The Blood Alchemist (The Final Formula Series, Book 2)

by Becca Andre

  “It’s jammed, not empty.” Donovan continued toward him.

  The man tossed the gun aside and pulled something from his belt. A grenade. The smile he gave Donovan looked more like a grimace.

  Suddenly, his eyes widened. The grenade tumbled from his fingers and both hands rose to his throat. He might have tried to scream, but it came out as a strangled gurgle.

  Without warning, liquid exploded from his body, ripping apart cloth and skin to get free. What was left of his body collapsed on the floor with a soft thump. The liquids hung in the air, a swirling mass that was predominately thick and rust-brown, but with parts that were more viscous and green.

  Movement drew my eye, and Cora stepped out from behind the putrid swirl of liquid, her arms held wide.

  Then I understood. She’d ripped the fluids from the gunman’s body. Oddly, it didn’t nauseate me. It seemed too surreal to be, well, real.

  Cora dropped her arms, and the liquids fell, splattering across the body and floor.

  “God, that stinks.” Era covered her mouth and nose with her hand.

  I could imagine. The guy had been dead at least two months. It was surprising he still had fluids left in his slowly decaying body—or that their loss would stop him. The thought no sooner crossed my mind then the man began to move.

  “We’ve got a necromancer,” Donovan said, voice low and dangerous. I’d never heard Donovan sound like that.

  “We do,” Rowan agreed, “but this man is also a lich.” He laid a hand on Era’s shoulder as he passed her. He walked toward the gunman who’d managed to get up on his hands and knees. Had Ian left him with a command he couldn’t deny? James had implied that Ian had that kind of strength. Or did the gunman act of his own volition? He stretched forward, reaching a hand toward the grenade he’d dropped.

  A flash of white-hot flame and the gunman, and all his…fluids, vanished.

  “Era! Behind you!” Cora shouted.

  Era spun around, and that’s when I saw the second gunman, his gun already trained on Era.

  “No!” I screamed.

  Rowan whirled and ran toward her. Time seemed to slow, and I watched the gap between him and this new gunman shrink. Could Rowan get close enough to—

  The man became a pillar of flame—at the same instant the gun went off, the sound ricocheting around the empty room.

  I jerked my eyes back to Era in time to watch Rowan take her to the ground. I heard him grunt. From hitting the floor, or—

  “Rowan?” Era helped him sit up. “Rowan!” She pushed his coat back off his shoulders revealing the red stain on the shoulder of his white shirt.

  I vaulted the rail, dropping the last six feet to the ground. I didn’t even notice when my bare foot found the shattered remains of a wine glass. The pain barely registered as I ran to them. I dropped to my knees in time to catch Rowan as he doubled over.

  “No, no, no,” I whispered, wrapping my arms around him. His breath came in pained gasps.

  A soft thump, and Cora knelt beside us. I watched her open her matching blue handbag and pull out an auto-injection pen. My memory flashed back to the worthless pen falling from my fingers after I failed to save Lydia. God no, not again.

  I opened my mouth, about to tell Cora it was pointless, but she’d already jerked the cap off the pen. She pulled his coat down, then plunged the pen into Rowan’s shoulder, through his shirt.

  Rowan began to shudder. Remembering how Lydia had thrashed in her final moments, I squeezed my eyes closed and held him tighter.

  Work. Work. Work. The litany went on in my head. Rowan began to twist in my arms and I tightened my hold. His breath wheezed with the effort. Just when I thought he’d break free of the toxic alchemy, he slumped against me, and his violent movements stopped. His head came to rest on my shoulder, his cheek against mine.

  It was silent. So silent. Then, in the depths of my soul I heard it: I’d finally hit bottom.

  Shots fired and a scream followed, echoing down the marble hallways of the museum.

  “James,” Donovan said, his voice strained.

  “I got it,” James answered from behind me. An instant later, a hellhound ran past us, his tread silent, then he leapt through the nearest wall.

