Page 9 of Alchemy of Secrets

There had been a small group of students who had decided they would visit every hotel bar in Los Angeles in an attempt to buy the devil a drink. They went to three hotels before they tried the Roosevelt.

Holland believed this had to be the place the devil would frequent, if the devil actually existed.

Her friends weren’t immediately convinced.

After their first trip to the Roosevelt, they’d wanted to visit other hotels, ones with trendy rooftop bars and outlandish cocktails that came with batteries on the side.

But eventually they’d realized what Holland had known right away: The Roosevelt was special—and it didn’t need electric cocktails to prove it.

Now they met in the Roosevelt lobby on the final Thursday of each month.

Over the last few years, Holland’s friends had all bought drinks for various men and women who they thought might be the devil—or who they had just wanted to flirt with.

Holland was the only one who had never bought anyone a sidecar.

She planned to only buy one once, and when she did, she wanted to be certain.

Every month, she arrived at the Roosevelt a little early in case she finally saw him.

Tonight, she was earlier than usual. And, after her meeting with Adam, she was in the mood to buy a stranger a drink.

She wanted to prove that her faith in the Professor wasn’t misplaced, and more than ever, she wanted to prove the stories about the devil were real.

If she could prove the devil made deals with people that led to their deaths, then she could prove her mother had never murdered her father.

She could rewrite their story, change the ending.

She could turn Isla Saint from Hollywood villain back to leading lady.

And maybe Holland could save someone else from making the same mistake as her parents and countless others.

Holland couldn’t be absolutely certain as to which former stars had made deals with the devil and then failed to pay him back.

But she had very strong ideas about it. While working on her thesis, Holland had been unsettled to discover that there seemed to be a similar tragic pattern to a number of Hollywood deaths: awards, fame, the kind of success that made people rich and powerful and adored, until it all came crashing down in a devastating turn of mysterious events no one could ever fully explain.

Holland felt a familiar stab of sadness as she grabbed the first open table she could find.

It was covered in flyers for tomorrow’s Halloween party and was right next to the fireplace.

It was far too hot a day to sit next to a fire, but half of the lobby was closed off with covered-up installations for the party, and the rest of it was already buzzing with people.

The music of clinking glasses mingled with tipsy laughter that floated up toward the mezzanine.

Usually, the sound made her think of rising champagne bubbles, and Holland would try to picture how the Roosevelt must have looked once upon a time, full of gentlemen in hats and ladies in gloves with rows of iridescent pearl buttons.

Tonight, though, she wasn’t feeling the magic of the Roosevelt the way she usually did. As she sat in the lobby, she felt antsy, unsettled. Her heart was racing as if it knew something she didn’t.

Holland checked her phone to see if the Professor had returned her call.

No new notifications. Not from the Professor and not from Jake. Although by now Holland had given up on hearing from Jake.

She shoved her phone back into her messenger bag and tried to take a proper look around to see if anyone resembling the devil had arrived.

She had been raised by her Aunt Beth, who believed in God and Jesus, and usually Holland did, too.

She wasn’t a biblical expert, but she’d looked into the name Lucifer .

Bringer of light. That’s what the name meant, which made Holland think the devil would look golden.

Skin that ranged from tan to bronze. Hair that could be either gold or blond.

Light eyes—she wasn’t certain of the color, but she knew they would be beautiful.

Suddenly she had a picture of Adam Bishop, smirking at her over a cocktail glass.

She tried to shake it from her head. Adam wasn’t that hot, except… he really was. He had that lean tall build, the kind that made her think he’d look young and healthy forever. If she’d first met him at the Roosevelt, she would have considered buying him a drink.

Although Holland was convinced the devil would wear a suit. He wouldn’t look like a grad student. And he definitely wouldn’t be a tourist, which the lobby was full of that night. There were lots of people taking pictures of their drinks and themselves—something the devil would never do.

Her eyes drifted up toward the mezzanine level. The area was empty. There was nothing to see that she hadn’t seen before, but her skin felt suddenly hot. Her unsettled feeling was back with a vengeance. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck.

“Hey you!”

Holland turned to find her friend Cat, sauntering toward the table, all long dark legs and long black braids swishing behind her.

Holland’s anxious feeling dissipated at the sight of her dear friend’s smile.

“How was your date last night?” Cat asked excitedly, because Cat pursued love the same way Holland chased after myths and legends.

For Cat—whose full name was Charlotte Elizabeth Davis—searching for the devil had always been purely an excuse to buy cute strangers drinks.

During undergrad, she had taken Folklore 517 because of her girlfriend at the time.

Holland didn’t think that Cat believed in any of the Professor’s myths, including the one about the devil.

Cat simply believed in love, and in doing whatever it took to find it. And Holland adored her for it.

“I think I’m destined to be a spinster,” Holland said, joking but also a little bit serious. “I’ve decided my new goal is to get over my cat allergy, since I don’t think there are going to be any men in my future. Or maybe I’m just not meant to date nice, normal guys.”

Cat’s eyes immediately filled with pity and a flare of anger because Cat was the sort of friend who couldn’t imagine anything being wrong with Holland.

“ Nice and normal are both such boring words,” Cat said heatedly, full of that wonderful good-friend righteous fury. “I’m not sure why you’re trying so hard to make that your type.”

“It is my type. I’m nice.”

“Yes, you’re an absolute sweetheart. But—” Cat’s expression softened.

“ Nice just isn’t the first word I’d use to describe you.

You are so much more than nice. You’re like a sunbeam with all your boho skirts and your smiles and your long blond hair and your corny jokes.

But you don’t have a soft sweet center. The first time I met you, the way you believed in the Professor’s myths made me wonder if you were a little insane. ”

Holland’s eyebrows shot up.

