The Alchemy of Forever

don’t think Cyrus will hurt her, especially once he figures out she’s not me. But I can’t be sure. He’s so unpredictable when he’s mad.
    And now he’s made a favorable impression not just on Noah, but on Leyla, too. He’s getting too close to the people I’ve come to care about. What if my plan to lay low and wait it out doesn’t work? What if he doesn’t leave?
    An idea occurs to me. A dangerous, stupid idea that just might get me killed. On Monday, after school, I’m going to follow Cyrus back to wherever he’s staying in the East Bay. I’ll watch him, see what I can glean. If he catches me, my cover will certainly be blown. But I need to find out exactly what he knows about that foggy night in Jack London Square, the night of escapes and sedatives and blood and gasoline. The night that I left him behind and my real life began.

thirty
     
    Monday morning I wake with a stomachache. It’s gray and drizzly, wind shaking the trees. Still, I tell Noah I’m riding my bike to school. He’s concerned, but I tell him I like the rain. “I’m not a witch—I won’t melt.”
    In biology, Cyrus lectures on natural selection and the survival of the fittest. I’m going to beat you , I promise silently. As terrified as I am, it feels good to take action. At least I’m not just waiting for him to discover me.
    After school I unchain Kailey’s bike and wait behind a tree, a knitted hat pulled down low on my face, rain soaking my denim jacket. I don’t even feel the cold. I watch as Cyrus leaves his classroom holding an elegant leather briefcase over his head. To my surprise, he heads for the bus stop. Cyrus—who owns cars worth more than a teacher’s yearly salary, who could have a private jet waiting for him at the snap of his fingers—is taking the bus?
    The streets are choked with traffic, and the bus makes slow progress down Shattuck, but I keep a few blocks behind it, just in case. I follow as it chugs through South Berkeley and crosses into Oakland, past coffee shops and cute restaurants on Telegraph. I dodge pedestrians and discover that the brakes on Kailey’s bike need some work. At the corner of MacArthur Boulevard, he exits the bus. As he’s waiting to cross the street, a shiny-rimmed car with thumping bass speeds by, splashing through a puddle that sprays Cyrus’s suit with oily water.
    He’s on foot now, so I hurriedly lock the bike to a parking meter and take off behind him as he heads east on MacArthur. I hold an umbrella in front of my face like a shield, but he never turns around. He heads into the parking lot of a seedy-looking motel called the Fireside Inn. I’d wager my meager savings that there’s not a working fireplace in the whole building.
    Why, I ask myself, is Cyrus staying in this dump? He could have rented a beautiful house in the hills or a brand-new condo downtown. I realize I haven’t seen Cyrus with any other coven member since he arrived. Would they condone what he’s doing? I know that my leaving must have filled him with rage, and I wonder if there was a challenge to Cyrus’s power. He’s here, I realize, because it’s the last place in the world the coven would look for him . I suspect they have no idea where he is. One thing is certain: Cyrus chose this place because no one would ask him any questions. It’s completely anonymous.
    I duck behind a Dumpster, feet slipping in the grime, and press my back to the stucco wall behind me, its surface digging into my shoulder blades. I’m breathing hard, my sodden hair plastered to my cheek. I roughly shove the lank curls underneath my hat and will myself to become part of the stucco, to be invisible, to have the patience of stone.
    The November twilight falls even faster in the storm, and it’s soon dark. I wait and wait, eyes trained on door number seventeen, the second-floor room into which Cyrus disappeared.
    I almost miss the moment when he walks out, distracted by shouts coming from the street. There are two men, both looking quite drunk, yelling at each other. But my senses are heightened by danger, and the small movement from Cyrus’s door catches my eye. He’s still wearing one of his expensive suits, and couldn’t look more out of place. He glides down the exterior staircase, avoids parking lot puddles, and is gone.
    I pull my hat low, put on gloves—can’t leave fingerprints—and crane my neck around the wall, watching him stroll up MacArthur, take a right, and disappear from