Free Dark Alchemy by Laura Bickle

see a man who had appeared behind the counter. He leaned against the glass by an old-­fashioned red dial telephone. Petra hadn’t felt his eyes on her, had no idea of how long he’d been sizing her up. He was stooped and wizened like a tree, albeit a tree clothed in flannel. His voice issued out from beneath a carefully waxed grey moustache that was as shiny as pewter.
    â€œThese are really fascinating. How old are they?”
    â€œSome of those go back to 1852. Got a whole cabinet of ’em. Some wet collodion, some dry plates. Old newspapers, too.”
    A smile crossed Petra’s face. “This isn’t just the town pawn shop, is it?”
    The old man shook his head, and Petra heard bones creak and pop. “No, ma’am. I’m also the town historical society—­a society of one.”
    â€œThen I’m in the right place.” Petra approached the counter and extended her hand. “I’m Petra Dee. I’m new to town.”
    â€œThe geologist. I heard that you were coming. I’m Stan.” Stan’s moustache twitched when he smiled. “What would you like to know about Temperance?”
    Petra’s smile thinned. “Everything.”
    Stan rubbed his moustache. “Temperance was founded in 1852. Rumor has it that it was founded by Lascaris Aldus, a self-­proclaimed alchemist.”
    â€œYeah, ­people have mentioned him. I didn’t know that gold was mined here, though.”
    Stan shrugged. “Lascaris found gold, somewhere. Or conjured enough of it to keep the town thriving for ten years. He vanished in 1862, when his house burned down. Most ­people assumed that he died in the fire, though his bones were never found. The town hung on until Yellowstone was established as a national park in 1872.”
    Stan pointed at a tintype perched on the wall. “That’s old Lascaris.”
    Petra squinted at the disintegrating photo. A man stood before a faded, underdeveloped landscape. He was dressed in long coat and tall boots, his shirt dirty and rumpled. A battered hat perched above decidedly patrician features. His gaze was distant, faraway. Petra knew that look. She’d seen that look in her father’s eyes before he’d disappeared.
    Petra tore her gaze away. “He was a good-­looking man, in a sort of crazed way.”
    Stan chuckled. “He was definitely thought to be a nutbar recluse. Some think that he still haunts Temperance, looking for hidden gold or the Philosopher’s Stone. Depends on who’s doing the telling.”
    â€œThat’s a nice ghost story.”
    â€œLascaris was a mysterious man. If anyone had unlocked the secret of eternal life, it would have been that old alchemist.”
    Petra chuckled. She’d believe ghosts when she saw them, but didn’t want to go out of her way to offend the old man who was giving her the tourist spiel.
    â€œDon’t tempt them, young lady.” Stan winked at her. “Temperance is a strange place.”
    Petra looked at the glass case beneath the register, full of handguns displayed on threadbare velvet. “Are those for sale?”
    â€œEverything’s for sale, for the right price.” Stan pressed his hands to the glass. “What are you looking for?”
    â€œSomething small. Manageable.” Petra had nothing to prove by carrying a bazooka on her hip.
    â€œA girl gun?” Stan pulled out a tiny Derringer from the case that fit into his weathered palm. The handles were a pink-­tinted mother-­of-­pearl. “I’ve also got one that’s barely bigger than a lipstick case around here, somewhere . . .”
    â€œCute, but I’d like something a bit more substantial. I’m thinking something like a .38.”
    â€œSix-­shot or automatic?”
    â€œSix-­shot.” Automatics made Petra nervous. Too many moving parts to fuss over if she needed it. And if yesterday was any indication,