Kip & Shadow Read online

  His friend went pale, fading out as he met the bars, his body slipping between them. He scrambled over the artificial landscape that filled the cage; dead tree limbs in its center twisting together, making a home for the birds. A dead place to rest their clipped wings.

  The wolf crashed into the cage, exploding in green. Teeth and claws ripped at the bars as they punched through the metal.

  Shadow ran along the inside, moving in wide circles as the wolf followed. They were two fireflies in a jar, a spinning whirlwind of light. Birds dashed themselves against the bars as feathers fell to the ground.

  “This way, Shadow!” Kip yelled.

  Shadow turned and came straight towards Kip. He flew through the opposite side of the cage. The bars passed through his body. He bounded onto the stage and turned to face the wolf, sticking out his blue tongue and wagging it at the beast behind him.

  The wolf followed, taking the bait.

  Shadow went pale again and fell through the stage and out of sight, just as the wolf reached him. It clawed at the empty spot where its prey had been and then raised its head to howl.

  The sound never passed its lips as it spied Kip above him. Their eyes locked.

  The wolf’s hypnotic green eyes, so filled with rage, and something deeper. An endless whirlpool that Kip could fall into.

  He struggled to tear himself away. Taking a deep breath, he dropped another sphere into the mason jar.

  Expansion.

  The liquid exploded upward, a torrent of silver. It arced overhead and then fell straight down onto the beast. The wolf craned its neck to see its attacker as holes carved into its body like acid. The liquid released whatever material remained in this world.

  The wolf howled, half in anger and half in pain. There was a universe inside its mouth, a black hole that bent everything towards it. Kip felt reality shift, felt himself tip off the scaffold, in danger of falling straight into it.

  A hole in Alchemy House exhibits the same pull, Kip thought The thing I made, the secret that’s waiting for me.

  He clutched the scaffold tighter and shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

  The echoed screams rose from below. They came in waves like the peals of a bell.

  “I’m sorry,” Kip said. He wanted to say it again and again. He watched the thing scream, shredding itself. It bit at its own limbs, pulling away glowing chunks of green. Its eyes burned white. It turned in furious circles as its body evaporated. Shocks of lightning etched the air as they blended with the falling liquid.

  Standing stock-still, Shadow watched from the base of the stairs, his laughter silenced.

  Smoke rose from the stage. Its choking sulfur filled Kip’s lungs and brought tears to his eyes. The green vapor wreathed the head of the papier-mâché serpent, then ignited the paper. The fire spread over it in a flash. Kip pushed away from it as heat swept over the scaffold.

  A final howl below rose from the stage and into the sky above.

  Then silence.

  The last of the green mist trailed off into the night.

  Kip dropped down to the stage. Scorch marks and deep cuts ruined its surface. The serpent sputtered above them as it burned down to a wire frame before extinguishing.

  Shadow padded up the stairs to meet Kip. He stared at him, his blue eyes lingering for too long.

  “What are you thinking, Shadow?” Kip asked quietly.

  “Shadow doesn’t know. It’s sad. The zoo feels lonely and cold.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “Is this what the zoo’s always like?”

  “Not usually. In the daytime they have popcorn.”

  They stood in front of the aviary. Its bent and broken bars pushed out like an exploded ribcage. They stepped inside and looked up at the ornate frame that cut through the stars above. The cage should have been filled with sound. Kip waited to hear the panicked calls of kingfishers, peacocks, and lorikeets. But there was only silence.

  Shadow clung to Kip’s pant leg, peering out.

  “It killed the birds.”

  It had. Feathers littered the ground; a collage of patterns and colors. Beyond that, Kip didn’t want to see.

  Bodies ripped open, necks twisted, and eyes staring.

  Footfalls on the steps behind them interrupted the pervasive silence. Constable Hewitt ran up, all puffed-up excitement.

  “Master Kip, I’ve never seen anything like it! Well done, well done, I say!”

