The Quest of the Prodigy (The Alchemist of Time Book 1) Page 26

  “I trust you, Danny,” said a solemn Odette. “Please take me with you! I’m done being locked up in rooms.”

  He sighed and nodded, rubbing her back to calm her down. “Then let’s go. We can’t lose him again.”

  She nodded and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

  The small SUV-sized Time Car suddenly felt even smaller with him driving, Bellator in the passenger seat, and the princess and her pet raven in the back. Deatherage hoped this wasn’t a bad idea.

  Eighteen years.

  That’s how long Aimon Hamilton had been living inside the glorified halls of the Academy of Alchemy.

  Today was the first time he felt like a stranger in his own home. Who had he become? He was consumed with guilt.

  He hadn’t stepped in and helped Mimi and Richie fight off the intruders, and Richie had died because of it. He had doubted Mimi, and despite Richie’s confidence still doubted her. She was determined now, but her confidence was easily shaken. Richie had believed in her, and Aimon still struggled to.

  Though his mind was numb with grief and guilt, he knew he had to move on. There was a mission at hand. He had to decide if he was to leave the Academy. He was destined to be the next headmaster. If he went with Mimi and Bas, his destiny was threatened. But by leaving a new destiny would be created, and the future would be saved. What to choose?

  An alarm rang from his communications device, signaling the weekly duel between Aimon and his father. Oh no. With Mimi and Bas here and the death of Richie, Aimon had forgotten to practice the last few days. It was not going to help his father’s reaction.

  “ARE YOU ready, my son?” his father asked as Aimon entered the Sparring Room. “I know with your loss of your dear friend, you might not be ready. We don’t have to do this.”

  Aimon bowed his head. “I still can’t believe he’s gone, but I can’t let his death alter my life. And I believe that normal routine will help distract my grief.”

  His father nodded, seemingly pleased with his wise words. “Very well.”

  The Sparring Room was similar to the test room, but lacked bleachers. Golden walls were painted with leaves, creating a tranquil look that contrasted with the different staffs hanging on the walls, ready to be used for training. Portraits of past headmasters covered another wall. Aimon was destined to have his own portrait up there one day.

  Aimon bowed and pressed his hands together as a sign of respect, one of the many traditions of the Truth of Words. These traditions helped separate them from the Truth of Blood or Truth of Nature. From bowing to their sensei to meditating at dawn, these traditions had made them the hardworking culture they had become.

  Aimon slid off the black robe he still wore in mourning and set it down on the bench near a window with a gorgeous view of the Golden Hope Island at sunset. Aimon watched the setting spear that was the sun for a moment, and a calming peace washed over him as he took a few deep, powerful breaths. He inhaled the air, smelling the sweat that lingered in the room from today’s previous lessons in which hundreds of students and instructors had participated. When he was mentally prepared, he held out his Elemental Launcher.

  “Show me what you learned this week, my son,” his father instructed.

  Thus the Sparring Match began.

  Both men positioned themselves firmly on the ground so they could borrow the energy from the Earth to either direct their opponent’s energy or their own energy to target an attack. As long as they were centered with the Earth, both father and son felt like they could achieve anything with the power of chi. His father lacked an Elemental Launcher of his own, more interested in learning what Aimon was being taught than showing off his own spells.

  “This week I learned the Fire Dragon,” said Aimon as he breathed in and out. He felt the air travel through his nostrils, the inner bridge of his nose feeling stronger, and the rest of his body following suit.

  “Good, good. Tell me then, what is the Fire Dragon made of?” his father asked as he blocked a fluid punch from Aimon that might have knocked the wind out of a lesser alchemist.

  “Fire and Air.” A kick this time, aimed at his father’s chest. Aimon twisted back and aimed the Launcher at his father. It shot a wave of fire just inches past where his father stood. Sweat trickled down the older man’s face from the proximity of the heat.

  “Good.” He blocked a kick. “Good. What else?” He struck Aimon’s core with a swift punch.

  Aimon grunted in pain. His stomach felt as though a cannonball had hit him instead of a firm fist, and he caved in, falling to his knees. Quickly catching his breath, he refused his father’s hand and stood again.

