The Color Alchemist: The Complete Series

by Nina Walker

  Maybe Lucas had been right. Maybe we should have kept Jessa away from his father. But it was far too late for that.

  “All right, so what are you going to have me do?” I conceded.

  “We’ve been informed that you already have about twenty alchemists living here and many more throughout New Colony. That doesn’t include the citizens who have joined the Resistance,” Cole said. “You have the people in the right places. And we have extra resources. We can combine and beat him.”

  “And what of alchemy? Let’s say you win, do you take back New Colony? Do we become our own nation? And in this new world, is alchemy suddenly going to be legal?” I shifted, running my fingers through my hair, laying it over one shoulder.

  “Our president has already signed an executive order to give any new alchemists immunity in our country. After all this is over, we’ll take another vote. Things are changing. We’re a very political country and people are beginning to be more open to the idea. If this actually works, and if the polls are correct, I believe soon we will make alchemy legal for everyone.”

  “Oh, so is this why Richard is suddenly so interested in you?” I asked, putting two and two together. I sucked in a breath, uncomfortable at the thought of Richard controlling more alchemists. If he had reason to suspect West America was going to create their own strong army of alchemists, of course he would want to retaliate. He always wanted to be the one with the most power. That would be a direct threat against New Colony and his tyrannical position.

  Mastin added, “With the way things are going, you’d be welcomed right in.” The way he said it made it clear that he did not agree with popular opinion. Loser. He still feared and hated alchemists. He probably always would. “But of course, if your king has his way, you certainly won’t have a place. Being an outlaw and all.”

  “Oh, I assure you, Mastin, I take pride in my outlaw status.”

  He raised his eyebrows then looked away.

  “Fine,” I said, relenting. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Remember those West American alchemists we were talking about?”

  “Yes?” I asked wearily.

  “The strongest ones are on their way as we speak.”

  I took that information in, frowning. This was all getting to be too much.

  “You’re the most well-trained and powerful alchemist we have at camp,” Hank said. He still held his tea, which had to be cold by now.

  “Let me guess, you want me to take a bunch of untrained, deadly, and probably angry alchemists and turn them into a magical army?”

  Tristan laughed once again. I loved that sound; his laugh was like liquid happiness. But this time, it did nothing to lighten my mood.

  I turned on Mastin, meeting his prickly gaze.

  “That’s exactly what we need you to do.”

  6

  Lucas

  For the first time in two weeks I looked at myself in the mirror and stared at the person I’d become. I hated what I saw. The man staring back was partly responsible for his own mother’s death. I knew it. Part of me wanted to forgive myself like she would want. But the bigger part refused to let go of the truth. I let it bore into me, disfiguring from the inside out.

  I splashed running water over my face, watching the streams of liquid fall in rivulets. I wiped my face clean and groaned. I didn’t want to go through this today. My royal uniform was especially restricting. The starched collar stifled my airflow, a snake wrapped around my neck, squeezing the life out of me. I finished buttoning up the gold brocade buttons of the black suit jacket and pulled at the sleeves. It trapped my body heat in with its thick and scratchy fabric. I lamented the traditional garment with the royal family insignia stitched on the lapel.

  I hated funerals. Who didn’t? Coming together to say goodbye to a person who was already dead as if it could provide any semblance of closure was a joke. What did the dead care of funerals? They weren’t there. It was for the living, and it was unbearable, every time.

  I took one last look in the mirror. I couldn’t avoid it. I was who I was. The prince of New Colony about to attend his mother’s funeral.

  Mom is dead.

  One of our most trusted officers had killed her. Thomas had used her, continually, to influence royal policy. He wasn’t supposed to be an alchemist, none of the officers were. No one knew. That’s what they said. And he’d been strong enough to pull the red from her blood and control her mind. He’d done it on and off for years, slowly killing her. She tried to get help. She even came to me. She didn’t know what was happening to her since Thomas always wiped her memory with each event. But she knew something was wrong. I was too stupid and distracted to be of any use to her. I was a terrible son.

