Alchemystic Read online

  PRAISE FOR ANTON STROUT AND

  HIS SIMON CANDEROUS NOVELS

  Dead Matter

  “Strout’s…great sense of humor, combined with vivid characters, a complex mystery, and plenty of danger, makes for a fantastic read. Urban fantasy fans should not miss this exciting series.”

  —SciFiChick.com

  “Strout’s good-hearted, bat-carrying hero is once again faced with extraordinary peril from both bureaucratic paperwork and things that go bump in the night. His skillful blending of the creepy and the wacky gives his series an original appeal. Don’t miss out!”

  —RT Book Reviews (top pick)

  “Unusual urban fantasy…highly entertaining.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  Deader Still

  “Such a fast-paced, engaging, entertaining book that the pages seemed to fly by far too quickly. Take the New York of Men in Black and Ghostbusters, inject the same pop-culture awareness and irreverence of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or The Middleman, toss in a little Thomas Crown Affair, shake and stir, and you’ve got something fairly close to this book.”

  —The Green Man Review

  “It has a Men in Black flavor mixed with NYPD Blue’s more gritty realism…if you think of the detectives as working the night shift in The Twilight Zone. It’s a book (and a protagonist) that is going places, and those who enjoy something fresh in urban fantasy will enjoy what they find. Strongly recommended.”

  —SFRevu

  “A refreshing, exciting urban fantasy with elements of romance and horror that will appeal to fans of Jim Butcher.”

  —The Best Reviews

  “A fun read…The pace moves right along, running poor Simon a little ragged in the process but providing plenty of action. If you liked Dead to Me, it’s a safe bet you’ll like this one even more.”

  —Jim C. Hines, author of Libriomancer

  “A fun, interesting, and witty read. It is something a little different, with a male protagonist, tongue-in-cheek attitude, and interesting mystery.”

  —Urban Fantasy Land

  “It has a little bit of everything for the paranormal junkie…unique from a lot of the urban fantasy genre. This is a fantastic series.”

  —Bitten by Books (5 tombstones)

  “Nice touches…There is a lot to like here.”

  —VOYA

  “Clever, well-paced, and attention-grabbing.”

  —Errant Dreams

  Dead to Me

  “Simon Canderous is a reformed thief and a psychometrist. By turns despondent over his luck with the ladies (not always living) and his struggle with the hierarchy of his mysterious department (not always truthful), Simon’s life veers from crisis to crisis. Following Simon’s adventures is like being the pinball in an especially antic game, but it’s well worth the wear and tear.”

  —Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Deadlocked

  “Part Ghostbusters, part Men in Black, Strout’s debut is both dark and funny, with quirky characters, an eminently likable protagonist, and the comfortable, familiar voice of a close friend. His mix of (mostly) secret bureaucratic bickering and offbeat action shows New York like we’ve never seen it before. Make room on the shelf, ’cause you’re going to want to keep this one!”

  —Rachel Vincent, New York Times bestselling author of Before I Wake

  “Urban fantasy with a wink and a nod. Anton Strout has written a good-hearted send-up of the urban fantasy genre. Dead to Me is a genuinely fun book with a fresh and firmly tongue-in-cheek take on the idea of paranormal police. The laughs are frequent as are the wry smiles. I’m looking forward to seeing what he does next.”

  —Kelly McCullough, author of Bared Blade

  “Writ[ing] with equal parts humor and horror, Strout creates an engaging character…clever, fast-paced, and a refreshing change in the genre of urban fantasy.”

  —SFRevu

  “In much the same vein as Mark Del Franco’s Unquiet Dreams or John Levitt’s Dog Days, Strout’s urban fantasy debut features plenty of self-deprecating humor, problematic special powers, and a quick pace, with the added twist of overwhelming government bureaucracy. Strout’s inventive story line raises the genre’s bar with his collection of oddly mismatched, entertaining characters and not-so-secret organizations.”