  “The Spell of Distraction.” Aimon stepped back and circled around his father, demonstrating the Spell in action.

  “And the ingredients?” his father asked, twisting away from a punch.

  Aimon, frustrated at how agile his father was, leapt in the air to attack. His father’s arm shot into the air and deftly deflected the kick, tossing Aimon back to the ground. Panting, Aimon rested on the ground a moment longer than usual, seeking to regain his chi. He was distracted tonight.

  “Gold.” Another kick blocked. “And Bismuth.” Punch, blocked. “Best used to distract your enemy.” Kick and punch, and Aimon was back on the floor. “That is the Spell of Distraction.”

  “What is wrong, son?” his father asked. Although Aimon had never yet defeated him, he usually didn’t get knocked down as many times as tonight.

  Aimon was now completely flustered, and all of his chi seemed to have left the building. He shook his head, trying to play it cool. “No, Father. It is not because of Richie.” He crouched low, allowing a moment to feel the kinetic energy working within his muscles. He rose and struck, hitting his father’s core. Aimon winced. The six-pack had done more damage to his fist than he had to his father.

  His father laughed and moved quickly, grabbing Aimon’s arm and twisting it behind his back. Aimon yelled as he was thrown back to the floor. He jumped to his feet again, refusing to give up.

  “Tell me what is wrong, my son. A good father always knows when his son is bothered.”

  Aimon sighed. It was time. “The Prodigy is refusing to train at the Academy after the attack on Richie. I have to agree; it is not safe for them. The future lies in their hands and they believe they need me to save it. They want me to return to their time machine to give us a fighting chance to prepare the Prodigy in time. I feel I owe it to Richie to go.”

  Knowing the match had to continue, Aimon moved his arm like a sword as he tried to chop his father’s shoulders, but was once again blocked. Annoyed, Aimon decided to take the sparring match to the next level and walked over to the wall, where long, thick staffs hung from the wall. Aimon grabbed a gold one and tossed his father the silver one.

  While the rest of the city was made from and obsessed with gold, his father preferred silver. He believed silver was a more humble precious metal and a symbol of humility. Aimon preferred a golden staff because it symbolized the wealth and prosperity that only a Brother of Alchemy could attain.

  “So you believe a new destiny has been presented to you?” asked his father, and struck first this time. Aimon blocked it with his own staff; there was a loud clash in the air as the two staffs collided.

  “Yes, Father. I do not wish to leave, though. I know my place is here at the Academy. It is an honor I wish to keep.” Another clash. “But they need me, Father.”

  Clash. “It sounds like a greater destiny. But only if you are ready.”

  Blocked. “How do I know if I am ready?”

  His father, as if to challenge him, thrust harder. Aimon’s eyes widened as he saw how strong the blow would be if it impacted and used his chi to step out of the way, causing his father to stumble. His father smiled, pleased.

  For some time no words were exchanged as their weapons clashed. Finally his father charged like a jousting knight, and Aimon hit the ground, then leapt up and over his father’s purposeful tumble. Landing on the o
ther side of him, Aimon spun into a kick while his father was still down.

  Aimon was as shocked as his father. He had never won.

  “I’m disappointed you’re still friends with Barkley,” admitted his father from the ground. “That tyrant broke the Golden Vase...the first thing that my grandfather, your great-grandfather, ever turned to gold!”

  Aimon winced and nodded. “It was an accident, Father. He said he was sorry.”

  “He might have been sorry,” his father said as he stood up, panting, “but I’m worried about your own future. Friends are but a distraction.”

  “Friends, Father, are only distractions if you let them be. Do not fear, I will not let her distract me from my goal. I know I want to be a Brother of Alchemy and someday take your place as headmaster of the Academy. I respect this high honor, Father, and I will not let anything stand in the way. I know now that I do not have to choose between destinies. I am capable of living both.”

