The Alchemist's Flame (26 page)

“Ah.”

He lit a match and gingerly tossed it into the hood. The flame flickered as the updraft pulled it, then the ethanol ignited with a whoosh.

“Damn.” Waylon took a hasty step back.

The flames died as quickly as they had ignited. A thin trail of smoke rose from the intact heart. It was too wet to burn.

I turned in place, searching for something. Maybe an oil or—

My gaze settled on the small muffle furnace across the room. “Got it.” I turned back to the heart. “Oh God.”

“Addie?”

“See that furnace over there? Open the door.”

“Right. Good idea.” He hurried off to do as I asked.

Grateful for my gloves, I reached out to pick up the heart. Just before my fingers closed around the gray-red organ, it twitched. “Oh God.” I hesitated, aware of more glass falling from the door. “You’ve got no choice.” I wrapped my fingers around the heart and ran toward the furnace. “Oh God oh God oh God.” If it twitched while I was carrying it…

“How does this door open?” Waylon asked.

“Depress the button in the handle. Hurry, hurry, before it moves!”

He gave me a startled look, but did as I requested. He got the door open as the heart twitched against my palms. I screamed and tossed it inside, slamming the door closed with my elbow. I slumped against the counter. “Necromancers are twisted—”

The lab door slammed open and Megan was inside.

I stripped off my gloves and turned to the furnace. It was on, the temperature set at 300 degrees Celsius. Thank goodness the PIA had such limited funding. This model had been made in the nineties. It had a simple digital readout, lacking the multifunctional menu buttons available on the newer models. I held down the up arrow and number on the temperature display began to climb. 350…400…450…

“Addie?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Megan was moving toward us.

500…550…600…

Waylon pulled out his gun and Megan broke into a run.

“Shit!” Waylon fired, but his sharpshooter skills had abandoned him. He missed completely.

650…675…

“Move!” Waylon grabbed my arm and pulled me away as the furnace rolled to 700 degrees. That should do it. Muffle furnaces heated fast, but could we keep her off of us long enough for the heart to dry out and burn?

Megan’s fingers grazed my shoulder, but didn’t find purchase. We ran around the end of the workbench. I grabbed a stool and threw it to the ground behind us. When I didn’t hear her fall, I looked back—just in time to watch her hurl the stool.

“Down!” I grabbed the back of Waylon’s jacket.

For an older guy, he had good reflexes. He dropped to the floor without so much as a grunt and rolled onto his back, aiming his gun. This time he didn’t miss. The shot took her through the leg. She fell to the side, knocking a rack of test tubes to the floor. It wouldn’t slow her down much, but enough for Waylon and me to regain our footing.

I glanced at the furnace. 355. Damn, too slow. I turned toward the door. Maybe if we could lead her on a chase through the halls.

“He wants you back, Addie,” Megan said.

I turned to face her. Had Alexander retaken her? Since I broke his hold, she had been little more than a mindless shell of the person she had been.

“Who?” I asked.

She took a limping step toward me. “Neil.”

I frowned. How did she know anything about him? Had she had contact with him since she had been killed? “Who Made you, Megan?”

She frowned, the move pulling down the skin of her forehead and exposing more of the hole in her skull. How could I be having a semi-intelligent conversation with someone who looked like that?

“I never saw their faces.” She took another step toward me.

“Addie,” Waylon whispered, encouraging me to back with him toward the door.

“There was more than one?” I asked Megan. Oh man, I hoped Doug wasn’t involved. I was just starting to think more of him. Had the whole helping us escape his father’s house been some kind of act?

“There were several,” she whispered. “It was all because of you.”

I glanced at the furnace. 425. It would be easier to keep her talking than to run from her. And I was very interested in what she had to say. “Is that what Neil told you?” I asked.

“He said the plans the two of you made were soon to be realized. But you won’t cooperate. That’s why you’re here.”

“Here, as in arrested by the PIA?” I could see the logic. I couldn’t interfere from a holding cell.

“He said you would rejoin him, even if he had to Make you.”

He had made that clear in December when he ordered Ian to Make me. “What are Neil’s plans?”

“They buried me,” she whispered. “And when I dug out, they buried me deeper.”

“Sir?” Johnson and a couple of other guys in SWAT gear stood outside the broken door.

Waylon held up a hand, signaling them to wait.

“What about Xander?” I asked Megan. “Did you—”

“Alexander,” she whispered, drawing out the name.

Of course, that was probably Xander’s full name, as well. “What about him?”

She reached up, gripping her hair.

“Megan?”

She threw back her head and screamed. When she lunged at me, she took me completely by surprise. I tried to step back, but the broken pieces of glass from the door were like pebbles underfoot. My feet slipped out from under me and I landed hard on my butt.

Megan reached for me.

