The Final Formula

The Final Formula

Becca Andre

The Final Formula

Copyright © 2013 by Becca Andre. All rights reserved.

First Smashwords Edition: 2013

Editor: Shelley Holloway

Cover and Formatting:
Streetlight Graphics

This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

Chapter
1

T
he covered crucible rattled against
the glowing red support ring. When it took a little hop, I stepped back. No need to risk my eyebrows. Again. It’s not that I’m vain, but a gal needs her eyebrows to communicate. And here at Master Boris’s Alchemical Academy, a nonverbal response kept me out of trouble—most of the time.

I tweaked the Bunsen burner and cast a quick glance at Boris’s office door. He’d have another fit if he caught me deviating from his lesson plan, but I needed to dry this last ingredient. Unfortunately, his lab lacked an oven, so I’d had to make my own.

An oven wasn’t the only thing the lab lacked. The small room barely had enough space for the three laboratory workbenches and mismatched bookcases he’d crammed inside. Every horizontal surface held the well-used equipment of the trade: extra ring stands, chipped Erlenmeyer flasks, a gravity-defying tower of black rubber stoppers—just to name a few. Most of it looked like it’d been around since the 1950s.

The screech of steel on tile alerted me that my lab partner had once again moved her stool to the other end of the bench. I offered the woman a reassuring smile and got a frown in return. No surprise. Like most of the other students, she knew nothing about alchemy. When magic returned two decades ago, these so-called academies had sprung up in community centers across the country. A mecca for bored housewives and magical wanna-bes, they offered more in entertainment than true instruction. The self-taught alchemists who ran them varied in skill level, from the completely inept to the terminally clueless. I hadn’t decided where Boris fell on the scale, but then, I wasn’t here for instruction. I needed a lab and for the moment, I had one. It was the best I could hope for in Portsmouth, Ohio.

The crucible began to dance, clattering against the support ring. Perhaps I shouldn’t have taped down the cover. I reached for my tongs, but before my fingers closed over the grip, the crucible shot straight up in the air. I gave up all pretense of professional indifference and ducked under the bench. The heavy porcelain dish smashed into the ceiling fourteen feet overhead—or at least I assumed it was the ceiling. My view was limited to stool legs and fleeing feet, but the following rain of porcelain supported my assumption.

“Addie!” Master Boris’s voice drowned out the muttered curses of my fellow students. How had he known it was me? He hadn’t even been in the room.

“What the hell was that?” His scuffed Wolverine boots came to a stop in front of me.

“Sir?” I crawled out from under the bench and dusted my knees. Master Boris stood a few inches shy of six feet, with a width nearly equal to his height, but his mass didn’t intimidate me. He’d need a little something between the ears for that.

“Today’s lab was a simple distillation. None of the ingredients were volatile!” He must have missed the smell of burnt rosemary, otherwise he’d realize that I hadn’t been performing his simple distillation.

“I’ll clean it up, sir.” I bowed my head in an effort to look contrite and glanced at the bench top. A fine red powder covered the slate surface. Not bad. My crude oven had been a success, though next time, I’d find a way to vent it.

“You’re the worst damn alchemist I’ve ever had the displeasure of teaching.” His thick-jowled face moved a shade closer to purple.

“Master Boris?” My buddy James left his workspace to join me. Tall and lanky, and just out of high school, he was easily the youngest person in the class.

“Stay out of this, Huntsman.” Boris spared James a frown before turning back to me. “I can’t afford your ineptitude. Clean this up and get out.” He wheeled around with a porcelain crunch and stormed off.

I took an involuntary step after him, ready to protest, and stopped. No, I wouldn’t beg. I could find another lab. I pulled a clean brush from my bag. With practiced strokes, I began to sweep the fine powder into a mound closer to the edge of the bench.

“About damn time.” The young man at the workspace across from mine flicked a piece of crucible in my direction. It emitted a faint tink when it struck the scarred tile at my feet. “You’re a menace.”

I gave the Neanderthal the appropriate eyebrow arch before I pulled a clean vial from my bag.

James moved to my side, exchanging a glare with the other man before turning his attention to me. “What’s that?” He jerked his chin toward the red powder.