  “Very well, my son. I’m proud of how much you have grown. But please do not lie to me again by hiding secrets. Secrets, like lies, can destroy the soul, and I hate to see one as pure as yours become decayed. Teach this Prodigy, but please beware of Sebastian Barkley. I know the breaking of the Vase was an accident, but he smells like trouble. Be cautious, my son, and let the Truth of the Words guide you,” he said, and bowed respectfully to his son. “Since you have obviously grown a great deal by defeating me, I will let you leave. I hope you return though, my son, and finish your own training so you may graduate this school with high honors.”

  Aimon smiled and bowed before pulling his father into a hug. It wasn’t a common practice, but his father was family. He would be back soon. In the meantime, he would join Mimi, and help her fulfill her destiny. He would be magnificent, and so would she. They would be magnificent together.

  The group arrived at the Bas House, Mimi awkwardly escorting Aimon and Bas bringing Albert with their Time Shifter. A silence descended as they all looked at one another, wondering what to do next. Aimon looked sad, and Mimi was having difficulty not feeling as if they had already lost the battle with the loss of Richie. She forced a smile for his sake. Richie wouldn’t have wanted them to mope and give up.

  “Bas, didn’t you say the best way to fight grief was with a distraction?”

  Bas nodded miserably.

  “Well,” she said and pointed to the now golden trumpet he was still holding, “what do you say you keep your promise and take us back to the year 1927? I think the Jazz Age will be the perfect distraction.”

  A smile lit the time traveler’s face. “I will miss my treasures, but you might be right. But, we can’t go dressed like this. You all should change.”

  Mimi recalled what he had once said about preferring to stand out. She shook her head, wondering if Bas would ever change.

  JAB DRESSED each of them for the 1920s using the Fabric Materializer. Albert was in an adorable gray and black pin-stripe suit. Aimon wore a black suit with a black Panama hat that Mimi imagined might have made Al Capone jealous.

  Mimi donned a silver flapper dress with comfortable, beaded silver slippers. She requested a pair of white tights and long gray pea coat for warmth, and added a brown leather satchel to keep the Diary and Elemental Launcher safe. The Time Shifter, along with Richie’s sun key, was hidden under the collar of her dress.

  Spotting Bas looking sadly at his golden trumpet, she gave him an impulsive hug. The items represented his adventures, and she understood why it was hard for him to part with them. But the items also meant a good deal more to their true owners.

  “You really are doing the right thing,” she said proudly, smoothing out some creases on his red coat.

  He nodded. “I know...but if it’s the right thing, why does it feel so rubbish?”

  Mimi sighed and shook her head. “One of life’s many great mysteries. The right thing should always make us feel good. But sometimes the things that are the most right also makes us feel the worst. When all the stuff in the Lootery is returned, you’ll feel loads better,” she said reassuringly.

  “I’m still going to miss my stuff, but as long as it allows you to be the Prodigy, I imagine I can live with an empty Lootery.”

  “I’m just glad we’re safe for now. That Deatherage guy seems crazy,” said Aimon.

  The others nodded in agreement.

  Bas was reaching for his Time Shifter when he stopped abruptly. “You know Mimi, there’s probably something I should tell you about the Cotton Club.”

  Mimi folded her arms in disapproval. “Oh?”

  “I tried to tell you in the Lootery, but you cut me off. Anyway, I might be recognized. I was only here a week ago for them. When I came here last, how I got the trumpet, well…I’m not proud of it. But Duke noticed me when I came in. There wasn’t much of a crowd. He asked where I was from, and I said London. He seemed impressed. He asked if I could play, and I couldn’t let him down so I said yes.”

  “So you can play the trumpet?” asked Aimon in surprise.

  “Er, not exactly. I fooled them. I had this on.” From his utility belt Bas pulled out a white metallic glove, with digital-looking blue dots on the fingertips.

  “These digital digits are what allowed it to appear that I was playing. Each knob on the trumpet that I press, the glove produces the proper note for the song...and I look like a jazz star. There’s a memory chip in the gloves with all the jazz songs I know. I might have stirred up a bit of commotion last time with such talent.”

  Mimi wasn’t impressed, but Albert’s face was glowing. “I can totally use that glove for my music class!”