  More shots rang out, but I couldn’t find the strength to care.

  “Addie.” Strong fingers gripped my upper arm. Cold fingers. Ian.

  I shook my head, holding Rowan tighter. He was so warm against me—unlike the icy hand gripping my arm.

  “What’s he doing here?” Cora demanded.

  “You only put these people in danger the longer you remain,” Ian said to me. As if to punctuate his words, another gunshot rang out.

  I glanced over at Era. Tears wet her cheeks, but she was taking everything a lot better than I expected. I had to protect her. For Rowan.

  Releasing Rowan to his family, I let Ian pull me to my feet. I sucked in a pained breath when my injured foot hit the floor, but it was just a passing observation.

  “What have you done to yourself?” Ian asked as I hobbled along. Without warning, I was suddenly in his arms. Or maybe I just wasn’t paying attention.

  “Addie, where are you going?” Donovan called.

  I should answer. Donovan had always been good to me, but before I could even formulate a response, I was swathed in warmth and darkness. Startled, I lifted my head. A dark expanse of nothing glowed in the dim light. James’s hell dimension.

  “How—” Of course, my Necro X Dust had failed, just as the antidote had failed. Ian had been biding his time.

  A doorway opened and I squinted in the brightness. Ian carried me through, and we stood in a small room with few furnishings aside from a desk, a chair, and a nearly empty bookshelf.

  “Were you successful?” a familiar voice asked.

  Ian turned, facing a figure in the black robes of an Alchemica Master. Neil’s white eyes met mine.

  Without warning, Ian dropped me at his feet. I grunted as my body hit the hardwood floor.

  “Broken, as you requested,” Ian said, his tone as cold as his flesh. “Now find my daughter.”

  Chapter

  26

  The hardwood was cold beneath my bruised tailbone, the thin dress doing little to ward off the chill.

  “Patience, Mallory,” Neil said. “Your task is not yet complete.”

  “I have done all that you asked. I brought you the broken alchemist. Does your word mean nothing, Nelson?”

  Nelson. Wasn’t Neil’s last name Dunstan? Oh right. Nelson was his mother’s maiden name. The Nelsons and the Mallorys. Kind of like the Hatfields and McCoys, but with zombies. I snorted. It sounded like a bad B movie.

  Both men glanced down at me.

  “Just one final task,” Neil said. “Once I’m finished, I want you to Make her.”

  The insane laughter I was struggling to hold in died.

  “Make her,” Ian repeated.

  “Yes.” Neil drew the word out as if he spoke to a child. He turned away and picked up something off the desk. “Bring her here.”

  Ian released a sigh, then reached down and caught me by the upper arms. With no apparent effort, he lifted me from the floor. He carried me to Neil and set me on the surface of the desk.

  “First we harvest the fruits of your labors,” Neil said. He lifted his hand, and I saw that he held a syringe. “Hold her.”

  Ian pushed me back and pinned me to the desk. He wasn’t rough, nor was he gentle. Indifferent, that’s how I would describe him. He held me in place by the shoulders. The impulse to struggle flashed across my senses, but I ignored it. I couldn’t defeat the strength of the dead. Besides, what was the point?

  Neil gripped my wrist and held my arm to the desk. I knew what was coming, but still jerked when the need
le pierced my skin. Neil chuckled.

  “Don’t move or I’ll have to prick you again.”

  I stared at the ceiling, refusing to give him the pleasure of a response.

  A few minutes later, he held up the syringe of blood for me to see. “Congratulate me, Amelia. I just captured failure. Ian does brilliant work.”

  Ian released me and stepped back, his face impassive.

  I sat up. “What?”

  “The way he sabotaged your formulas.” Neil grinned. “Every time you mixed a potion, you thought you failed.”

  I glanced at the tube of blood Neil held and suddenly everything fell into place. All my failures—the burn salve, the compass, the antidote—everything had been a lie. I had been a vessel to create an ingredient he needed. But at what cost?

