The Seeking Serum

by Frank L. Cole

  “You need to recover,” Mezzarix said. “Get a hot meal and some sleep. I need you at full strength in the morning.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Gabriel turned away from the hole to head back but lingered for a moment, eyeing the cooler of water.

  Ravian narrowed his eyes as though considering withholding a bottle from Gabriel, but then he passed one over, and the old man bowed with appreciation. Unscrewing the lid with trembling hands, Gabriel didn’t guzzle his drink as he had before but sipped it as he ambled down the path that led to the base of the mountain.

  “Tell me again why you picked this island of all places to set up your base of operations,” Ravian said, turning to Mezzarix. “We could’ve gone to the Motherland. My mother’s island, rest her soul, would have been most ideal.”

  “We are hidden here, which gives us ample opportunity to set things in motion.” This wasn’t the first time Mezzarix had had to explain his plan to his companion. Since their arrival at the mystical island off the coast of Florida two weeks ago, every day had been riddled with Ravian’s annoying remarks.

  “Yes, but the Silt has run dry. What about all that talk from Ms. Bimini about filling our coffers with enough Silt to take over the world?” Ravian pawed at his eye, yawning. “What complete rubbish. We can’t very well take on B.R.E.W. if they can see us coming from miles off the shore. And especially not now that the Vessel has confounded the great Mezzarix!”

  A growl gathered in Mezzarix’s throat, and his eyes flashed violently at Ravian. Oh, how he longed to shove him off the side of the mountain, but alas, he was one of the only skilled Scourges in Mezzarix’s employ. Besides, the annoying Irishman was right. The Atramenti were faithful now that they had been thoroughly Blotched, but they were ancient and broken and limited in their capability to vanish on command.

  Mezzarix had believed that once he seized control of the Vessel, he would have no problem in accomplishing his goal of destroying B.R.E.W. But some sort of fail-safe had been added to the roiling mixture inside the silver chalice, some powerful ingredient interwoven into the very fibers of the ancient potion, that prevented him from simply pouring out the Vessel’s contents, setting it afire, and plunging the world into chaos.

  Mezzarix could still use the Vessel in a number of ways, all of which would be devastating to the Community, but until he could remove that critical component from the mixture, his powers remained limited. He needed the Chamber members of the Board. More specifically, he needed to remove those members. And Silt had been his first plan to do that.

  “Silt will not be required for every member of my army. A select few can do plenty of damage on the inside.” Mezzarix always had a backup plan, and his next move would prove to be more chaotic than the first. He had already begun work on the second option, and it was taking all his energy to complete. He had spent many sleepless nights siphoning microscopic chemicals from the Vessel and compiling them in his cauldron. “Come along, Ravian. We have work to do.”

  Gordy sat on a stool in Tobias’s kitchen. It was not quite seven o’clock in the morning, and the house was completly silent. Just before dawn, his mom and Aunt Priss had gone shopping for more ingredients. They had been brewing tirelessly for most of the week and had created enough Torpor Tonics, Vintreet Traps, and a variety of other combative mixtures to start a full-scale war on any of their enemies. Right now, that list of enemies was exceptionally long. Tobias was walking the property, mapping out more locations of his deadly plants, leaving Gordy by himself to brew.

  Rain pattered against the windows, with no end to the storm in sight. The smooth surface of Gordy’s silver cauldron gleamed as he heated the thick liquid to a boil with his Bunsen burner. The five ingredients for his potion were in a row on the counter: tow-truck axle grease, a Styrofoam container of tapioca pudding, several caps of inga-berzina mushrooms, a vial of coral-snake venom, and a bag of oily marten fur. Gordy was concocting a Latvian Dunka Draught, one of his Aunt Priss’s specialties, but without one key ingredient: sessile barnacles. Without them, the Dunka Draught was virtually impossible to brew, and yet Gordy had purposely left them out.

  As the axle grease began to bubble sluggishly, Gordy licked a pewter spoon and dropped in a dollop of pudding. The creamy substance sizzled. Next, he tied several strands of the marten fur into knots before dipping them into the vial of venom and adding them to the mixture. Mashing the mushrooms into a pulp with his thumbs, he waited until the cauldron began to pulse rhythmically before tossing those in as well.

