Free City of Lost Dreams by Magnus Flyte

comfortable bed at the Ritz. The woman next to him was snoring. Nico studied her, curious. She lay on her back, but her large breasts pointed skyward in defiance of all gravitational law. Silicone. Nico lifted the sheet and inspected her pubic hair, or, rather, the lack of it. Just a narrow strip. It was definitely the twenty-first century, then.
    Nico lay still for several minutes, running through an internal checklist in his brain. He reminded himself of the current day of the week, month, and—most important—year. For extra credit he named the phase of the moon: waxing gibbous. He cataloged the state of his physical health. Remarkably, he was not hungover. After leaving Soane’s he had gone to another pub, perhaps two, and he remembered picking up a wallet and also—more vaguely—this creature.
    Nico sat up.
    Why had he been so despairing yesterday? Really, looked at in the proper light, the whole thing was actually . . . interesting.
    Someone had been alchemy shopping all over London. That in itself wouldn’t be so surprising—there were millions of crackpot theorists around, on scavenger hunts for the Holy Grail or Excalibur or Bigfoot. It was entirely possible that someone had conceived a quest for the Golden Fleece. But someone knew that
Nico
was looking for it, too. Someone had sent Saint John to Nico’s restaurant of saints. Someone had left a dwarf figurine in place of a medicine chest. No wonder he hadn’t been able to find anything of John Dee’s that traced back to the Fleece.
    Who was his antagonist? Anyone who could connect him to the Fleece had been dead for hundreds of years. And even then, the only people who knew that he had briefly held the book could be counted on one hand.
    Sarah knew. But Sarah wanted nothing to do with alchemy, even though she had a PhD in it. What did she call herself? A neuromusicologist? Please. An alchemist by any other name would smell as sulfurous. Max? Max was desperate to find the Fleece, not to use it, but because he believed it was part of his family’s duty to protect it. Secret Order of the Golden Fleece, sworn protector knights, and so forth.
    Anyway, to work. Nico still had a few tricks up his sleeve. His opponent might have temporarily gained the upper hand, but now Nico was invigorated. Inspired. There was nothing like having a worthy adversary to liven things up.
    Sherlock Holmes had needed a Moriarty to bring him out of his chronic ennui.
    And so had he.
    Nico hopped out of bed, took a bath, and decided a shave was really in order, as he needed to look respectable for today’s plan. He had just lathered up when his evening companion stumbled through the door, collapsed in front of the toilet, and heaved. Nico soaked a towel in cold water and handed it to her.
    “Oh, thank you,” she said, in quite cultured tones, closing the lid and then sitting on it. She was a lovely woman, but Nico turned his attention to his chin. He hadn’t shaved in about fifty years. He didn’t get five o’clock shadow. He got half-century shadow.
    “Last night was quite an experience. I’m beginning to remember it now. You are incredibly . . .”
    “I know,” said Nico.
    “Oh.” Nico could see in the mirror that she was staring at his naked back. She leaned forward and touched him. “I remember. Your scar. Got in a fight with gypsies, I believe you said?”
    “I never fight with gypsies.” Nico examined his teeth. “Nor should you, if you ever come across one. No, this was self-inflicted, I’m sorry to say.”
    “You stabbed
yourself
in the back?”
    “It seemed funnier at the time,” Nico conceded.
    “Also . . . your wrists.”
    Nico glanced down at the very faint white lines that marked his wrists.
    “What if I told you I couldn’t kill myself even if I wanted to? What if I told you I was immortal because of a scientific experiment gone awry, that for four hundred years I’ve watched all my friends die, everyone I loved or cared for, while being