something more than flowers.”

  There is no holding it back; I blush a deep crimson. I am overwhelmed, dazed, dazzled. The roses’ heady scent fills my senses and I close my eyes. Is this my destiny?

  We hardly notice when the two figures appear from the shadows and approach us: a man and a woman wearing filthy clothes, their faces half covered with cloths to conceal their mouths. The swords strapped around their waists, however, look well made and sharp.

  “Sir!” spits the man, addressing Cyrus. “Pass me your purse.”

  I stiffen with fright, and Cyrus shields me with his body. “Be gone,” he commands. “I have nothing for you.”

  The man draws his sword. “Your lady, then.”

  I am not carrying any money either. But I do have a jeweled crucifix that I always wear around my neck, and I hurriedly unfasten it to hand it to the man.

  He grabs it roughly, nearly breaking the chain. “Is that it?” He grunts, turns his head, and spits on the ground.

  “It is all I have,” I tell him in a tremulous voice.

  Before I can move he has me pinned under his arm. His teeth are rotten, and I can smell alcohol on his breath.

  “Get away from her!” Cyrus screams, springing to action. In one swift movement he grabs the woman’s sword, kicks the man with his boot, and sinks the sword into his belly. His blood, sickeningly warm, splashes onto the front of my gown. We watch his body slump to the stone.

  Cyrus locks his eyes with mine, and I see his expression change, his eyes grow round, terrified. And then, for the second time in an evening, my world changes forever.

  To say that the woman’s small dagger pierces my back sounds too delicate, as if she is preparing my earlobes for jewelry. It is an eruption of pain. I feel the knife go in, feel it scrape against bone, feel a hot gush as blood starts pouring down my back, pumping in unison with my alarmed heartbeat.

  Cyrus knocks the woman over. She falls hard, her head cracking against the stone. She does not get up.

  I sink to my knees, looking up at the moon shining brightly, as if nothing horrible has just happened.

  I feel Cyrus’s arms encircle me, feel his breath as he leans close, putting pressure on the wound, see my blood running over his white fingers, turning them completely scarlet.

  In a haze, I see him rip open his tunic and pull out a small vial. The world grows dim as I close my eyes.

  “I will save you, Sera. Don’t leave me!” He pours a drop of liquid from the vial onto his finger and holds it to my lips.

  As it touches my tongue, I cry out in pain. “What is this poison?” I gasp.

  “It is an elixir,” he explains hurriedly. “My father and I created it during the Black Death. He fell ill, and we used this to save him. The body you know—he was not born into it.”

  I feel a tug as something in my throat burns. “I am on fire!”

  “It’s the silver cord that binds your soul to your body,” he says urgently, “and this potion is unraveling it. You’ll soon be free.”

  I begin to feel weightless, like I could drift toward the sky, like I could join the planets in their joyful arcs.

  “Sera. Don’t go.” I hear Cyrus’s voice, but it sounds so unimportant. I want to explain to him where I am going: to the stars. He could join me.

  When he holds the filthy woman up to me, I rouse myself from my thoughts. He wants me to kiss her. What a ridiculous, revolting idea. Isn’t she dead? Aren’t I dead?

  No, I realize slowly, coming back to Earth. She is alive; she merely lost consciousness when she fell. I don’t know why, but I obey Cyrus. I kiss her until I taste something sweet. Then suddenly it feels as though the world has exploded. Thunder cracks, and it sounds as though an entire fleet of ships is firing its cannons. I shift, careening through space and time, and then all is still. Miraculously, the pain in my back is gone.

  “Sera. Open your eyes,” Cyrus commands.

  I obey, with great effort. The view is all wrong. I can see my body, laying on the stones, so pale and cold, blood soaking my gown.

  I am a ghost, I think wildly. It is the only explanation. Except that when I reach out, my hand makes contact with my own cheek. But it is not my hand that I reach out with—it is dirty, with ragged nails. Somehow I am now the filthy female thief.

  I jump to my feet, suddenly strong. “I don’t understand.”

  Cyrus stands in front of me. “Sera, you’re alive. And if I am correct, you’ll never have to die.”

  “But my body . . .”

  Cyrus hesitates a moment, thinking. Then he scoops it up and drops it in the Thames. It lands with a loud splash. “It’s the only one you’ll ever leave behind. Your new body is different, no longer human or attached to your soul. When you are done with it, it will break into dust.”

  Cyrus’s words wash over me, but I cannot comprehend what he is saying.

  Just then I hear my mother’s panicked voice cut t
hrough the silence of the street.

  “Seraphina Ames! Sera, where are you?”

  Cyrus turns panicked. He grabs my hand, pulling me away from the sound. “Seraphina, we must go.”

  Not knowing what else to do, I run after him.

  “Good-bye,” I whisper to my mother, but she doesn’t hear. She will never see her daughter again.

  one

  san francisco, present day

  The late autumn day is oddly hot for San Francisco. The morning fog has lifted and the sun’s rays reach my pale skin, but do not warm me. For the past year I’ve stayed bone white, no matter how much time I spend in the sun, and I’m freezing, all the time. It is always this way when death is near. I’ve put this body through hell, and it’s finally catching up with me.

  I wince as I lean back on one of the steel chaise longues scattered around the pool on the roof of my apartment building, a brash glass tower, all angles and blue tints, jutting upward over the SOMA neighborhood. The sunlight glints off the surface of the pool; it’s almost too bright for me, even behind my large sunglasses. I blink, watching a hummingbird makes his way to the roof deck, zigzagging madly between the ruby-colored morning glory blossoms spilling out from galvanized planter boxes I had bought at the local flea market. I am always amazed when birds appear here, twenty stories up in the middle of the city. How did he know there were flowers? Was it instinct that drove him upward, or blind luck?

  When I try to fly away, will I be as lucky and find what I am looking for?

  Living like this—the persistent cold, the pain radiating through my joints at a constant interval, the shortness of breath accompanying my every movement—has made my choice for me. For once my body is as weary as my soul. I’ve dragged it all over the globe for six hundred years—it’s time to let go of this life and figure out what comes next. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t terrified, but a thrill of excitement runs up my spine every time I think about it. It’s been so long since I’ve ventured into the unknown.