  He was almost finished, but without the barnacles, a normal Elixirist could not turn the brown-colored concoction into an actual Dunka Draught. When it came time to add the three barnacle stems, Gordy allowed his eyes to roll to the back of his head and dipped his index finger into the scalding liquid.

  The potion should have burned him, but Gordy felt no pain. After stirring the potion for almost an entire minute, he checked his creation. The once dark-brown color had become a vibrant lime green. The Bunsen burner flame whickered out with a soft pop, and Gordy placed four corked vials of perfectly brewed Dunka Draught on the kitchen counter.

  This had been the third time in one week Gordy had brewed a potion using an incomplete inventory of ingredients. Each time, when the recipe required the missing element, Gordy had used his finger instead.

  Something had changed inside of Gordy ever since he had brewed a potion in Sasha Brexil’s basement without using a cauldron or heat source. Not wanting to scare his mom, Gordy had yet to ask her about what it might mean, but he had an inkling of what was happening.

  A few hours later, Gordy still sat in the kitchen, but this time with Tobais next to him, a piercing ring trilling in his ears, and thick smoke in the air. Just moments earlier, the cauldron atop the stove had detonated, sending a mass of barely dissolved ingredients, including dead animal parts, showering down upon Gordy’s and Tobias’s heads. Crimson potion sloughed from the kitchen walls. They had both been wearing protective goggles and helmets but were completely drenched from head to toe in the foul-smelling goop.

  “Told you these batches could be a tad testy!” Tobias shouted, hurriedly killing the heat on the stove and swatting at the smoke with an oven mitt.

  Gordy gaped at the carnage. The better part of the kitchen’s eastern wall as well as the windows facing the garden were thoroughly painted with a bloodred substance.

  “A tad testy?” Gordy dug a pinky in his ear, trying to quell the ringing. Tobias’s voice sounded as though he was underwater.

  “Whatever you do, don’t swallow any of it.” After hurrying across the room to grab a bowl from the sink of dirty dishes, the redheaded man returned, hovering over Gordy. “Some of it is still salvageable, I think.”

  “What exactly was it supposed to do?” Gordy asked, not daring to move as Tobias scraped the potion from his goggles into the bowl.

  Tobias’s head bobbled. “Well, that there’s a Sturmwolke Slosh. I mix it twice a month to keep the rain constant.”

  “And it should explode, right?”

  “There’s no other way to propel a Sturmwolke into the sky above my garden save for a right royal explosion, but usually I can set a timer and run away before she blows her top. I best go get a mop.” Tobias scurried from the kitchen, grumbling under his breath.

  Gordy’s cell phone buzzed against his leg as a text arrived. It was from his best friend, Max Pinkerman.

  To prevent anyone from discovering their whereabouts, Mrs. Stitser had warded Tobias’s home to stop calls from coming into Gordy’s phone. Everyone else’s phone worked like normal, but not Gordy’s. No calls. No social media. And almost no access to his old life. His mom did, however, allow for text messages to come through, but from only one outside source. It seemed fitting that Max had earned that right.

  This Saturday, dude. No more putting it off. You’ve got four days to make it happen.

  After w
iping his face with a wet paper towel, Gordy typed a quick reply.

  I can’t this weekend.

  Max had been trying to arrange a meeting between Gordy and Sasha, the daughter of B.R.E.W.’s former Chamber President, ever since the Stitsers had gone into hiding. It was the topic of every texting conversation.

  After about a minute of waiting, another text appeared. This one was an audio message. Gordy pressed play, and Max’s voice suddenly erupted from the phone.

  “You’re killing me! Do you know how many times Sasha asks me about you? A billion times. That’s not an exaggeration. She’s at my locker. She follows me in the hallways between classes. I have to eat my lunch in the bathroom just to avoid bumping into her in the cafeteria. Have you ever tried eating a ham sandwich while sitting on one of these toilets? I don’t recommend it. She comes over to my house and throws rocks at my bedroom window. I’m serious, dude! She mopes around school all day like some sick, wounded animal. You have to meet with her. You have to. If you don’t, I swear I will—” The message ended mid-rant.

