The Etsey Series 1: The Seventh Veil Read Free Page A

he watched workers unload the cargo. Yes, Bimsy had known just how to work him, hadn’t he? Sex magic. If Old Rooky had used that to test his blood, he wouldn’t have minded so much. Still, Charles worried. Nothing about alchemists had ever been good, in his experience. And if this one was a rogue—well, either he was an even more heartless bastard than the others or he wasn’t any good. Also, fun as sex magic sounded, what good could it possibly do? One way or another, this was almost guaranteed to be a mistake.
    But as Charles stood there, hesitating, staring into the foggy shroud of the docks, he watched the gray mist begin to form again. He finished the cigarette, tossed it into a puddle, and continued down the winding lane. Mistake or not, it was the only choice left outside of madness.
    He passed the fancy shops, the modest ones, and then the very, very humble, until at last he left the lane altogether, leaving the brick paving to wade through the mucky mud of an even narrower alley to the small, huddled, unmarked dwellings that were the havens of the alchemists operating outside the guild. Charles grimaced and put his handkerchief to his nose to dull the stink as he wound his way to the dark shack at the farthest end of the street. Once there, he lifted his hand and knocked on the door.
    “Come in,” said a voice from within.
    Charles smoothed his hair behind his ears, cleared his throat, and opened the door.
    The room was very small, and it was crowded with books and complicated sets of glass tubing. The shelves were full of pots, jars, and cases whose very appearance made Charles ill at ease. It smelled ten times worse than the alley and the Randy Sailor bedroom put together: there was sulfur, yes, but rot as well, and other unnamable, undesirable pungent scents that tickled the roof of Charles’s mouth and the back of his throat and made him want to gag. He pressed his handkerchief more firmly to his nose, sucked a breath in through his mouth, and waited.
    The alchemist sat at the desk in the far corner of the room. He was thin, sallow, and sandy-haired. He had his fingers threaded together, resting them beneath his chin as he ran his narrowed eyes up and down Charles as if he were little more than a laboratory sample.
    He was not in any way handsome. Not that it mattered. But given this was allegedly to be “sex magic,” it would have made things a little easier.
    Charles lowered his handkerchief and made a slightly awkward bow. “I am Charles Perry. I was told perhaps you could help me.”
    The man made no answer, only continued to watch Charles patiently. He looked mildly amused.
    Charles shifted uneasily on his feet and reached into his pocket for his purse. “I of course can pay—”
    The man sat up, freeing his hands so that one of them could wave Charles’s comment away. “Payment will be discussed at a later time. Before such mundane details are broached, I have several questions I wish to put to you.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Some are necessary for me to begin my work. Others are, I admit, simply to satisfy my own curiosity.”
    Charles forced a smile. “Certainly. Ask me anything you like.”
    “I know a great deal about your factual history, of course.” The alchemist laughed. “House of Perry and Whitby. Bastard son. I believe I’ve bought your blood on the black market a time or two, when your grandfather was still making certain you were his true offspring. Of course, one can see why he was so eager to try and disown you. Bit of a troublemaker, you are.”
    Charles hated this already. “Do you have a name?”
    “I am Martin Smith,” the alchemist replied. “And I think you will find, as we get to know one another, that we have more in common than you might suspect. But I get ahead of myself.” He leaned forward slightly, letting his steepled fingers fall away to join the others as they nestled casually beneath his chin. “Tell me, Charles Perry, what it is