  “Let’s go,” said Mimi, hoping to distract her brother before the idea stuck. “We’re wasting time.”

  “There’s no such thing as wasted time in a Time House, it’s a time machine!” Bas declared. Mimi rolled her eyes and pulled out her Time Shifter.

  THE WALK down the Harlem streets was cold, and the wind chill unkind. Mimi was glad when they could see the golden sign reading “The Cotton Club” in big, block letters. The scene outside the club was lively.

  Scattered, classic black Model T cars were honking at pedestrians to get out of the way, but the pedestrians didn’t seem to care, neither hurrying up nor slowing down because of the oncoming traffic. Everyone was bundled in long, fluffy, furry or woolen coats. Some gentlemen used walking canes. Mimi and Albert laughed with delight at the sight of horses and buggies trotting down Fifth Avenue.

  Bas linked arms with Albert and Mimi, who looped her arm through Aimon’s. She wasn’t fond of Aimon yet, but she knew how rotten it felt to be left out. Despite Bas’s bright cranberry jacket contrasting their black and gray attire, no one seemed to pay them any mind.

  The Cotton Club was smaller than Mimi had expected. A skyscraper took in its location in Mimi’s decade. Jazz music was pouring onto the street, and Mimi found her feet tapping with excitement. This was their first real time-traveling excursion and she hoped it was as exciting as all of Bas’s stories.

  Bas slid his arms from theirs and approached the bouncer. The two-hundred and fifty pound, muscular African-American had the largest shoulders Mimi had ever seen. Deatherage wouldn’t stand a fighting chance. She pushed Albert behind her.

  The bouncer’s scowl transformed into a laugh when he saw the club’s latest arrival. “Bas! You son of a gun, didn’t think you’d show up again!” he cried, pulling Bas into a half-hug and slapping his back. “How have you been, you devil? Here to steal the show again like you did last week? Sure put Bubber to shame!” He laughed heartily.

  Bas winced. “Yeah...about that...kind of need to talk to the Duke and Bubber. They here?”

  “Can’t you hear them? The jazz should tell you the answer is yes!”

  Bas grinned. “I thought that cool-cat-attack was them. So, Slim, can we see them?”

  “We? You mean, these kids are with you? What’s a cool cat like you doing with a bunch of kids?”

  “I’m not a kid!”


  “Albert, shut up!” Mimi hissed and slapped her brother’s arm.

  Bas chuckled nervously. “It’s kind of a long story. But, oh! This here juice might get you to change your mind,” he said with a grin as he slid the bouncer a silver flask.

  Mimi’s eyes widened. Was Bas bribing him?! They were going to get into trouble! “Bas!”

  Bas waved his hand at her to shut her up. “Relax a little, Sheila. Just doing what I did to get inside the first time. So, Shawn, do we have a deal?”

  His awful attempt at the slang of the 1920s did not amuse Mimi. Her opinion went ignored as Shawn took a sniff of the flask and a sip before nodding. He unhooked the velvet rope and ushered them in. “Tell the Duke I say hi,” Shawn said with a huge grin.

  They entered the club and stopped, soaking the scene. Bas was beaming, and Mimi smiled to see his red leather cowboy boots tapping away. At the back of the club was a stage where a large orchestra was jazzing away, led by the Duke himself. Several vocalists were giving the song a new life and hands held the mouths of plungers wafting over the trumpets, adding a wah-wah sound. The Duke was pecking away at the piano keys while his lead trumpeter played a brass trumpet.

  In the valley of the club were round tables with bright red, cotton tablecloths. The décor reminded Mimi fleetingly of Bas’s cranberry coat. At the tables were white men and women, paired in couples. Groups of just men smoked cigars and laughed. Girls in flapper dresses danced around the room or clutched long, ivory cigarette holders with their illegal beverages. Mimi felt like she fit right in with her costume.

  She noticed that although the band members had dark skin, there were no African-Americans in the audience. It was a stark reminder of how far America had come since the 1920s when it came to racial injustice. She glanced at Aimon and saw only confusion on his face. He had probably never heard this type of music before.