  Gordy snickered. It was good to hear Max’s voice, even when he was shouting. In truth, he didn’t feel too bad for his friend. Max could still go to school and have a normal life. Plus, it wasn’t like this was all Gordy’s fault. He honestly wanted to meet with Sasha, but he didn’t dare ask his mom if she would let him head back into B.R.E.W. territory to meet with the daughter of the woman who had made Gordy and his mom outlaws. Not a chance.

  Gordy could almost sense Max’s growing agitation at his silence, and he hurriedly typed a reply.

  I promise I will get there soon. In the meantime, I’ve concocted some pretty amazing potions that you’re going to want to try out. I’ll bring them with me when I come. You’re going to love them!

  Max’s response came almost immediately.

  Consider me intrigued. Send me a pic!

  Satisfied he had calmed down his friend, Gordy slid his phone back into his pocket. A picture wouldn’t do it justice. Max would just have to wait.

  “Something smells burned,” Gordy’s mom announced, entering through the front door and followed closely by Aunt Priss. Both women were toting paper sacks bulging with ingredients. “What were you brewing?” Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. It had been months since Wanda Stitser had been her cheerful and carefree self, and Gordy feared she might never act the same again.

  “Uh . . . I was . . .” Gordy started, but Tobias cleared his throat.

  “Since when do I have to explain my brewing techniques to you?” Tobias asked stiffly. “My kitchen. My equipment.”

  “Oh,” Gordy’s mom replied, her scowl softening. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Tobias. It just smells . . . off, a little.”

  “Well, we all aren’t as skilled as the great Wanda Stitser, are we?” Tobias said.

  “What did you buy?” Gordy eagerly pulled open one of the bags and peered inside at a pair of hideous-looking dried fish wrapped in plastic. He removed a glass jar containing some shriveled fruit.

  “Those are figs,” Priss said.

  “What’s with the blue-and-white fuzz?” Gordy asked.

  “They’re moldy,” Gordy’s mom said. “And they smell awful. Don’t open it, please. I’m going to have to shampoo the upholstery to get the scent out of the Subaru.”

  Priss innocently held up her hands. “Someone didn’t secure the lids before she put them in the bag. I’m just thrilled we were able to find some. The clerk at the Mediterranean grocery store was certainly suspicious when I offered to buy them.”

  “Eunice?” Tobias asked. “She always gives me a look whenever I ask for rice weevils. She says they don’t sell bugs! ‘Well, I know you don’t, Eunice! Just point me to where they burrow.’”

  “Why did you buy moldy figs?” Gordy frowned at the jar, but then his eyes widened. “Oh!”

  Priss’s eyebrows crinkled as she grinned. “They need a few more days to fully turn, but you know what they’re used for, right?”

  “I do.” Moldy figs were a key ingredient in brewing several complicated potions, including a Disfarcar Gel. “So, does that mean . . .”

  “Saturday night,” Gordy’s mom said tersely. “We’re meeting with Paulina in the Swigs.”

  Paulina was the leader of a group of Elixirists called the Stained Squad. She had been providing the Stitsers with information regarding several of the Banished Scourges who had personal vendettas against Wanda.

  Trying his best to keep cool, though he could feel his pulse starting to quicken, Gordy carefully placed the jar of moldy figs on the kitchen counter. “Do I get to go with you?”

  Gordy’s mom continued sorting groceries, not making eye contact with him. He could see her nostrils flaring, which meant she was fighting back the urge to yell at someone. Gordy looked to Aunt Priss for an explanation, but she was too busy shaking her head at Wanda.

  “Mom?” Gordy asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Yes, you’ll be coming with us,” she said. “You can thank Bolter the next time you see him.”

