The Blood Alchemist (The Final Formula Series, Book 2) (33 page)

“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?

“Come on, Ad. James and the Elements are counting on you.”

Another deep breath, and I set to work getting my blood into the little vial. The sliver of glass protruding from my foot made it easier to funnel the droplets through the small opening. I had to stop from time to time to regain my composure, but I finally managed to collect about ten milliliters. I swirled the vial to mix my blood with the last of the powdered necro essence. The job complete, I pushed myself to my feet—well, foot.

I ripped a swatch from my dress and used it to smear the outside of the door with my makeshift potion. I draped the scrap of fabric over the window frame when I finished. Holding up the vial, I eyed the few milliliters of solution left inside. Would it be enough? And the bigger question, would the tiny fraction I’d smeared on the door attract the zombie away from me? Time to see if I had learned anything from Ian’s lessons in necromancy.

I selected the largest male body—a rather hairy fellow on the lower right shelf. I didn’t know if it made a difference when it came to the strength of the dead, but I figured the guy with the most muscle mass was my surest bet for a battering ram.

I reached out and touched the man’s stubbled chin. “This is so nasty.” My fingers brushed his lower lip. The skin was cool, yet still pliable. I pulled my hand back.

“You can do this.” I gripped his chin again and pulled his mouth open. It moved a lot easier than I expected.

“Ew, ew, ew.” I tipped up the vial, letting a few drops fall into his mouth. I didn’t know how much it would take to wake him, but I hoped the less I used, the shorter the time he’d remain animated. I capped the vial and tucked it in a pocket along my ribs.

Would it work? Would—

The man’s eyes opened and I jumped back.

“Crap!”

He groaned and his filmed over eyes shifted to me.

I covered my mouth with my hand and stumbled back out of his line of sight. This was a bad idea. A really bad idea.

He sat up, batting at the body bag. Unable to puzzle his way out of it, he grabbed the heavy plastic and ripped it open.

Okay. No worries about his strength then. I backed away.

The zombie staggered to his feet. He lifted his head. Sniffing the air? Then he turned and faced…me.

I raised my hands in a worthless gesture to ward him away and noticed the blood smeared across my right palm. I eyed the swatch of fabric hanging from the window frame. The zombie stood between me and the door. I now wished I’d chosen the withered little old lady. This guy was huge—six-five, at least. His shaggy brown hair almost brushed the ceiling and the small space seemed even smaller.

He took a step toward me and his hands came up, reaching.

I pressed my back to the wall. There was nowhere to go. Even if I could fit through the little vent in in the ceiling, I couldn’t reach it unless—

I climbed up the shelves on my right, clambering onto the empty one at the top. A thump and the shelves swayed. A hand brushed my ankle. I jerked my legs out of reach, falling on my stomach. I fisted my right hand to keep from smearing the blood mixture everywhere and crawled toward the other end of the shelf. The end by the door.

Another impact and the shelf rocked, almost overturning. I reached out and caught the window frame, sliding off the shelf before he could topple it. I pulled the swatch of fabric loose and scrubbed my palm as I turned to face the zombie. He groaned and though still several feet away, reached for me.

“Here, you want this?” I dangled the scrap of fabric before him. “Fetch.” I shoved the fabric through the hole, then climbed the other shelf. I hesitated when I discovered that the shelf wasn’t empty. Nine familiar mason jars took up the space. I’d found the missing hearts from Ian’s crypt.

A thump shook the whole room. I looked back. The zombie stood at the door and thumped two meaty fists against it. Yes, it was working!

My breath came in ragged gasps, but with the noise the zombie was making, I doubted he’d notice me.

The noise. I hadn’t considered it in my grand plan. Neil and Ian should be busy sending out the rest of the liches. They’d be upstairs, maybe even outside. Was anyone else around? Since there were bodies in here, I figured the place must be an operational funeral home, but it was probably too late in the day for any employees to be milling about.

What was Neil doing here anyway? Xander was supposed to own nearly every funeral home in Cincinnati. Was this one of the few he didn’t own, or were we no longer in the city?

