The Alchemyst

CHAPTER ONE

OK answer me this: why would anyone want to wear an overcoat in San

Francisco in the middle of summer? Sophie Newman pressed her fingers against

the Bluetooth earpiece as she spoke.

On the other side of the continent, her fashion-conscious friend Elle

inquired matter-of-factly, What sort of coat?

Wiping her hands on the cloth tucked into her apron strings, Sophie moved out

from behind the counter of the empty coffee shop and stepped up to the

window, watching men emerge from the car across the street. Heavy black wool

overcoats. They re even wearing black gloves and hats. And sunglasses. She

pressed her face against the glass. Even for this city, That'sjust a little

too weird.

Maybe they re undertakers? Elle suggested, her voice popping and clicking

on the cell phone. Sophie could hear something loud and dismal playing in the

background Lacrimosa maybe, or Amorphis. Elle had never quite got over her

Goth phase.

Maybe, Sophie answered, sounding unconvinced. She d been chatting on the

phone with her friend when, a few moments earlier, she d spotted the

unusual-looking car. It was long and sleek and looked as if it belonged in an

old black-and-white movie. As it drove past the window, sunlight reflected

off the blacked-out windows, briefly illuminating the interior of the coffee

shop in warm yellow-gold light, blinding Sophie. Blinking away the black

spots dancing before her eyes, she watched as the car turned at the bottom of

the hill and slowly returned. Without signaling, it pulled over directly in

front of The Small Book Shop, right across the street.

Maybe they re Mafia, Elle suggested dramatically. My dad knows someone in

the Mafia. But he drives a Prius, she added.

This is most definitely not a Prius, Sophie said, looking again at the car

and the two large men standing on the street bundled up in their heavy

overcoats, gloves and hats, their eyes hidden behind overlarge sunglasses.

Maybe they re just cold, Elle suggested. doesn't it get cool in San

Francisco?

Sophie Newman glanced at the clock and thermometer on the wall over the

counter behind her. It s two-fifteen here and eighty-one degrees, she said.

Trust me, they re not cold. They must be dying. Wait, she said,

interrupting herself, something s happening.

The rear door opened and another man, even larger than the first two, climbed

stiffly out of the car. As he closed the door, sunlight briefly touched his

face and Sophie caught a glimpse of pale, unhealthy-looking gray-white skin.

She adjusted the volume on the earpiece. OK. You should see what just

climbed out of the car. A huge guy with gray skin. Gray. That might explain

it; maybe they have some type of skin condition.

I saw a National Geographic documentary about people who Can't go out in the

sun , Elle began, but Sophie was no longer listening to her.

A fourth figure stepped out of the car.

He was a small, rather dapper-looking man, dressed in a neat charcoal-gray

three-piece suit that looked vaguely old-fashioned but that she could tell

had been tailor-made for him. His iron gray hair was pulled back from an

angular face into a tight ponytail, while a neat triangular beard, mostly

black but flecked with gray, concealed his mouth and chin. He moved away from

the car and stepped under the striped awning that covered the trays of books

outside the shop. When he picked up a brightly colored paperback and turned

it over in his hands, Sophie noticed that he was wearing gray gloves. A pearl

button at the wrist winked in the light.

They re going into the bookshop, she said into her earpiece.

Is Josh still working there? Elle immediately asked.

Sophie ignored the sudden interest in her friend s voice. The fact that her

best friend liked her twin brother was just a little too weird. Yeah. I m

going to call him to see what s up. I'll call you right back. She hung up,

pulled out the earpiece and absently rubbed her hot ear as she stared,

fascinated, at the small man. There was something about him something odd.

Maybe he was a fashion designer, she thought, or a movie producer, or maybe

he was an author she d noticed that some authors liked to dress up in

peculiar outfits. She d give him a few minutes to get into the shop, then

she d call her twin for a report.

Sophie was about to turn away when the gray man suddenly spun around and

seemed to stare directly at her. As he stood under the awning, his face was

in shadow, and yet for just the briefest instant, his eyes looked as if they

were glowing.

Sophie knew just knew that there was no possible way for the small gray man

to see her: she was standing on the opposite side of the street behind a pane

of glass that was bright with reflected early-afternoon sunlight. She would

be invisible in the gloom behind the glass.

And yet

And yet in that single moment when their eyes met, Sophie felt the tiny hairs

on the back of her hands and along her forearms tingle and felt a puff of

cold air touch the back of her neck. She rolled her shoulders, turning her

head slightly from side to side, strands of her long blond hair curling

across her cheek. The contact lasted only a second before the small man

looked away, but Sophie got the impression that he had looked directly at

her.

In the instant before the gray man and his three overdressed companions

disappeared into the bookshop, Sophie decided that she did not like him.

Peppermint.

And rotten eggs.

That is just vile. Josh Newman stood in the center of the bookstore s

cellar and breathed deeply. Where were those smells coming from? He looked

around at the shelves stacked high with books and wondered if something had

crawled in behind them and died. What else would account for such a foul

stink? The tiny cramped cellar always smelled dry and musty, the air heavy

with the odors of parched curling paper, mingled with the richer aroma of old

leather bindings and dusty cobwebs. He loved the smell; he always thought it

was warm and comforting, like the scents of cinnamon and spices that he

associated with Christmas.

Peppermint.

Sharp and clean, the smell cut through the close cellar atmosphere. It was

the odor of new toothpaste or those herbal teas his sister served in the

coffee shop across the street. It sliced though the heavier smells of leather

and paper, and was so strong that it made his sinuses tingle; he felt as if

he was going to sneeze at any moment. He quickly pulled out his iPod earbuds.

Sneezing with headphones on was not a good idea: made your ears pop.

Eggs.

Foul and stinking he recognized the sulfurous odor of rotten eggs. It

blanketed the clear odor of mint and it was disgusting. He could feel the

stench coating his tongue and lips, and his scalp began to itch as if

something were crawling through it. Josh ran his fingers through his shaggy

blond hair and shuddered. The drains must be backing up.

Leaving the earbuds dangling over his shoulders, he checked the book list in

his hand, then looked at the shelves again: The Complete Works of Charles

Dickens, twenty-seven volumes, red leather binding. Now where was he going to

find that?

Josh had been working in the bookshop for nearly two months and still didn't

have the faintest idea where anything was. There was no filing system or

rather, there was a system, but it was known only to Nick and Perry Fleming,

the owners of The Small Book Shop. Nick or his wife could put their hands on

any book in either the shop upstairs or the cellar in a matter of minutes.

A wave of peppermint, immediately followed by rotten eggs, filled the air

again; Josh coughed and felt his eyes water. This was impossible! Stuffing

the book list into one pocket of his jeans and the headphones into the other,

he maneuvered his way through the piled books and stacks of boxes, heading

for the stairs. He couldn t spend another minute down there with the smell.

He rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes, which were now stinging

furiously. Grabbing the stair rail, he pulled himself up. He needed a breath

of fresh air or he was going to throw up but, strangely, the closer he came

to the top of the stairs, the stronger the odors became.

He popped his head out of the cellar door and looked around.

And in that instant, Josh Newman realized that the world would never be the

same again.