  An hour before they had left that morning, Gordy’s mom had discovered Bolter’s note under her bedroom door. She hadn’t exactly yelled at anyone after reading it, but her voice had definitely not been warm and welcoming. Gordy knew it hadn’t been Bolter’s intention to leave the Stitsers high and dry, but even Priss seemed annoyed by his departure. They hardly had anyone on their side as it was, and now they were down another man.

  “Because of his decision to leave, we really don’t have much of a choice. Don’t pump your fist!” She glared at Gordy, pursing her lips until they drained of color. “This isn’t some field trip to the zoo. You’re not going there to have fun.”

  “I know.” Gordy hurriedly hid his hands behind his back. The fist pump had been a bit much, but he couldn’t help himself. Finally, he would get a change of scenery and better yet, a trip to the Swigs!

  “I don’t think you do.” His mom folded her arms. “These are dangerous people. They won’t hesitate to capture you and . . . and harm you . . .”

  Tobias groaned, slapping his forehead dramatically. “Oh, good grief!”

  Priss covered her mouth, trying to conceal her grin, her shoulders starting to shake with laughter.

  “What?” Gordy’s mom whirled around, squaring off with Tobias. “I’m not joking. If you can’t see the seriousness of what we’re about to do, maybe you shouldn’t come along with us.”

  “Fat chance getting into the Swigs without me, cupcake.” Tobias stuck out his chin. “And we’re not marching Gordy into the mouth of a volcano, for crying out loud. Nothing’s going to happen to him, but we might need to sedate you before going down there.”

  “I’ll be good,” Gordy insisted. “I promise. I’ll do whatever you say, and I’ll stay out of trouble.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Priss said, winking at Gordy. “Your mother’s just being protective, that’s all.”

  A jarring crash suddenly echoed through the kitchen as though an entire apothecary table had tipped over, sending its contents shattering. Gordy flinched in surprise as his mom spun around, glaring out the window.

  “What was that?” she demanded, reaching for her satchel.

  “That didn’t come from outside.” Tobias frowned, cocking his head and listening. “I think it came from . . .” He sputtered to a stop.

  Gordy watched his mom’s demeanor shift from annoyance to concern. Followed closely by Aunt Priss and Tobias, Gordy raced after his mom toward the stairs leading to the basement—to where Ms. Bimini and her son, Carlisle, had been held prisoner since the Stitsers first went into hiding.

  Carlisle stood at the bottom of the stairs, bony hands dangling at his sides, staring up expressionless at Gordy and the others. With gray hair, weathered skin, and thin arms, Carlisle had always looked old, perhaps in his late sixties when Gordy first met him. Th
en, a few days ago, without warning, Carlisle’s age began rapidly accelerating.

  “What happened?” Gordy’s mom demanded. “What was that crash?”

  Carlisle’s drooping eyes blinked slowly, and he cast a tired glance at the hospital bed in the corner behind him. An IV station and a ventilator were hooked up to a frail, gray woman lying under a mound of blankets. A plastic mask, foggy from her damp breathing, covered the woman’s nose and mouth. Two trays and a few pans of food were scattered beneath Ms. Bimini’s bed.

  “If you didn’t want meat loaf, you could’ve just requested something else,” Tobias said, descending the stairs and eyeing the mess on the floor.

  “Are you all right?” Aunt Priss asked Carlisle. He didn’t answer, but he never answered. Carlisle couldn’t speak, though Gordy had never found out why. And though when they’d first captured Ms. Bimini and her son, they had been considered dangerous and a high flight risk, Gordy’s mom had since removed the shackles latching them in the basement. Once their age began deteriorating, they were no longer a threat to anyone. Plus, it didn’t feel humane keeping them chained to the floor.

  Gordy’s mom stood over Ms. Bimini, carefully cradling one feeble hand in hers. Deep-blue veins seemed to glow beneath the old woman’s paper-thin skin, and her knobby knuckles jutted up at crooked angles.

  “Tell us what to do for you,” Mrs. Stitser said, her calm voice soothing as though addressing a small, injured child. “How can we help you? If you would just give us directions . . .”

  A harsh coughing fit overtook Ms. Bimini, and she immediately pulled down the mask from her mouth. Gordy’s mom gently caressed her hand.