The zombie continued to pound on the door. I began to fear that he’d run out of juice when something popped. A hinge? He hit it again and the upper right corner bowed outward. Yes!

“Kick it,” I muttered, and to my surprise, he did. A coincidence? I didn’t stop to think about it as the lower hinge broke and the door burst open.

I cringed at the noise, but the way was open.

The zombie left the cooler. I was about to follow when he caught the door and ripped it away from the frame. The door clattered to the ground and he followed. He flipped it over and crouched on the surface. Leaning forward, he braced his hands wide and licked the stainless steel.

I flashed back to the time I’d met a zombie outside the ruins of the Alchemica. He’d leaned down in the same way and licked the grass where I’d wiped James’s blood. That had been the first time I’d met Neil’s mother. Xander had later mentioned that the zombie had been her husband.

The thought stopped me. Oh God. Had that been Neil’s dad? No wonder the guy was so screwed up.

I retrieved the remnants of my dress, stained with Rowan’s blood. I couldn’t bring myself to feel pity for Neil’s screwed up childhood.

I skirted the naked, hairy fellow crouched on the cooler door, and limped out into the room. No one had come running. Now what? Fleeing wasn’t an option. This wasn’t about me. Even if Ian Made me, I’d keep fighting to see the Elements safe. I had to stop the liches. But it didn’t end there. I had to make certain James remained free. And the only way to make that happen was to take down Neil.

I started toward the lab equipment.

A clank sounded behind me, and I turned to find the zombie climbing off the cooler door and shuffling my way, the scrap of fabric clutched in one hand. Unease tingled along my spine. I’d told him to fetch it.

As if he read my thoughts, he lifted his arm, holding the fabric as if to hand it to me. He took a step forward.

“No.” I raised both hands, palms toward him. My mouth dropped open when he halted.

“Stop!” a voice yelled from the door to the hall.

I spun to face Frank. No. I couldn’t let him stop me. I needed a weapon. I needed a—

I glanced at the motionless zombie. “Get him.” I pointed at Frank.

The zombie sprinted across the room and tackled Frank.

I pressed a hand to my mouth to hold back the hysteria that wanted to break free. Oh my God, I could use alchemy to do necromancy.

The zombie won the wrestling contest, and now held Frank immobile within its arms. Ian had explained that the reason liches rotted so slowly was because they grew into their death. Apparently, their strength worked the same way. Frank was closer to life than the zombie.

“You’re a necromancer?” Frank asked, loathing in every syllable.

“No, I’m an alchemist.” I wasn’t limited to one flavor of magic. I turned back to the workbench.

Now to demonstrate my skills with elemental fire. One last time.

Chapter
27

I
glanced at the zombie frequently while I worked, expecting the animation to fade at any moment. I still didn’t understand how I managed to control him. Raising him, I could see. Necro blood could animate the dead. But why did the zombie obey me? Was it because I’d used my own blood to reconstitute the necro’s essence? In a sense, my Perfect Assistant Dust worked the same way. I’d used my blood to key it to my commands. Which was a skill few alchemists, if any, could imitate.

Leaving that mystery for later, I turned back to my workbench and the Mason jars lined up along the edge. Three of the jars lacked a heart, at least, the heart’s original form. Two held a sifting of ash, and the third, a withered husk. I theorized that these were the three who’d attacked the museum. Rowan had ashed two of them, and the last I suspected had fallen prey to James.

If my theory was correct, then what happened to the lich also happened to his heart. Did that street run both ways? I glanced over at Frank. The Mason jars had names on the lids and his sat in the center.

“You’re a monster,” Frank said.

“Perhaps.” I carefully picked up the Erlenmeyer flask that held my faintly glowing formula. Flickers of flame danced through the viscous orange liquid, awaiting release. That would be the tricky part, but I’d planned for that. The success with my zombie-raising
potion
had given me an idea.

“It’s because of you and that damn Formula that all this has happened.”