Chapter
26

I
pushed myself up on my hands and knees, wincing as small chunks of glass dug into my palms, and scrambled away from her. If she didn’t kill me with her bare hands, then I would be caught in the flames when the furnace finally incinerated her heart. Was it my imagination or did I smell smoke?

Megan seized my ankle and jerked my leg out from under me. The violence of the motion sent me face first into the floor. She yanked me backward, and my cheek slid across the glass. Fortunately, the rounded chunks of safety glass didn’t rip off my face.

I skidded to a stop at her feet, and she grabbed me by the back of my shirt and lifted me to my feet, then turned me to face her.

“Don’t shoot!” Waylon shouted to his men.

Megan wrapped a hand around my throat and shoved me until my back collided with the nearest counter.

I stared at her arm where it stretched between us. Thin tendrils of smoke rose from the skin. I looked at the furnace. 525.

She lifted me from my feet and slammed me down onto the countertop, her grip tightening around my neck. “You did this to me.”

“I…did…not.” I drew up my legs and slammed both feet into her chest.

The blow shoved her back, but she didn’t release me. She just dragged me along the counter. I reached out, my fumbling fingers brushing across a rack of pipettes and knocking over a box of filter papers. There was nothing here I could use.

“Let her go!” Waylon had returned, wielding a stool. He slammed it into Megan’s head with enough force to snap it to the side. The blow took her off her feet and through simple physics, forced her to release me.

Waylon closed in on her, raising the stool for a second blow.

I shoved myself off the counter and tackled him. He dropped the stool in an effort to keep us upright.

Megan surged to her feet, her head misshapen and tipped to one side. The slit in her forehead had opened further and more gray matter protruded.

Waylon reached for the stool, but I caught his arm and tugged him back.

Megan took a step toward us, then burst into flame. The heart had finally dried out enough to catch fire.

My relief was short-lived as she took a step toward us, then another.

Waylon abandoned the stool and pulled me back now. “Dear God, what does it take to stop her?”

She was now a pillar of flame, arms outstretched but still moving toward us.

The sprinklers kicked on overhead.

“Shit!” Waylon wrapped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me toward the door. The water hit the flames that enveloped Megan, but did little more than sizzle. The true fuel source was in the furnace across the room, and even if the appliance shorted out, it would retain enough heat to finish the job.

Megan took another step and her leg crumbled. She collapsed on the floor, the impact breaking her body further. Her head rolled free, and I jumped back as it stopped a foot from us. It was completely consumed by fire, but even so, I could still see the mouth moving.

“Jesus,” Waylon whispered. He still had an arm around my shoulders and steered me out into the hall. “Sanders,” Waylon barked at one of the SWAT guys. “See if you can get those sprinklers shut off.”

“Yes, sir,” a shorter man said, then sprinted off down the hall.

“Are you okay?” Waylon asked me.

“Yes.” My voice rasped a little, but I had been nearly strangled enough times to know that I would be fine shortly. Rapid healing was handy like that.

Waylon stared into the lab. The fire continued to burn, the lumps within the flames growing smaller as we watched.

“She’s finished?” Waylon asked.

“Yes.” I knew how he felt. It wasn’t easy to believe that something so resilient could be stopped.

“Sir!” Another man came running up, this guy dressed in the usual suit. “A call came in. There’s a situation up at Hueston Woods Lodge. It’s crazy. They say the Flame Lord has lost it and is incinerating people.”

“Oh God. Colby.” I whispered.

Waylon looked at me. “Who? What’s going on?”

I looked up, meeting Waylon’s gaze. He was one of the good guys. It was time I brought him up to speed. I took his arm and pulled him away from the others. “Colby is the young Fire Element Rowan has been working with, but he’s fallen under the influence of…an old colleague of mine.” I gripped Waylon’s sleeve. “There’s an Elemental summit at the lodge right now. Every Element in the world is there.”

“Jesus.” He turned toward his men. “Load up!”

The men responded instantly and took off for the stairs.

Waylon hurried after them. “Why am I always left in the dark?”

I lengthened my stride to keep up with him. “Rowan wanted to keep the summit a secret, as a precaution.”

“And because he didn’t trust me enough to tell me, every Element is in danger—in my city.” A muscle ticked in Waylon’s jaw.

“I told you, he thinks he’s protecting you. After all, you’re only human.”

Waylon gave me a frown. “So are you.”

“Exactly. It gives us an unfair advantage.”

Waylon pulled open the stairwell door and held it for me. “How’s that?”

“The magical always underestimate us.”

Waylon held my gaze. “That’s about to change.”