  Time’s up.

  I stalked out of the bathroom and went to meet my father. He stood in the living room, in the exact spot she’d died. I wanted to look away but forced myself to stare. Bile rose in my throat. He was dressed to royal perfection, even had the crown perched on his head. He rarely wore it, only when he wanted to remind everyone of his power. His people surrounded him on all sides—officers, advisors, guards, and even a couple of alchemists. The actual members of his court would meet us there. They didn’t live in the palace; they just attended the parties. And the funerals.

  “Are you ready?” Faulk said, turning on me. Her voice sent a shot of hatred needling up my spine. How could she have missed it? How did she not see Thomas for what he was? She was supposed to keep us safe. It was her job, and her own number two had murdered my mother. She, too, was responsible.

  The dome of the Capitol Rotunda stood like a beacon in the early September sky. Inside, Mom had been laid out for viewing for the last two weeks. It was tradition for the citizens to have an opportunity to come and pay their respects before the funeral. Our procession approached the building. Masses of flowers were piled outside the building—gifts from people who loved their queen. They were laid atop each other in systematic reverence. Most were already rotting.

  Crowds lined the streets as our car pulled to the curb. Escaping the claustrophobic space, we were greeted with camera flashes. I blinked rapidly as the media captured our solemn expressions. Security was everywhere, but at an event like this, people had enough respect to stand back. They even kept their voices down. That made it real, and I momentarily longed for their usual noise.

  Once inside, I sat next to my father on the front row—the row reserved for immediate family. Not that there was anyone left. It was just us. The room was filled with a limited number of dignitaries, just the typical influential crowd I’d grown up with. These were the court of New Colony, the barons and dukes and all those stupid titles that meant little to me. I thought of the crowd outside. No one forced any of them to come. It wasn’t a social engagement, standing outside. They were here because they wanted to be. Something about that gave me comfort. Mother was loved by her people.

  The black casket, surrounded by huge bouquets of white roses, was open.

  As much as I tried to look away, the scene drew me to her. My eyes couldn’t look away from her plastic-like body. She was ungodly pale, her lips and cheeks painted a sickly red. She was dressed in an ornate purple gown, dripping in diamonds. Such extravagance wasn’t her normal style; she had more class than that. Except for her long, red hair, she didn’t even look like the same person.

  That’s because she isn’t!

  As the funeral began, I couldn’t look away from her body. Nor could I retain much of what was said. All the speeches and accolades and crying, it was completely washed out. It was like I sat behind a pane of soundproof glass.

  No tears. No thoughts. Nothing.

  A familiar face in my periphery pulled me back. Reed stood off to one side. What was he doing? A knowing look passed between him and my father. Then my father stood and headed for the podium. As he walked by Reed, he slowed and brushed shoulders with the boy. They paused for a moment muttering between themselves, and the little brown-noser nodded impercept
ibly. Reed shifted in his suit, then touched my father’s elbow. It happened so quickly, I was sure no one would have noticed anything unusual about the exchange. But if Reed was here, it could only mean one thing.

  Blue alchemy.

  Reed had quickly become the best in the kingdom at that brand of magic. And the power for persuasion was useful to someone like Richard. Leave it to him to find an opportunity to sway public opinion. Even at his wife’s funeral.

  Richard strode to the podium. All eyes and cameras pointed toward him. He wore the perfect expression of a grieving husband and an angry monarch. He almost glowed with it. I knew it then. He’d used some of Reed’s magic to make whatever he was about to say as believable as possible. Even though Reed couldn’t infuse his magic to the entire kingdom, he could certainly make anything the king had to say utterly believable.

  “I am a man standing in front of you today with a broken heart. For thirty-two years I have loved and cared for Natasha, your queen. She was my soulmate and the love of my life. Today we remember the kind, strong woman she was. Not only in motherhood, not only as a wife, but as a monarch to this great country.” He paused, as if to wait for applause. Being a funeral, the room stayed silent, but the emotion was thick. Her loss was felt by everyone.