“Only for a second!” Cat clarified. “Then I immediately wanted to be your friend.”

But all Holland could think was that this was her problem: her endless chasing after the Professor’s myths and legends. It was what had botched things up last night. It was what always did, because she wanted to chase them more than she wanted anything else.

“Hey, please don’t feel bad,” Cat said. “You know I think you’re amazing. The way you see the world is so different and surprising, and it makes you a far more interesting person. I just wonder…” Cat paused and pursed her scarlet lips, as if she thought she should stop there.

“It’s all right,” Holland said. “I probably need to hear this.”

Cat reached out and put a hand over Holland’s.

“I feel like you’re going after the wrong type of guy.

I don’t think you actually want someone safe and nice .

I think you want someone who scares you a little, like the Professor’s myths.

And I think you need someone who won’t make you feel as if you have to hide those dark and twisty parts of you. ”

And this was the other reason Holland loved Cat. Even though Holland kept secrets from her friend, Cat could still see so much of what was going on inside of her.

For a second, Holland wondered what it would be like if she told Cat the reason why. If she spilled her guts about her parents, if she confessed her real last name and told Cat the actual reason she’d taken the Professor’s class.

She imagined Cat would hold her in the world’s tightest hug and then make it her new crusade to find the devil as well. Holland could almost hear Cat yelling, “I’m buying everyone in here a sidecar!”

And for a moment, the ever-present ache inside of Holland would vanish. For a moment she’d feel like she might not spend the rest of her life alone, haunted by questions she couldn’t quite answer.

But one of the great joys of Cat was also one of the reasons Holland could never tell her. Cat didn’t have any secrets, which made her tragically bad at keeping other people’s. And this wasn’t just Holland’s secret. It was January’s, too.

“I love that you see me this way,” Holland said. “But I really don’t want to be scared.”

Cat raised a disbelieving brow. “Then why do you get here early every week to look for the devil?”

“I’m the only one who’s never bought him a drink.”

“Let’s change that tonight!” Cat declared.

Just then a burst of giggles erupted from a table at the other end of the lobby. Holland and Cat both turned their heads. Chance Garcia had arrived.

Yes— that Chance Garcia.

Chance, of course, already had a drink in his hand. Servers always brought Chance drinks almost as soon as he entered the lobby.

Chance had never explicitly stated why he’d taken Folklore 517, but Holland always imagined it had something to do with The Magic Attic . Not that Chance ever talked about The Magic Attic . It was the one subject he never touched.

But he was always kind and generous to any fans who recognized him from the show. And, even after all these years, he was still easily recognizable. More so now that he was making an unexpected return to acting in the newest Vic VanVleet film, which was premiering on Thanksgiving.

The giggling girls had clearly been excited to spot him, and now they were all taking pictures near a potted palm tree.

“I don’t know how he deals with it,” Eileen huffed, as she took a seat at the table.

Holland hadn’t even seen her enter, but suddenly Eileen was there, dressed as if she’d come straight from work, in a pair of tailored slacks and a smart, long-sleeve cream blouse, with a navy ribbon threaded under her collar and tied into a neat bow.

During undergrad, Eileen Cheng had been a business major, and she’d taken Folklore 517 to round out her educational experience.

Now, she was an overworked personal assistant for someone she refused to name.

Cat and Holland both imagined Eileen’s employer was a celebrity, but an NDA prevented Eileen from revealing which one.

Every week, Cat tried to guess who Eileen worked for—she believed NDAs should really be FrienDAs.

But Eileen was a vault. She was the friend whom everyone agreed they would call if they ever needed to hide a dead body.

In fact, her name was in Holland’s phone under the words In Case of Lethal Emergency .

“How do you always do that?” Cat asked. “You just appear like magic.”

“Magic is mostly misdirection,” Eileen said coolly. “Both of you were busy staring at Chance and his newest fan club.”

“Should we rescue him?” Holland asked.

Cat and Eileen both made a show of checking out the giggling girls to see if any were pretty. Chance had repeatedly told them never to rescue him if the fans were pretty.

Chance really was a solid friend. He was the guy to call if you wanted to go out for drinks at a new bar, go for a jog along the beach, or move furniture that was too heavy. But he could be a little shallow.

“I think we should leave him tonight,” Cat said. “He seems to be smiling at the blonde who looks a little like you, Holland.”

Holland wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think she looks like me.”

“I agree.” Eileen took a second to eye the blonde. “She looks like the sort of person who has never had anything bad happen to her.” Eileen’s eyes narrowed. “I would bet she only buys books to use as props in photos, and her version of news is celebrity gossip.”

“I enjoy celebrity gossip,” said Cat.

Holland’s phone chimed. She glanced down quickly, hoping the Professor or Jake had finally texted (because despite what she kept telling herself, she hadn’t completely given up hope that there would be more than cats in her future).

Still nothing from either of them.

Instead, she had a missed call from a number that came up as FIRST BANK OF CENTENNIAL CITY .

Holland’s skin went cold.

The bank had left a voice message. But all her phone said was Unable to transcribe.

“What’s wrong?” Eileen asked.

“I’m sorry, guys. There’s a message I just need to check—” Holland quickly shoved up from her seat. “I’ll be right back.”

The lobby was too loud. Holland made her way up to the mezzanine, where the sound of the crowd below was dimmed enough that she could hear her footsteps on the old Spanish tile.

She tried not to pace, but Holland couldn’t help it as she hit Play on the message.

“Good evening. I’m Padme Davani, assistant to the Manager of the First Bank of Centennial City.

I’m calling to inform you that I’ve been able to secure you a fifteen-minute slot on the calendar tomorrow at 9:45 a.m. As I believe this is your first appointment at the Bank, I suggest you arrive five minutes early, and do not be late or you may not have enough time to open up your father’s box. ”