The Apothecary's Curse Read Online Free

branches, dropping the temperature by ten degrees as tendrils of dark gray cumulonimbus overtook the sapphire sky. Swirls of black-green clouds edged the steel gray above the horizon to the east.
    â€œBloody hell!” Simon jumped, almost slipping down the steep incline as lightning shredded the sky and hail pelted them, icy marbles lobbed by the clouds. The air froze as the wind blasted, and incongruously, it began to snow. Hard. They made a run for Simon’s BMW.
    â€œDrop you anywhere?” Simon asked between gasps.
    â€œMy shop will do.”

    The doorbells jangled as they entered through the door below the sign: “G. Erceldoune—Rare Books and Antiquities”—a threshold back in time. Simon only wished that Gaelan had not located the shop beneath the Brown Line elevated tracks.
    Simon surveyed the shop, its wood and bronze not much different than the apothecary where he’d first met Mr. Gaelan Erceldoune. But instead of jars and bottles were bookshelves; instead of the aroma of cinnabar and citrus, mint and jasmine petal tea, there was the musty fragrance of old vellum and leather.
    Booksellers or not, Erceldoune’s shop evoked the bitterest of memories—images better left to the cobwebs of time.
    Simon drummed his fingers on the counter. “I might have a line on the book. The book.”
    Gaelan flinched just enough for Simon to notice.
    â€œWhat? Did you not hear me? I might have located your book.”
    â€œYes, I heard you. How many times is this, then, and each time futile?” Gaelan stepped behind the counter and rolled a cigarette, his eyelids fluttering closed as he lit up and took a deep drag. “Ah. So much better than that shite you smoke.”
    Simon expected dismissive, but this was complete disinterest. “Really, Erceldoune! What’s wrong? I can’t help but notice—”
    â€œYou will tell me I’m overreacting, Simon. I know you. But it’s . . . There was an article. In the Guardian . They’re renovating the London Imperial War Museum. In Lambeth Road.”
    Simon was confused, anxiety ratcheting up a notch. “But what has it to do with the book?”
    â€œNothing at all to do with the bloody book. The Imperial fucking War Museum. Do you not remember . . . ?” Gaelan drummed his fingers on the counter. “They’ve torn the place apart—”
    Recognition dawned.
    â€œThey’ve unearthed diaries , Simon. Handley’s diaries—in the bowels of Bedlam. Extensive journals, dated early 1840s.”
    The name alone sent a chill through Simon. And Gaelan, even nearly two centuries later, was still tormented by years of torture endured there, under the mad doctor Handley’s “care.” “So what? There’s not the remotest chance they’ll—”
    â€œYou’re not fucking listening. They describe—in detail—experiments and ‘private freak shows,’ as they are called. You want to know why I’m fucking falling apart? Now you do. And how long will it be, do you think, till they come calling?”

LONDON, 1837
    CHAPTER 2
    The damp night air stank of death, horses’ leavings, decayed fish, and disease . . . so, so much disease. Dr. Simon Bell ignored the rising bile in his gut as he strode through the streets of London toward his destination.
    Sad-eyed waifs tugged at his greatcoat, their hands trembling in the cold November air. He fled past them, vaguely aware of their presence as he pulled away from their grasp. “Not tonight; I’m sorry.” Waving them off, Simon sloshed through miniature rivers on the cobblestones, remnants of the afternoon’s rainstorm.
    Breathless, shoes soaked through, and trouser cuffs dripping, he stopped, uncertain, lost among the buildings and market stands, each resembling the next in the maze of Smithfield Market. His head whipped one direction then the next