“Remembrance Dust. Chemically, it’s similar to rosmarinic acid, but with an alchemic twist.” A bent scrap of paper made a temporary funnel, and I gently swept the powder into the vial. “Not the classic preparation, but it works. My next
master
will have a muffle furnace.”

James snorted, well aware that Master Boris was anything but. “And where will you find a man who can call himself your master?”

“I’d settle for one I could call my equal.” A pen loop inside the front pocket of my backpack provided secure storage for the vial. With a grunt, I swung the bag over my shoulder. Time to go.

“Addie, wait up,” James said.

“Finish what you’re doing.” No need for him to miss out on the lesson.

I left the lab and pulled the door closed behind me. The slamming door echoed in the empty hall, rattling a glass case that held lop-sided clay pots from the pottery class a few doors down. Community center learning at its finest.

I knew I was being too critical, but getting kicked out of Boris’s academy stung. Of course, if my current potion worked, my laboratory needs might prove irrelevant. Hitching my pack higher on my shoulder, I shoved open the front door.

“Addie!” James caught up with me before I’d even left the block. “Hey, why didn’t you wait?” He slowed to a walk beside me, still cinching his bag.

I glanced over at my sidekick, one-time rescuer and only friend. With dark hair, bright green eyes, and a smile that caught the attention of every teenage girl around, I couldn’t understand why he chose to hang with me. “You better not have quit,” I said.

“No. Not yet.” He slung his bag over his shoulder. “Let me talk to Boris.”

“No need. If this doesn’t work…” I wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. I tried not to think beyond the potion I had brewing at home. It wasn’t the end of the road, but what my future held beyond it was as obscure as my past.

“It’ll work,” he said. “You didn’t receive those bands for—”

I swatted him in the stomach and glanced around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. A couple of late-model cars drove down Ninth Street, but the only pedestrian close enough to overhear bobbed his head to whatever played on his iPod.

Beneath my shirt sleeves, five tattooed bands encircled my right biceps and four decorated the left. A symbol of rank at the Alchemica, each band represented a discipline mastered. No one except James knew about my tattoos, and I intended to keep it that way.

“You don’t even know if they’re legitimate,” I whispered.

“And neither do you.”

I gave him a frown and picked up my pace. The earliest memory I had was James pulling me out from behind a dumpster, blocks away from the burning ruin of the Alchemica in Cincinnati. I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there or how I’d escaped the explosion that killed all the others. All I remembered was alchemy. Every formula. Every ingredient. Every technique.

“Addie, come on.” He matched my stride with ease. “I’m saying that you’re a good alchemist. The best. With or without your memory, that won’t change.”

I didn’t feel like arguing, so I let it go. “Thanks.”

We rounded the corner, and the Huntsman Gun Shop came into view. They carried everything your avid hunter could ever need—or so they claimed. Guns, bows, ammo, clothing and assorted paraphernalia I knew little about. They were family owned and operated, local but modern. They had even hired an alchemist. Me. Magic bullets were all the rage, and I helped the Huntsman keep pace with the times.

“We’re not due back at the shop for another hour,” I said. “I’d rather not tell your brothers I flunked out.”

“Then don’t.” James turned down the alley beside the shop, leading me to the side entrance rather than the front. A decade-old black Buick sat near one wall, blocking most of the narrow space. James slowed as he eyed the car.

“Anyone you know?” I asked.

“No.” He gestured at the back end of the car. “Hamilton County plates.”

I grunted. “You think word of the shop’s bullets has spread as far as Cincinnati?” The city was over a hundred miles away.

“Your bullets.” He flashed me a grin and climbed the three steps to the side door. “And I’m surprised it took this long.”

Shaking my head, I followed James inside and up the back stairs. After today’s experiences, it was nice to have someone on my side.

The attic room over the shop served as both my workshop and my bedroom. I’d shoved a twin bed into one corner along with a couple of milk crates to use as a nightstand. Three folding tables occupied the rest of the room, each cluttered with an assortment of makeshift lab equipment. The shop paid for the things I needed to make bullets, but the rest I’d acquired panhandling at local high schools. My take included a nice assortment of cracked beakers, volumetric flasks without stoppers, and stained stir bars. If I could have found better equipment, I wouldn’t have had to attend Boris’s academy.