  I slid off the desk to stand before him and fisted my hands. “People died.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Neil demanded. “As soon as spring gets here, I’ll brew you the Formula, then I’ll have my Amelia back.”

  Spring? Then I understood why Neil hadn’t yet brewed it for himself. It wasn’t just Element blood he lacked to make the Formula. “You have no spring rain? What alchemist worth his robes has no spring rain?”

  “The kind who has his lab demolished after that shit you pulled back in October. Then to add insult to injury, you used the last of Ian’s.”

  I’d been fortunate that Ian kept a well-stocked lab. Otherwise, I would have had to wait to heal Era.

  Neil snatched up a wad of dark fabric off a nearby shelf and shoved it in my hands. “Put those on.” It was a set of robes, black Alchemica Master robes, styled for a woman.

  Neil turned his glare on Ian. “Go, do as I say, and once I am successful, you will have your information.”

  “The potion she hit me with hasn’t completely worn off. Not enough to perform a Making. I’ll need a few hours.”

  “Potion? What potion?”

  “A necromancer equivalent of her Extinguishing Dust.”

  Neil’s brows climbed his forehead, then he started to frown. “You said she was broken.”

  “The Flame Lord died in front of her.”

  Neil seemed to struggle for words. “You were successful? You’re certain he’s dead?”

  “I know death.”

  I closed my eyes. Before, I might have hoped, but if Ian felt it…

  “Why didn’t you mention this?” Neil demanded. “Do you have enough juice to send the men out?”

  The men. Did he mean the other liches?

  “If we finish the other Elements, this city will be ripe for the picking.” Neil’s smile had returned. “My uncle will be pleased.”

  I pushed back the horror and the hurt to find my voice. “Why do you want to curry favor with the man who disowned you?”

  “It’s a means to an end.” Neil waved off my comment and turned back to Ian. “Send out the men, now. Then you have two hours. When I see her again, I want her death to call to me.”

  “Lot of good that’ll do,” Ian muttered, then walked away. He didn’t even glance at me.

  I wanted to call out to him, to beg him not to send his liches after the Elements. But Ian had made it clear where his loyalties lay. I’d have to count on James to protect them—if he wasn’t out looking for me.

  “You.” Neil turned toward the far wall. “Put her somewhere secure.”

  To my surprise, a man stepped out of the shadows. His black fatigues had blended with the darkness. He walked into the light, and I found myself once again staring at Frank Liles, former PIA agent. He didn’t look as good as when Lydia had mimicked him. I could see a couple of his molars through the hole in his cheek, and he’d lost most of his hair. Death had caught up with him.

  He gripped my biceps in his cold fingers and pulled me from the room.

  I limped beside him, walking on the toes of my injured foot in an effort to avoid the glass in my arch. “Slow down, please. There’s glass in my foot.”

  “Enjoy the sensation. It won’t bother you much longer.” He didn’t slow his pace.

  It didn’t surprise me when he took me to the basement. Necros seemed to love basements. Frank pushed open a door at the end of the narrow hall and pulled me inside. I stumbled to a stop, recognizing the layout: a stainless steel table and a sloped cement floor with a drain. It was a morgue. Though it appeared to also serve another purpose. Every inch of available counter space around the perimeter of the room was loaded with lab equipment.

  Frank pulled me forward, his strong fingers bruising my arm, and stopped before a large, stainless steel door.

  “You’ll keep in here.” He opened the door, revealing a sizable cooler. Shelves lined the walls, the lower two on each side holding a full body bag.

  I hesitated on the threshold. “What do you want, Frank? Maybe I can get it for you.”

  “I want my life back.” He shoved me into the cooler.

  Between my injured foot and the slick floor, I slipped and landed on my knees.

  “Life is beyond your power, alchemist. You and the necros have that much in common.” He slammed the door.

  I didn’t want to comply with any of Neil’s demands, but after about ten minutes in sub-forty-degree temperatures, I pulled on the robe. It had a faint smoky odor. Had Ian salvaged it from the remains of our original shop? I didn’t want to think about Ian’s betrayal.

