The Alchemy of Forever

examining my work. “Well done,” he praises. “Very . . . precise.”
    “Thank you,” I say curtly.
    He clears his throat and speaks to the rest of the class: “I realize this is difficult for many of you. That in this modern society you do not often have occasion to come face-to-face, or hand-to-paw, as it were, with death. My advice to you is: Get over it!”
    Everyone laughs. He always loved an audience.
    My breath catches in my throat as Cyrus approaches Noah’s lab table. He leans over Noah’s shoulder, looking at his notebook. “These are beautiful diagrams you’ve drawn,” Cyrus says with admiration. “You have a real eye for illustration. Are you an artist?”
    Noah looks down, embarrassed. “Not really. I like to take photos, but that’s not like being a painter or anything.” He steals a quick glance at me.
    Cyrus shakes his head. “Don’t downplay it! You have a talent. And anyone who says photography isn’t art is, forgive me, an idiot.”
    My lab partner says my name, and I realize he’s been talking. “What?” I ask.
    “I said, do you want me to fill in the diagram? Since you did all the dirty work.”
    “Sure, yes. Thanks.” I strain to listen to Noah and Cyrus. There’s something in Cyrus’s manner with him that I’ve seen before, and I don’t like it.
    The bell rings, breaking me out of my reverie. My lab partner has cleaned up and the room is quickly clearing out. I am thankful to leave Cyrus’s presence, and wait outside the door for Noah. I need him to reassure me, to make me feel safe again. But I hear Cyrus asking him to stay after class. No, I silently protest. Leave him alone! But what can I do? I head to my next class, a pit growing in my stomach. A feeling of dread—cold, like deep water that has never seen the sun.

twenty-eight
     
    Noah is in good spirits as we wait to buy food in the cafeteria line. “Would the lady prefer the tuna sandwich on rye or the tofu dog?” he asks with a grin.
    “Tuna. I don’t trust fake meat,” I answer.
    “Very good choice.”
    Even though it’s cold, we take our food outside, away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears. Ever since I left him in biology class, I’ve had a tense knot in my stomach and my shoulders have been stiff.
    “What did Mr. Shaw want?” I ask as soon as we’re seated under an expansive oak tree.
    “To talk about my photography. He was really encouraging—he said I should apply for art school. It was nice—I never thought of myself as an artist.” He takes a bite of his sandwich.
    “How can he talk about your photography when he’s never seen it?” I ask. “I mean, it’s nice of him, but he doesn’t even know you.” I know that Cyrus doesn’t care about Noah’s art. He’s just flattering him. The same way he flattered Jared and Nathaniel before making them Incarnates.
    “Kailey, I know I’m not as good as you. Your paintings are amazing.” He looks deflated.
    “It’s not that—I just think it’s insincere of him.”
    “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence,” Noah says drily. “He also recommended some books for me to read—interesting stuff about quantum mechanics and metaphysical chemistry. I had no idea science class could be so fascinating.”
    “He should just use the normal textbook. That’s what we’ll be tested on.” I feel a painful twist in my stomach and the beginnings of a headache. I hate this. I hate that Cyrus is trying to get his hooks into Noah. And I hate that it is causing us to fight. What does he want with him?
    “What’s the matter with you today? Is something bothering you?” Noah puts his hand on my shoulder, and I want nothing more than to confide everything in him. The idea is so tantalizing—to have an ally, someone else who knows the truth. To tell him my real name: Seraphina.
    And then what? I ask myself. Ask him to run away with you? What happens when he gets older and this body begins to fail you? I’ve sworn not to kill again—this is my last body.
    I swallow, pushing down the urge to tell Noah the truth. I can’t open that door. “I don’t trust Mr. Shaw,” I say carefully, willing him to see my side. “I mean, where did he come from, anyway? Where’s our teacher? When’s he coming back?” I don’t mention Cyrus’s story about Mr. Roberts’s “sabbatical.”
    Noah sighs. “Honestly, I wish Mr. Shaw was our permanent teacher. He’s actually making us think.”
    “He is quite . . . charismatic,” I agree. “But