The Accidental Alchemist

Book 1 of the Accidental Alchemist Mysteries

Praise for The Accidental Alchemist Mysteries

"Zoe and Dorian are my new favorite amateur-sleuth duo!" ― New York Times bestselling author Victoria Laurie

"A whimsical and charming supernatural mystery."―Mystery Scene

"Mysterious, captivating, and infused with the rich history of the Northwest...fantastic." ―Portland Book Review

"This reviewer is eagerly anticipating more from this series, and a return of a cast more fun than an episode of Portlandia."―RT Book Reviews

"Pandian...launches a supernatural cozy series that hits high marks for a modern twist on an ancient practice. Amusing supporting characters and historical details solidify this engaging mystery." ―Library Journal

"[A] lighthearted supernatural mystery...Pandian sets this series apart from other fluffy paranormal mysteries with Zoe's cute nonhuman sidekick and some mouthwatering vegan recipes." ―Publishers Weekly

"Readers won't want to put this book down." ―Vegetarian Journal

"[A]n eccentric and charming cast of characters readers are going to want to spend more time with." ―RT Book Reviews Online

"A magical, whimsical cozy that will delight readers who enjoy Juliet Blackwell and Heather Weber mysteries!"―Agatha Award-winning author Avery Aames (aka Daryl Wood Gerber)

"Gigi Pandian's pen never disappoints." ―New York Times bestselling author Juliet Blackwell

Excerpt from The Accidental Alchemist

Chapter 1

The once-beautiful Craftsman house was falling apart. Sloppily applied sections of wood covered several windows. A chunk of the roof was missing, a plastic tarp in its place to keep out the frequent Pacific Northwest rains. More exposed wall than lavender paint showed on the outer walls. And on the inside? Well, let’s just say that the plumbing had seen better days—and I’m pretty sure those better days weren’t any time during the previous century. 

In other words: perfect. 

At least, it was perfect for what I had in mind. I smiled as I looked at the rundown structure through the window of my trailer. Finding this house in the artsy Hawthorne neighborhood of Portland, Oregon hadn’t been easy. Real estate agents had a difficult time grasping the fact that I wanted a house in complete disrepair. 

It was probably my own fault, because I didn’t lie to them. I told them I wasn’t a professional home renovator. Nor was I a house flipper. No, I wasn’t a masochist either. But I left it at that, letting them think I was a single young woman with trendy dyed-white hair and a limited budget who loved a challenge. I didn’t tell them I was someone who needed a residence where doing substantial construction wouldn’t raise eyebrows—that I was someone who wanted to hide in plain sight. 

As soon as I’d seen the listing that a peppy young real estate agent emailed me with a healthy dose of skepticism and at least a dozen exclamation points, I knew this was the perfect house for me. I’d even found the perfect contractor, who’d come highly recommended by the real estate agent for being discreet.

The contractor wanted me on-site to make sure he was correctly executing my unique instructions, which is how I found myself moving into my new home during a furious winter storm, the day before he promised to begin work. I love the rain, but I love it most when I’m inside the warm, cozy trailer where I’ve lived for years, listening to the rhythmic sound of the rain tapping on the roof. 

Inside the silver Airstream trailer, I bundled my coat around me and scooped up a bag of a few essentials before running the few yards to the house. Not that there was much more to move inside. I was born and raised in Massachusetts, but I’d been living out of that old trailer for a long time. Half the space in the trailer was taken up with the trinkets I sold at flea markets across the country. Most of the antique wares I’d accumulated over the years were in storage. I was waiting for a shipping company to deliver them that afternoon.

I hung my silver raincoat on a rusty hook next to the front door, then carried the bag to the kitchen. It contained my blender, a kettle and mug, a few jars of dried herbs, raw chocolate, and a bag of produce and nuts from a hearty farmer who braved the rains at the farmers market. Like I said: essentials. 

The water from the kitchen’s mid-century faucet ran a yellowish-brown color, but I wasn’t deterred. A small sip of the water assured me it was only rust. A little extra iron would do me good. Still, I let the water run for a few minutes while I poked around the kitchen. Though it was in desperate need of cosmetic upgrades, its bones were solid. The vintage porcelain stove was functional, and it would be beautiful after a little cleaning. The pink fridge was one of the models popular in the 1950s that looked like it could have withstood a bomb blast. The best part was the window box above the sink, perfect for growing delicate herbs. My blender didn’t explode when I plugged it into a socket, which was a good sign. I made a green smoothie with fresh leafy greens, an apple, avocado, mint, chocolate, and ginger. 

Energizing drink in hand, I was ready to explore my new house. I’d toured it already, but that was different. Now it was real. A home I could make my own. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d allowed myself to feel so optimistic. I was almost hopeful. Almost.

I shook out the faded curtains that covered the tall living room windows. Branches of unpruned cherry trees scraped against the windows like claws. The trees would need to be trimmed, but not too much—I liked the privacy they granted. 

Floorboards creaked underfoot as I made my way up the stairs. Before I reached the second floor, a honk that played the opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony alerted me to the movers’ presence. You’ve gotta love movers who enjoy the little things in life—and who don’t ask questions about the items they’re delivering. In addition to the furniture for the house and the antiques I sold online, the crates contained glass jars I didn’t want anyone looking at too closely. 