  I folded my little black dress and discovered a crusty spot. It was dried blood. My fingers stilled. Rowan’s blood. Slumping against the wall, I slid to the floor.

  Time passed, how much, I couldn’t say. I didn’t cry. I didn’t think. I just sat there. Numb, I realized. I was numb. Even the prospect of being Made and forced to brew potions for a crazy necromancer held no real horror for me. What was the point of redemption when the man I was trying to prove myself to was gone?

  I closed my eyes, and in the darkness of my subconscious, I caught a glint of green eyes. James. Neil would continue to hunt him. And without James, who would watch Era? I’d left her, left them all at the museum. Neil knew where they were, and he’d sent his liches. Without Rowan, could the others stop the dead?

  I pushed myself to my feet, grunting as my frozen muscles uncurled. What did I have to work with? I had two vials on my person: some mustard gas and the vial containing the essence of the necro kid’s blood. And I had an entire lab outside this door. I could do alchemy. It had never failed me.

  Joy rose in my heart, its presence a shock against the darkness in my soul. Neil had once claimed that I was an alchemist above all things, but I’d worry about that later. First, I had to get out of this cooler.

  Upon closer inspection, I verified that the door had no interior latch. Was it an older model or a standard precaution necromancers used on their coolers? I eyed the four body bags. So far, none of them had moved. I could just imagine a crazy necro like Neil’s mom locking some innocent in here with a handful of corpses she’d animated with her blood, leaving—

  I stopped and slowly turned to face the room. Her blood. Necro blood. I had that—well, in concentrated form. I eyed the body bags. The dead had incredible strength. Strong enough to bash down a cooler door?

  “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.” My voice echoed in the small space.

  The thing was, even if I managed to animate one of these corpses, how did I get it to do what I wanted? It was just as likely to come after me, attracted by my bleeding foot.

  I examined the door more closely. Judging by the rust on the hinges and the corroded seal around the tiny window, it looked like it had been here a while. The window was only about four inches by eight inches. Not very useful for planning an escape. Even if I could pop it out, I couldn’t get my arm far enough through to reach the latch. But what if I smeared blood on the outside
of the door? My blood mixed with the necro essence. Would that be a big enough draw to inspire some door bashing? Nicking my finger had been enough for that zombie to attack me at the clinic last fall.

  I pulled in a breath and released it. “What do you have to lose?” I’d be dead in a few hours anyway.

  The window was my first consideration. If I couldn’t remove or bust the glass, this endeavor was pointless. I worked my fingernails around the frame and found some give under the lower right-hand corner. After breaking a second nail, I gave up and looked around for a better prying tool. I found one in a piece of aluminum trim that had come loose in the back corner of the unit. It was a lightweight, sorry excuse for a pry bar, but the window frame was made of the same material.

  Ultimately, I broke another nail and banged up the knuckles of both hands, but I finally got the small pane of glass out of the frame. Standing on tiptoes, I was able to push my arm through the slot up to my elbow.

  Now for the fun part. I sat in the floor and crossed my damaged foot over the opposite knee to examine the bottom. The bleeding had nearly stopped, and the healing process had begun. A small sliver of glass protruded from the wound. I gripped it and pulled, but the glass didn’t come out.

  A scream escaped before I could bite it back. Dear God, that hurt. The pain still radiated up my ankle and into my lower leg. I realized that the little sliver of glass was just the tip of the iceberg—literally. It was a much larger piece than it appeared, and pulling it out would rip open the partially healed wound. Just wiggling it made it bleed again.

  I leaned my head against the wall behind me and closed my eyes to the black spots that floated in my vision. A cold sweat coated my skin, and I took several deep breaths in an effort to calm myself and not pass out—or puke. God, I was such a weenie when it came to blood. Ironic that I’d been a blood alchemist. Just how different was the person I was now from the person I’d been?