  “Many of you are wondering what happened to end her life so early. As you already know, her cause of death has been kept private as we investigated her early demise.” He looked through the crowd, surveying their reactions. Everyone sat, most with backs stick-straight, leaning slightly forward. The crowd was enraptured by his velvet voice.

  I found myself among them.

  “The truth is, your queen, my wife, and the mother of my son, was murdered.”

  A hush, followed by a flurry of whispers.

  Was he going to tell them what happened to her?

  Finally. A wave of tension left my body as I exhaled a quiet breath, knowing that Thomas would get his punishment.

  “After conducting a thorough investigation,” Richard continued, “we have discovered that West America was behind the murder. Our only recourse is to declare war on our neighbor. We will not sit idly. We will avenge the death of our queen. It’s time to take back what is ours!” The final words were said with such finality, that not one person in the crowd disagreed. Applause broke out. A completely inappropriate action for a funeral, but the magic was too strong to resist. Even I couldn’t hold back a few claps. And I knew the disgusting truth.

  He was using her death for his own political goals. I couldn’t believe it. But then again, I could. I hated him more than ever for this. Anger pulsed through my core, and I squeezed my hands into fists.

  He returned to his seat moments later, and the funeral continued, the last condolences said. A depressing song about loss and letting go was sung by the royal choir. Through it all, my mind raced, focused on the uncertain future. War? Richard had used this to rally the citizens for war? We hadn’t had a war, not ever. Not since America broke apart and we became New Colony.

  When it was time, I joined the other pallbearers. But even that experience was weightless. The coffin—a feather—and me, unable to process the moment. How could this be happening? My mother was nothing more than a decaying body. And my father cared more about his political gains than seeking justice for her killer.

  Thomas needed to be held accountable.

  I went along with the rest of the day in complete misery. It could’ve been minutes, or it could’ve been hours, but I endured it all. Forcing myself to feel every painful emotion, because I deserved nothing less.

  At some point I found myself standing in the crowded cemetery. Headstones seemed to litter every square foot of earth. Most were worn and unidentifiable. Her body was sealed in the casket. The waxy shell, locked away.

  Slowly, the men lowered her into the hole, the earth becoming her home.

  It was a beautiful, sunny day, one of those rare fall days that still felt like summer. How was that okay? It should have been raining. Should’ve stormed! The clouds dark, the air bristly, wind and hail assaulting us. I joined the others in tossing a little pile of dirt on top of the casket, but I couldn’t look. I didn’t want that image burned into my memory. I couldn’t handle any more.

  After a few minutes, it was time to go. Relief washed over me, the strongest emotion I’d felt all day. I hated myself immediately.

  We’d left the largest crowds back at the rotunda. Still, many people had come to gawk outside the cemetery gates. At least they had dressed in black. A couple of officers and several guards kept them at bay as we approached our waiting car. I was so ready to be done.

  Pop! Pop, pop, pop!

  Instinct flared. I flattened to the ground. Screams erupted. Bodies fell. More pops echoed around me. Little plumes of concrete and dust, grass and dirt rained upward. Acidic panic filled me. Then shock. Then realization.

  “Get down!”

  More shots fired.

  “Your Highness,” someone said, practically jumping on top of me. “We need to move.” The guard snatched my arm and yanked me toward the car. The door was open, my father already inside, his eyes wild. I was shoved in, toppling over the seat. The door slammed. More bullets rained, a couple pinged off the car. One right against my window. The glass barely cracked. They clanged, louder than expected. We were safe. This vehicle was bulletproof.

  Outside, the officers and guards took over. They fired back at whoever had attacked us. I stared, horrified, as bodies continued to fall, as people, some with children in their arms, ran screaming. Innocent bystanders had taken the bullets for us. But everyone knew who the true target was, who it had to be.