  He stopped cold as he took in the carnage. He slowly pulled his cap from his head.

  “Hell’s teeth.”

  2

  The two walked in silence. The streets of London were abandoned, the calm of night left nothing but shadows. A fog closed in on them, the echo of their feet on the cobblestones trapped in its atmosphere.

  Shadow padded along beside Kip on all-fours. He’d stop on occasion, standing on his hind legs, as he craned his neck to see some point of interest, whether it was the burning flame of a street lamp or the empty storefront of a sweets shop, bereft of pastries. The creature’s head was down now, his behavior unusually focused. His blue-orb eyes projected light onto the wet cobblestones.

  “Kip told Constable Hewitt, ‘there’s no known process for bringing the dead back to life.’ What did he mean?”

  Kip felt drained by the question, drained by the day itself, finding it remarkable that he’d had the strength to make it around the bend of the clock once more.

  “What did I mean?” Kip repeated. “Just what I said. There’s no known process, alchemic or otherwise. That was a chemical echo of the wolf, nothing more.”

  “But Kip hopes there is a process, alchemic or otherwise? Kip’s trying to find it?”

  Kip loved Shadow, but was less fond of his constant inquisitiveness. He could turn any conversation into a string of questions, each one rattled off with dazzling speed.

  “There are things the Constable Hewitts of this world don’t need to know, Shadow, things that are mine.”

  “But what Kip’s doing in the basement of Alchemy House…”

  “Is my business.”

  Shadow seemed less sure, but he fell quiet.

  Kip wanted to say more. He hated being curt, even though it came to him so easily these days. Something in him wanted to apologize immediately, and something else wanted to make it worse; to sneer and insult and wound.

  He sighed, his breath visible in the cool air.

  “I’m sorry, Shadow.”

  “Hmm?”

  The spectral creature had lost interest once again. He jumped onto the curb, prancing from cobblestone to cobblestone while he hummed mindlessly.

  Kip watched him. Shadow was the curiosity that he’d brought into this world. Like so much of his life now, the memories were hazy. Things that should have been solid were soft. He tried to focus on the exact moment but it was always two steps ahead, turning a corner. It was what he’d done in the basement. Shadow had come from that, hadn’t he? Many things had come from that.

  And more will come still, he thought.

  Where did you come from, little one?

  I think you know, a voice answered. It was the basement voice and it was waiting for him.

  They descended a curving stone staircase. It widened at the bottom and opened up into a large courtyard – Potter’s Market, buttoned up for the night. The purveyors and barkers had gone home, having sold their wares for another day. Kip could practically see the energy still buzzing there, he knew it so well.

  They passed the Three Nymphs Fountain and he let out a small gasp as memory punched through the world of the present. Shadow looked up at him, his eyes unreadable.

  The dribble of water from the statue in the center coated the stone with a glassy sheen. In the daylight it would return to full force, catching the sunlight and splintering it into a thousand drops.

  So much blood. There had been so much blood.

  Did Shadow know what had happened here? Could the creature divine it somehow? Kip thought anyone who lo
oked at him could read his heart now. He wore it outside his chest.

  Let the Three Nymphs be, he thought. Let them rest. No need to drag their secrets into the light.

  They turned the corner onto Aldgate Street, and saw the Thames in the far distance, jet-black now in the fading light. It looked like a void at the end of the world. The lamps that lined the street were dimmed to a flicker, some already extinguished.

  “Hello, Magic Boy,” a voice slurred, cutting the silence.

  Kip turned to follow the greeting. A man stood under a lamppost on the corner, half in light and half in shadow. He was wrapped in a decaying trench coat, long separated from its buttons. It hung in tatters around his legs. His hair and beard were a wild mess of black and gray that looked more like fur than hair. The man clutched a stained clay jug in his thick hand, held close to him as if for protection. Kip shuddered to think what putrid mixture swirled in its depths.

