CHAPTER FORTY FIVE
The Gramercy Theatre dripped with the kind of faux-opulence that made Amelia cringe. The Victorian-era venue suited Lydia perfectly – all that neo-Renaissance architecture screamed mystical enlightenment to the kind of people who'd shell out sixty bucks to hear a middle-aged woman talk about chakras and universal consciousness. Just another temple to self-delusion, packed to the gills with crystal-clutching clowns.
Not that Amelia was judging. After all, she'd joined Lydia's little circle for a reason. The Order needed its spirit element, and who better than a woman who claimed she could pierce the veil between worlds?
Amelia touched her cheek, where the scar tissue had begun to soften. The burns from the lab had marked her for years, a byproduct of handling other people's poisons. But now they were starting to fade.
The ancient texts had promised transformation, and as always, they hadn't lied. Each sacrifice had changed her, cell by cell. Earth had strengthened her bones. Water had purified her blood. Air had cleansed her pores. The fire had burned away imperfection.
Now, spirit would complete the work.
No one looked twice at the pretty young thing with the scars. They were too busy focusing lights, testing mics, running through cues. Amelia could have sprouted horns and danced naked and they wouldn't have blinked.
Which was exactly how she wanted it.
From Amelia’s research, the Gramercy Theatre could seat 2,900 people, but tonight's event would only fill about half that. Lydia wasn't quite famous enough to pack the house, but she drew decent crowds. Enough to make the old theatre feel alive without overwhelming its intimacy. The smaller audience meant fewer witnesses, fewer variables to account for.
Amelia stalked the backstage, drinking in the chaos. Techs hustled past with coils of cable over their shoulders. Lighting techs barked at each other over crackling headsets. The whole place buzzed with the manic energy of impending showtime.
Amelia could smell the desperation. It leaked from every pore - the crew, the volunteers, the whole sorry lot of them scrambling to make this spiritual circle-jerk go off without a hitch .
Amelia sidestepped a harried-looking kid juggling water bottles. Probably an intern, judging by the deer-in-headlights look and the total lack of a clue. These were Lydia Soulwright's people. The kind of New Age fools who thought chanting mantras could cure cancer. Amelia had grown up around their type - chakra-obsessed airheads who'd rather consult a crystal ball than a doctor.
Well, Lydia promised them miracles. Amelia was here to deliver.
Amelia cut through the dressing rooms until she found her station.
Speak of the devil.
‘Millie! Thank God!’ Lydia swept out of her dressing room in a flutter of scarves and patchouli. The charlatan clutched Amelia's arm like they hadn’t seen each other just last night. Rhinestones glittered of Lydia’s false fingernails.
Millie. She'd always hated that nickname. But you caught more flies with shit than vinegar. ‘Lydia! Looking luminous as ever!’
'Oh, stop.' Lydia fanned herself. She was a middle-aged odalisque dripping with paste jewelry. Amelia had always felt sorry for her. 'I'm a wreck. Absolute wreck. Have you seen the crowd out there?'
‘Peeked through the curtain. Pretty good turnout for a psychic in the age of smartphones.’
‘Cheeky monkey.’ Lydia swatted her arm. ‘I'll have you know, interest in the spiritual arts is at an all-time high. People are finally waking up to the magic all around them.’
Indeed. And Lydia was the one holding the wand, Amelia thought. But she couldn’t voice her skepticism, because Amelia had to play the part of doting friend and fellow Order member until the end.
‘So what's on the menu tonight? Channeling Cleopatra? Past life regression? Maybe John Lennon will pop by?’
Lydia huffed, feathers ruffled. ‘Nothing so crass. This is about expanding consciousness. Heightening awareness. Opening the audience to the infinite potential within.’
Amelia's cheeks ached from the effort of not rolling her eyes. ‘Sounds mind-blowing.’
‘You laugh, but this is powerful stuff. It's not just hocus-pocus and rabbit tricks. There's a whole world of wonder out there, right on the edge of perception. All we have to do is open our eyes.’
Amelia studied Lydia's face, searching for a wink, a tell, any hint that this was all some kind of joke.
But the woman's eyes shone with the zeal of the true believer. She actually bought her own bullshit .
Maybe that's how she did talks to a thousand people a night. Sheer, unadulterated conviction. Suckers lined up around the block to throw money at anybody who could sell them salvation with a straight face.
Well, time to nudge things along.
‘So Lyds, I'm here to help. What do you need?’ Amelia slapped on her best Girl Friday grin. ‘Coffee? Costume change?’
The quip earned her a wry chuckle. ‘Nothing so dramatic, dear. Though I could use an extra pair of hands here and there. Think you could set up my book table? I’m going to do some signings after the show.’
‘Sure thing. Just point me to the merch.’
‘You're an angel. And could you ensure my rider’s in place? You know I can’t do these marathons without hydration.’ Lydia gave her a look that tried for conspiratorial but landed somewhere around constipated.
‘Rider. Got it. Hydration.’ Amelia dutifully noted, ‘So what are you on tonight? Pepsi Max?’
'Bottled spring water only, darling. Two should be enough to see me through. At my age, my bladder is betraying me. Nearly wet myself at the meeting last night.'
‘Your age? You’ll live forever,’ Amelia laughed. ‘Anything else?’
‘Just keep me in your thoughts. And cross everything you've got that this crowd is as receptive as the last one.’ Lydia air-kissed somewhere in the vicinity of Amelia's cheek and put a hand on her shoulder. Amelia flinched. Physical contact was best avoided. ‘I don't know what I'd do without your help organizing these events. You've got such an eye for detail.’
If only you knew, Amelia thought. ‘Always willing to help a member. And friend.’
Lydia spun and made her way across the backstage area, already searching for her next fawning acolyte. Amelia watched the woman go. Lydia Soulwright, the Doyenne of Delusion herself.
But not for much longer.
Amelia hit the stage at a trot. Nothing but a skeleton crew left. One guy futzing with speakers, a few safety-vested mooks sweeping the aisles. The lighting rig hung above it all. Cables crisscrossed the stage, threaded between road cases, and taped down within an inch of their lives. Amelia hopped over them, scanning for her target.
There .
The cluster of water bottles dripping under the lights. A line of soldiers watching for orders.
Amelia ambled over, made sure all eyes were elsewhere, then scooped them up.
She hid them beneath her jacket and marched to the kitchen.
Empty.
Amelia set the bottles down, unstoppered them one-handed and palmed the vial of sodium pentobarbital from her pocket. The irony wasn't lost on her. The same class of chemicals that had destroyed her would now complete her transformation.
Just a sip, that's all it would take.
Amelia caught her reflection in a scuffed backstage mirror. Not a scar in sight, not a single flaw marring the landscape. Her cheeks bloomed with health, eyes flashing like polished stones. Even her hair had lost that brittle straw texture.
It was as the texts had promised. The quinta essentia ran through all things, animating matter, uniting mind and form. She'd cracked the code, solved the riddle that had eluded seekers for centuries.
Forget the Great Work. This was the Greatest Work imaginable. Screw lead into gold. She’d gone one better than the philosopher’s stone and transformed flesh into divinity.
The mirror didn't lie. For the first time in her miserable life, she could meet her own eyes without flinching. Hell, she might paint a self-portrait when this was over.
The Alchemist smiled. By the time they found Soulwright's chiffon-draped corpse, she'd be basking in the afterglow of apotheosis. Let them puzzle over the particulars. Ezra had served his purpose, because when the cops crashed the cult compound, they'd find a regular house of horrors. All the evidence needed to close the case and give the city a shiny new monster to hang on their wall.
Nobody would look twice at mild-mannered Amelia Blackwood.