Within an hour, the efficient father-son team had carried the heavy furniture and crates inside, and I’d made us all a pot of mint tea with a hint of licorice. I had to scrounge up two additional mugs from my trailer; I’m not used to entertaining. 

After the movers departed, I sank into the green velvet couch that had been in storage for years, enjoying the sound of the rain. The respite didn’t last long. As soon as I pried open one of the crates, I knew something was wrong. Someone had tampered with my shipping crates. 

It was the smell that hit me first. A metallic scent assaulted my senses. With the crowbar still in my hand, I examined the mess. The glass and copper antiques that had been carefully wrapped in old newspapers were now exposed. This wasn’t the type of chaos that could have been created by a turbulent flight, or even damage that would have resulted from the crate being tipped on its side or placed upside down. Taking a closer look, I saw that not only had the contents been unwrapped, but the lids from several glass jars had been sloppily resealed. That’s where the metallic fragrance was coming from. There could be no doubt that someone had rifled through the contents. 

The strange thing was, nothing seemed to be missing. Even the jar containing a small amount of gold was there. Instead, as I removed the glassware and pushed aside the tangle of newspaper padding, I saw that something had been added. 

A three-foot stone gargoyle stared up at me from the wreckage that used to be carefully organized antique alchemy artifacts. 

Instinctively, I stepped backward. How had this statue been added to my sealed crate? And why on earth would someone do so? 

I ran out the front door, but the movers had already departed. The porch sagged beneath my feet and the rickety front door banged shut behind me in the strong wind. When I turned the door handle to let myself back inside, the brass knob came off in my hand. Be careful what you wish for, Zoe Faust. 

Thankfully, a strong shove was all the door needed to open. Back inside my new home, I returned to the crate for a closer look. The gargoyle reminded me of the stone carvings on Notre Dame in Paris. The gray creature looked similar to the famous “thinker” gargoyle, with short horns and folded wings. The main difference was that this gargoyle held an old, leather-bound book in his arms. That was odd. I would have expected any added detail to be made of stone, not this real book with leather binding. I couldn’t place the type of stone used to carve the gargoyle. Granite? Sandstone? Or perhaps softer soapstone? It wasn’t like any stone I’d seen. I leaned in for a closer look. There was something… 

The gargoyle blinked. 

My fist tensed around the crowbar. I stumbled backward, falling into the large couch. 

Sprawled out on the couch, I laughed at myself. I’d seen a fair share of magic shows in my time. I knew what this gargoyle was. He was something that had been a popular attraction over a century ago: an automaton. 

“You’re the best-looking automaton I’ve ever seen,” I said.

The gargoyle’s shoulders moved, as if it was stretching. It was a wonderfully constructed piece. It must have been programmed to awaken when light shone on him. A good trick for the stage. 

“I am no automaton,” a deep voice emanating from the automaton said. He—for his voice assured me he was male—climbed out of the crate onto the hardwood floor.

I gasped and fell off the edge of the couch. Ouch. 

I’d seen ingenious automatons created by stage magicians. None were as advanced as this one. If I were to believe my eyes, I would have sworn he was alive. But then again, technology had progressed since automatons were popular in stage shows of the 1800s. A famous example of an early automaton was The Turk, a chess-playing machine that drew huge crowds to watch him play chess against famous chess players. Automatons were a combination of technical wizardry and stage showmanship, and the most famous automatons were aided by human helpers. There was no way a person was inside the crate with this creature, so he had to be completely mechanized. 

“Where are my manners?” the creature said, bowing before me. “I did not mean to startle you. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dorian Robert-Houdin.”  He spoke in English with a thick French accent.

I pulled myself together and stood up. “Either I’m going crazy, or your creator had a mischievous sense of humor. Incorporating a recording of his voice—” 

I broke off when the gargoyle who called himself Dorian Robert-Houdin blinked at me again. The effect was quite disconcerting. His eyelids looked like granite, but the eyes themselves were a liquidy black substance. 

“I assure you,” he said, “I am not a robotic automaton, nor are you going crazy.”

Most people would have run screaming from the room if they saw a walking, talking gargoyle emerge from their storage crate. I admit I was surprised, but I’ve seen many things in my lifetime. I stood my ground and took a closer look at the creature, trying to find evidence he was an incredibly advanced robot. I didn’t see any. All I saw before me was a creature that looked every bit as alive as I was. It wasn’t only the wrinkles in his gray skin and the absence of visible mechanized parts—it was the spirit that showed in his eyes. 

Through my shock and confusion, another emotion poked through: disappointment. It was a feeling I knew well. Portland was supposed to be my chance at a normal life. I’d been traveling for far too long. Running. I was tired. Ready to settle down. My trailer had been my sanctuary for years as I crisscrossed the country, never staying in one place for too long. But when I’d passed through Portland the previous year, the city spoke to me. It had all the elements I cared about. Plentiful greenery, an ancient river, vibrant weather, and most of all, welcoming people—many of whom I felt might be kindred spirits. Feeling instantly at home in Portland had struck me as too good to be true. Maybe it was. This was the last place on earth I expected to find a creature that wasn’t supposed to exist. 

“Surely you know what I am,” the gargoyle continued, 

“Alchemist.”

The word hit me more forcefully than a slap. 

Did I mention that when I was born in Massachusetts, it was 1676? I’ve been around for a while. But even my many years hadn’t prepared me for what I’d find in Portland.

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