  “It’s not magic, it’s alchemy, Ragman,” Kip answered.

  “True enough, young sir, true enough. Heaven forfend we mistake the two. I know incantations myself. I have a practiced hand.” He waved one shaking palm over his jug, his fingers contorting in the air.

  “How goes your tenancy of Alchemy House? So many rooms all to yourself.”

  Kip had little patience for Ragman tonight. He had been a near-permanent fixture on Aldgate Street, never straying too far from the parade of daily traffic and the chance for donations. Kip had given his share over the past year.

  But once Ragman knew Kip’s profession, something had changed. He’d yammered on about gold, and all the alchemic myths he’d heard in his lifetime. His conversations seemed like prying now instead of pleasantries.

  “Can you turn a poor man’s lead into gold, son?” This was his usual strain of conversation now. The glint in his eye seemed dangerous, some hidden depth revealed.

  “Why the lamentation, boy?”

  “What lamentation?”

  Shadow busied himself peeking into the overturned top hat that Ragman used for collection, his paws resting on the tattered brim.

  “I can sense the sorrow on you, I can,” the beggar said. “It clings to you, clings to every inch of you.”

  Kip bristled but said nothing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a single sixpence, and tossed it into the hat. He heard it hit the felt bottom instead of the clink of metal on metal.

  “Slow day,” he said. “Let’s go, Shadow.”

  Kip turned and continued down the street.

  Shadow stayed behind for a moment, still peering into the battered hat as if it held some secret. He removed the medal from his chest, gave it a final appreciative look, and placed it in the hat.

  “Ragman keep this. Shadow’s got more,” he said cheerfully, then politely said goodbye as he pattered away, catching up with Kip.

  Ragman seemed not to notice the gesture, his eyes still fixed on Kip as he walked away.

  “You’ve got a heart of gold, boy! A heart of gold!”

  3

  The low tower of Alchemy House crested over the surrounding buildings, armored in dark red shingles that moved in a spiraling pattern up the tower, past a round window and to the top of the spire. Four windows at the top looked out under a pointed black-shingled roof.

  It cut an imposing form against the deep blue sky, dotted with stars.

  Kip always imagined the tower was leaning or twisting somehow, as if it changed with the seasons or on some whim. But when he looked directly at it, it seemed straight again.

  Of the four windows at the top of the tower, one was laced with stained glass, colored panes of red and black that formed the symbol of the Alchemists. Moonlight shot through the tower and illuminated it like a lighthouse on some windswept coastline. Alchemy House always called him home.

  Shadow jumped the four steps to the front door and pushed it open.

  “Home again,” he tittered as he padded inside.

  Stillness.

  Few things could be as silent as Alchemy House once it was tucked in for the night. The walls shielded it from the outside world, dampening any sound in an uncanny way. Even the clatter of a passing hansom cab failed to penetrate it. Kip had often looked down on the street below and wondered how there could be such silence when the world moved with such tremendous speed below.

  But not now. Empty streets and a locked door.

  Stillness.

  It hadn’t always been this way.

  In centuries past the house had been full of people, everyone working towards a common purpose.

  New ideas hotly debated. New people inducted. Old masters retired. Traditions observed.

  It had been that way for centuries. Not anymore.

  The shine had worn off of magic and alchemy, replaced by a city on the brink of a new modern age. People embraced the changes around them that raised taller buildings and promised brighter futures. Fewer people wanted to study alchemy, and the Academy had made adjustments accordingly, limiting the number of alchemists and magicians throughout Great Britain until Kip was the only one.

  Kip wasn’t bitter. It was the way of the world. It was always moving on. But it had left him here, alone, in a house with just memories.

  Stillness.

  It was exactly what Kip waited for, dreamed of, since the moment he woke that morning. And here it was.