I set down my pack and shrugged off my jacket.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” James asked.

“Yes.” I gave him a frown. I’d been working up to this for weeks; he knew that. “If you’re staying, close the door.” I waved a hand toward the door and unzipped my pack. Removing what I needed, I walked to the table where I’d cobbled together some of my better pieces of equipment. The product of the complicated set-up had filled one tiny vial. It sat in a rare clear space on the table, majestic in its solitude.

The door closed with a soft snap of the latch, but I didn’t look over. I sprinkled the Remembrance Dust into the vial, and the clear liquid turned a deep ruby red. Burnt rosemary momentarily overpowered the usual odor of gunpowder in the room. A month’s worth of work in a 20mL vial. Perfect. Would it prove to be the perfect solution? I had my doubts, but until I knew what potion had stolen my memories, I could do no better.

James stopped beside me. “It could be dangerous.”

I capped the vial and gave it a shake. “Are you afraid the potion is toxic, or do you fear it will work? You know what they say about Alchemica alchemists.”

He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I’ve heard the rumors. You know, about the ingredients they used?”

“Blood, body parts, decaying flesh…”

“Yeah. You think it’s true?”

“I can tell you the alchemical effect of each of those ingredients—and then some.” Which, come to think of it, was a bit disturbing.

“So? You can do that for anything. Even for things I would never suspect could be used as ingredients.” He folded his arms across his chest. “It really pisses me off the way Boris treated you.”

I tried not to smile at his righteous anger on my behalf. “I did blow up a lot of his equipment.”

“Still, you’re brilliant.” James scowled at the vial I held.

I studied his youthful face. Where did the kid get such faith in me? I had no idea what I’d done to deserve it. “You don’t want me to take this potion, do you?”

He looked up, the anger replaced by uncertainty. “It could be toxic.”

“It isn’t, and if you truly believe I’m as good as you claim, you’d listen.” I held up a hand to stop his protest. “You’re afraid it’ll work and I’ll turn out to be the Alchemica Master these bands declare me to be. That I really did earn them through blood—or worse.”

“Addie.”

“Tell me the truth.”

His brows lowered, shadowing his eyes, and I got a glimpse of the man he would be. My sidekick was going to be someone to be reckoned with. His expression softened. “You’re not evil.”

I gave him a fond smile and uncapped the vial. “Shall we find out?”

His brow wrinkled further, and he opened his mouth, but I didn’t wait for his comment. I downed the potion in a single swallow.

Familiar shadows surrounded me. I didn’t turn my head, but I knew that if I did, I’d see a battered nightstand to my right and an overflowing bookshelf to my left. The mattress beneath my back poked and bulged in the usual places. My bed, my room at the Alchemica—and I wasn’t alone.

The mattress shifted to bear the weight of an old man in split-sleeved robes of white: the Grand Master. He leaned forward to brace one hand beside my pillow and brushed back the hair from my forehead with the other. The movement exposed his upper arms and the black bands encircling each—four on the left, five on the right. Like me: a master alchemist lacking only the elusive final band. The final band for the Final Formula.

I caught his scent, a mixture of Old Spice and acetic acid, and felt a twinge of déjà vu. Before I could analyze the feeling, he spoke. Pain splintered my head at the sound, making it impossible to follow the words. The dim lights went dark.

Garbled voices and darkness reigned for a period of time I couldn’t judge. It could have been minutes or hours, maybe even days. Suddenly someone pulled me upright and in the same motion, threw me over his shoulder. The Grand Master? Too confused to protest, I simply hung there as my head pounded in rhythm with my heart.

He carried me from my room into the brighter light of the hall. Through pain-narrowed eyes, I looked down his back.

What the hell? The man carrying me didn’t wear the robes of my Grand Master; he wore black fatigues. Had the military decided they needed an alchemist?

I tried to cry for help, but shouted a list of ingredients instead. I snapped my mouth shut, too stunned to be afraid. Oddly, the pain lessened. It seemed as if speaking the words had released the pressure clamped around my head. That scared me even more.

My captor stopped at the intersection of two corridors. I tried to get my bearings, but I wasn’t used to viewing the hallways upside down.

“Check out the tattoos,” he said.