  —Monsters and Critics

  “A wickedly weird debut from a writer who makes being dead sexier than it’s ever been before. And who doesn’t love a debonair, divination-having, ghost-seducing, cultist-abusing detective in New York? Imagine Law & Order but with hot ghostly chicks, rampaging bookcases, and a laugh track.”

  —Carolyn Turgeon, author of Mermaid

  “A strong debut…Seeing the world through Simon’s eyes is a funny, quirky, and occasionally scary experience. Strout’s world will be well worth revisiting.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Ace Books by Anton Strout

  The Simon Canderous Novels

  DEAD TO ME

  DEADER STILL

  DEAD MATTER

  DEAD WATERS

  The Spellmason Chronicles

  ALCHEMYSTIC

  BOOK ONE OF

  The Spellmason Chronicles

  Alchemystic

  ANTON STROUT

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  ALCHEMYSTIC

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Ace mass-market edition / October 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Anton Strout.

  Cover art by Blake Morrow.

  Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

  Back cover and spine texture © Allgusak/Shutterstock.

  Interior text design by Tiffany Estreicher.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58964-9

  ACE

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A
” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  This one’s for you, you greedy-eyed little reader, you

  Acknowledgments

  Welcome, dear friends, to the first book of the Spellmason Chronicles. You don’t know the strange, interesting people and creatures within this tome yet, but they’ve been dying (or undying) to meet you for quite some time. So come on in and let us enter the sacred communal weave of storyteller to storytellee.

  Speaking (or writing, rather) of strange and interesting people and creatures…this series would not exist or be half as pretty as it is without the many fine people who have had a hand in bringing it from my brain meat to yours, including: everyone at Penguin Group, most notably the winged furies who inhabit the digital and paperback sales department; my editor, Jessica Wade, righter of writer wrongs (Don’t she clean me up nice?); production editor Michelle Kasper, assistant production editor Jamie Snider, and copy editor Valle Hansen; Judith Murello, Diana Kolsky, and Blake Morrow for a gorgeously creepy cover; Erica Martirano and her crack team of ad/promo people; my publicist, Rosanne Romanello, and all of the publicity department, who parade me out from time to time to interact with the public; my agent, Kristine Dahl, and Laura Neely at ICM, who take care of all the nonwriting details that would drive me mad (well, madder, anyway); the League of Reluctant Adults for continued support and stocking of the bar; Lisa Trevethan for introducing me to the word Alchemystic thanks to her knowledge of the band with the same name; my family, near and far; and last but certainly not least, the ever-elusive Orlycorn, who puts up with long hours of me ignoring her while bringing these books to you. She has the patience of a saint and my undying love. Oh, and you, too, dear owner of this book. You didn’t think I’d forget you now, did you?

  Now, let’s see what trouble we can get into this time, shall we?

  As a means of contrast with the sublime,

  the grotesque is, in our view, the richest source

  that nature can offer art.

  —VICTOR HUGO

  Table of Contents

  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

  About the Author

  One

  Stanis

  Waking was easy. Something primal in the night sky called out to me like a banshee at the witching hour. When was the last time I had even encountered one of them? I wondered. I could not recall that…or much of anything. But that was always the way of waking, I remembered. The lingering disorientation of dreaming held its sway for a moment longer before slipping from my grasp like leaves on the wind. The haunting, faintly familiar face that had been the focus of the dreams faded. Stanis, the figure said, and nothing more. I fought to hold the image—that of a pale gentleman with wild black tangles of hair and kind blue eyes.

  Had the hair always been black? I was not sure. Frozen fragments of my broken memories made me swear I recalled this exact same figure with a full head of gray as well, but already I could feel something in my mind pushing those thoughts aside as the routine of waking took over.

  I stretched, every muscle in my form crying out with pure joy. As I relaxed my body, an intense itch flared down two long sections of my back. My wings, I remembered. Of course. I looked over my shoulder to find the giant stone wings like those of a bat curled close to my back. I worked the muscles along my shoulder blades, the heavy wings extending, flexing out for a moment to relieve the itch they had called forth upon my waking, both pleasure and pain in the gesture.