  Shadow mewled lazily by the fire for an hour, talking about wolves and spirits and his ideal seven-course meal, then said goodnight, pattering up to the second floor. In the process of finding the most ideal sleeping arrangement, he busied himself with sampling every option. It varied every day. One night he slept on a bookshelf, the works of Aristotle for a pillow. Another night he found an appealing collection of blankets that begged to be sat upon.

  And on some nights...

  On some nights, Shadow rested on the network of dark tree limbs that filled the house.

  Kip looked at them now. Ashen branches interrupted the timbered ceiling, pushing boards aside or cracking them. Some grew from the walls and a few from the floor, thick arms of wood that thinned to grasping fingers. Leaves budded from them; waxy gray-green things that moved in a breeze only they felt.

  Despite the strange beauty of it, Kip shuddered. The wolf reared up in his mind again, and the void of its eyes. It was so deep.

  I brought this forth, he thought. I’m transforming Alchemy House with my mind, slowly but surely.

  It seemed impossible, especially to someone trained in such a precise and rational craft, but here was the proof growing above him. He wondered how much the branches would grow and imagined them slowly wrapping the house and everything in it into a timber cocoon.

  I brought this forth.

  Kip gazed into the hearth, watching the flames perform their ballet as they blazed and crackled. He looked at the painting above the mantel.

  Enos.

  The painting was a monument; a young man locked in amber. The eyes stared out at Kip, illuminated by the soft glow from the hearth. The painting could be a comfort or a rock to be dashed against. It responded to his mood, all without magic of any kind.

  Or was it a deeper magic?

  In his world of potions and elements, controlled experiments and breathless results, the painting held some real magic that Kip couldn’t quantify.

  The young man in the painting watched him. His black hair, usually so wild, was neatly combed. A thin and perfect line of pink captured his smile. But, no amount of skill could have captured his green eyes and the glint that ignited there. It would have been foolish to try.

  It had been one year since Enos had died, one year to the day. Kip shunned every calendar in the house, afraid to call out a day with such heavy memory. But the memories came regardless.

  He remembered waking that morning to the tangle of their limbs, the thin sheet half-off the bed, their body heat keeping them warm as the sun streamed in. Particles of dust caught in the light like woodland sprites come for a visit. They danced around the be
d, finding their own patterns of flight in the air.

  Kip and Enos dressed and went out into the world. The bustle around them could move at the pace it liked, but for them the time passed deliciously slow. They cut through it, carving their own way as the sights and sounds of the world filled their senses. It was almost too much to see and hear, a kind of bewilderment.

  They made their way, as they always did, to Potter’s Market. They sampled fruits from the Orient, their hands brushing together as they reached for a spiky orange delicacy and listened to the fruit-seller explain its origin in a language they didn’t understand.

  They tried on hats and laughed far too loud; bowlers, toppers, and squires.

  Kip bought eight ounces of turmeric, its earthy smell filling his nose. Enos bought a few strips of balsam wood for a model ship he was working on, remarking on what a mighty mast it would make.

  They’d visited Cobble and Crane’s Curiosity Shop and marveled at items that seemed too absurd to exist, the old shopkeeper keeping a watchful eye on them.

  At the edge of the market, always removed from the crowd, sat the Bird Lady. An old woman with a kind face surrounded by the folds of a babushka. She had a cart that held dozens of cages stacked one on top of the other, keeping their balance despite the strange angles and structures they made. Each contained a small bird.

  Parakeets, starlings, jackdaws, sparrows; a flurry of color and sound as the bird song became deafening. It should have disturbed, all those discordant voices, but it was pleasing somehow, like an orchestra tuning up before a concert.

  Kip always wondered what the full performance would have been.

  For a penny you could free one of the birds. It was a cynical transaction, but beautiful nonetheless. Kip and Enos always shared a cage, taking turns between holding it, and opening the small matchstick door.

  It was Enos’s turn. They’d given the penny to the Bird Lady’s assistant, a girl who couldn’t have been more than six. Her eyes flashed with delight each time they gave her a penny and it disappeared into a pocket in her dress faster than sight.