  Someone had just tried to assassinate us.

  “Has that ever happened before?” I choked. I already knew the answer.

  My father looked at me then, his eyes wide. It felt like this was the first time he had really seen me in years. “Thank God you’re okay.”

  I nodded, and he continued, “No, this hasn’t happened before. Not in the capital.”

  “I know.” My voice sounded far away.

  A hush had descended outside, the occasional cry or shout cutting through.

  “Our citizens shouldn’t have guns,” he said aloud, mostly to himself. Guns were illegal. They’d been illegal for decades and were extremely hard to get. Any citizen caught with one was severely punished. We tracked everything, and only officers and guards had guns. Even then, not all of them had the privilege. I didn’t have a gun, though I had been trained to use one.

  “That’s a good point,” I said, but had a sinking feeling I already knew. The Resistance. When I’d left them, did that mean they’d suddenly changed their plans? When I was helping them, they’d agreed to no assassinations. But I was right. It turned out I couldn’t trust them. Who else could have done this? Maybe it was their plan all along, and they were just looking for a good opportunity? Get us out in the open, away from the palace. Catch us off guard.

  “No matter who this was, we have to blame it on West America.” Richard closed his eyes and brought his hands through his hair, lines crossing his face. In that moment, he looked his age. Older than he’d ever looked before. “We’ll have to work it into the war effort.”

  “I’m not even going to justify that with a response,” I said, shaking my head. West America had nothing to do with Mom’s death. Who was to say they had anything to do with this? Blame wasn’t about justice, or even truth, but about political gain. And that was wrong.

  A flash of darkness crossed his features, and he turned away. We would have this conversation later. He knew it. I knew it. But still, I found myself relieved he was alive. Guilt swept over me; he probably didn’t deserve to be. It was confusing. I didn’t agree with him. I didn’t even like him. He was a terrible king. He hurt people. He was using Mom’s death for his own ends.

  But…I didn’t want to be an orphan.

  We sat in thick silence until Faulk finally banged on the car door. Blood was splattered across
her white uniform, her face grim. Richard opened the door. “I have good news, and I have bad news,” Faulk said, between panting breaths. “The good news is we got him. The bad news is he’s dead.”

  “Who is he?” Richard said.

  At the same time I responded, “I would think the bad news is all these other people are dead.”

  We slid out of the car to survey the carnage. It was worse than I imagined. Bodies littered the ground, carnage so gruesome I nearly vomited at the sight of it. Several more people were injured, either crying out or in shock. A few people were close to bleeding out, and they were swarmed with those trying to help. I had to look away. Luckily, the few alchemists we had on hand were already jumping into action. There was more than enough green in the graveyard to take care of those on the brink of death. The magic flowed through their hands into the injured. They would be okay. As for those who’d lost their lives, there was nothing anyone could do. Not even magic could save them now.

  “And who authorized this?” Richard said, pointing to the healers.

  “I did,” Faulk snapped. For once, I agreed with her. She shouldn’t have to defend this. Alchemists should be doing this kind of thing every day. If I were king, they would be much more public with magic. “It will be a blip,” Faulk continued. “We’ll get the media to sit down with some of our most persuasive alchemists. They won’t report anything out of our control. But we have to save as many as we can.”

  And this was how it worked.

  People like Reed would use their blue alchemy to sway a story in the direction the royals wanted. In this case, Richard would pin the deaths on whomever he wanted, whoever was most convenient. There would be no talk about the specifics. There would be no explanation for those who were healed. New Colony would be informed, of course, of something. But that something was not going to be the truth. They’d likely name the assailant as some West American assassin.

  “Who is he?” Richard asked. We walked over to a man sprawled out on the sidewalk. He was dead, of course. Blood oozed from a hole in the center of his forehead, an assault rifle resting just beyond his gloved hands. He was dressed in black, probably mid-twenties, brown eyes glassed over. Nothing indicated his identity.