  A hunger awoke in my chest, but I forced myself to ignore it for the moment. It would win—as it always did—but for now I fought it off as my hearing focused in on the sounds of the city rising up all around me. The occasional bleat of traffic down below sounded out, much like the sheep I remembered that used to roam the vast fields that had once occupied this island.

  Manhattan, I recalled. Long ago, the whole island had looked more like the tiny park in front of the building where I had awoken, the one the humans called Gramercy.

  A cool wind blew through the green leaves of the trees in it—had they not just been bare?

  Was the word Manhattan even right, either? I was not sure and forced myself to concentrate through my still-lingering confusion of thoughts. I looked at the towers of glass and light rising up around me, hoping for familiarity and glad when I discerned a few that kept their long-standing forms, still unchanged in this modern world.

  The tallest of the skyline’s towers still stood off to the north of my rooftop, its lone spire illuminated in bright lights—this time red, blue, and white. Sometime in the near future the sky itself would light up in colorful explosive bursts, the humans celebrating, cheering…but surely it was not already that time of year again? I did not understand the ritual, but it was something I used to mark the passing of the years.

  I turned from the building and its light, looking south now. In recent times, the skyline had changed a great deal that way. Two of its other great towers had stood there, once the highest and most majestic points on that horizon, but now there was nothing where I remembered those structures to have been, which only added to my sense of disorientation.

  Before I could wonder too long whether I was mistaken in my thoughts, that gnawing hunger rose in my chest again, a burning need to do. What, though, I still was not quite sure. It picked away at me like a hammer at stone until I could ignore it no longer. The itching sensation between my shoulders rejoined it and I gave in to the pull of it all. Looking back over my shoulder, I watched my stone wings unfurl from against my body once more, stretching twice as wide as I stood tall. The itch died as I worked them, retracting the wings close to my body and then extending them to their fullest over and over.

  My mind began to clear. All of the sensations rose to the center of my thoughts, a strong and unrecalled memory forcing itself forward—one of the rules.

  Protect.

  With wings extended, I leapt off my perch along the edge of the roof I called home, my body dropping into the night sky. As I tumbled down toward the park, my wings recalled memories of flight, lifting me before I struck the street full of traffic below. I set off, heading north, the red, blue, and white lights of the tallest tower a flaming beacon of orientation, all other thoughts leaving me as that one word once again consumed all other thoughts, burning them away.

  Protect.

  But just what I was meant to protect, I was unsure.

  I flew.

  Two

  Alexandra

  Punching clay felt a lot more satisfying than any sexy-time Ghost-pottery-wheel-spinning nonsense ever could. Each
strike released my anger, my balled-up fists sinking rewardingly into the unfinished statue’s form, the clay still too soft to actually do any damage to my fingers or wrists. In my twenty-two years, I hadn’t been violent by nature; nor had I ever spent my time punching much of anything, but in the moment, rage held its sway over me and I couldn’t stop myself.

  I pulled my hands free, flecks of clay flying and sticking into my long black hair. Normally I’d have already tied it up while working in our old unused Belarus family art studio on the seventh floor. But then again, normally, someone—namely my brother—wouldn’t have dressed my latest attempt at a Gothic-inspired statue so it was wearing a basketball jersey and mirrored sunglasses, one of its now-deformed hands wrapped around a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon. As a final comment on my artistry, a half-smoked cigarette hung from its mouth, along with ten more discarded butts adorning the top of its head in an attempt at a Statue of Liberty–type crown.

  A sound from somewhere up above the art studio, on the roof of the building itself, snapped me out of my red rage, making me step back from my now-even-worse-looking statue-in-progress. Whatever potential I had seen in it was now lost, its form pummeled and twisted like something Salvador Dalí would have envisioned. I let out a long sigh and wiped my now-gray hands down the front of the overalls I preferred to wear in the art space. They weren’t exactly flattering, but function won out over fashion in my book, some of the clay getting on the straps of the black tank top I wore underneath them. My whole ensemble was coated in enough clay, it was most likely trash-bound anyway.