The drive to the lodge was one of the longest of my life. I saw the speedometer hit ninety more than once on the little two-lane road out of Cincinnati. We made good time, but the crazy driving did nothing for my nerves. And it didn’t help that Rowan wasn’t answering his phone. I tried my lab, but apparently, Ian wasn’t back yet. James’s phone went straight to voicemail. Next time I saw James or Ian, I was going to strangle them. I could have traveled to the lodge instantly—without nearly losing my lunch in the process.

Hueston Woods Lodge was a beautiful structure. An enormous, multi-story, A-frame construction served as the focal point of the building. Fronted with glass, it was lit from within, as were the smaller A-frame dormers that broke up the line of the roof along the rest of the structure. The building stretched off to one side in smaller, three-story sections. The guest rooms?

The parking lot was full of people. Most stood watching the building or gathered in small groups. A trio of firetrucks was grouped near the covered walkway that led to the front door, lights flashing and reflecting off the lodge windows. Smoke rose from the back of the structure, just visible against the darkening sky, but I didn’t see any firefighters moving toward it.

We stopped beside the firetrucks and the other PIA van pulled in beside us. Van doors banged open, and the SWAT team climbed out, zipping up bulletproof vests and arming themselves with an impressive arsenal. My concern grew as I watched them. Elements healed fast, and they had some impressive magic, but a bullet in the right place would kill them as easily as the rest of us.

“Waylon.” I caught up with him as he walked around the front of the van, heading toward the gathering of firemen and local law enforcement. He had removed his coat and pulled on a bulletproof vest over his white shirt.

He turned and gave me a questioning look.

“All those weapons.” I gestured at the team suiting up by the vans. “It’s just one young man who’s most likely under alchemical control.”

“We don’t know that for certain.”

“But—”

He placed a hand on my shoulder. “My men are highly trained. Most come from a military background. They’re not a bunch of trigger-happy kids, and this isn’t their first engagement.”

I frowned, not sure how to make my point.

“I thought you were willing to let us prove ourselves.” His grip on my shoulder tightened.

“That was before I saw the machine guns and the grenades.”

“We also have tranquilizer guns and men skilled with their use. But I’m not sending my men in unarmed when we don’t know for certain what we’re up against.” A final squeeze, and he released me, walking toward the makeshift command center.

I trailed along behind, not so certain his reassurances made me feel better. Was I doing the right thing involving them?

“Director Waylon, PIA,” Waylon said by way of introduction. “What do we have?”

“It’s the Flame Lord, Director,” a man said. He wore a red vest with a gold name tag pinned to it. A lodge employee?

“And you are?” Waylon asked.

“Barton Smitters,” a man in a sheriff’s uniform answered him. “He was working the front desk when the events took place.”

“Go on,” Waylon said to Barton.

“I had just finished signing in this couple when he shows up. He was a lot younger than I expected, but I figured out who he was pretty quickly.”

“Six-two or three,” the sheriff read from a notepad he held. “Red hair, glowing orange eyes.”

Waylon glanced at me and I nodded. The description fit Colby. Of course, it also fit Rowan—which might be what Waylon’s look was about.

“Yeah,” Barton said, agreeing with the sheriff’s summary. “And the front of his hoodie was covered in blood, like he’d had a really bad nosebleed.”

I rubbed a hand over my face. God, what had Neil done to that poor boy?

“He walks up to the desk and asks me where the conference room is. I asked him if he was okay, and all of a sudden, the cup of pens on the counter vanishes in a flash of light. I nearly pissed myself.”

“Did he identify himself in any way?” Waylon asked.

“No, he just repeated his question. I told him there were several conference rooms and asked for his party’s name. I fully intended to call the cops,” he gestured at the sheriff, “once he moved away.”

“Go on.”

“He wouldn’t give me a name, he just demanded to know where the rooms were, so I pointed him to the stairs. He turned away, and the big leather couch by the fireplace disappears in a flash of light like the pen cup. Some lady screamed because her kid had been near the couch, but thank God he wasn’t on it.

“I had just started to dial the phone when another man ran into the lobby. He shouted something at the Flame Lord, but I didn’t catch the words. Next thing I know, the new guy is a pillar of flame.”

I stepped forward. “What did the other guy look like?”

Barton’s attention shifted to me, then his eyes widened. “You’re that alchemist. The Flame Lord’s girlfriend.”

“Yes, yes. What did the other guy look like?”

“Older guy. Gray hair. I didn’t get a good look. There was a woman with him, but she screamed and ran off when the guy began to burn. God, I could smell it.”

“Anything else?” Waylon asked.

“No. Everyone was freaking out at that point. Someone pulled the fire alarm—maybe to evacuate the place. So I grabbed my cell phone and called 911 from out here.”

Yet I hadn’t seen any of the Elements—at least the ones I knew—out here. They must be inside, trying to stop Colby. And judging by the smoke, they weren’t succeeding. Damn, I had expected Gavin, not Colby.

Waylon had returned my straw of Knockout Powder. If Colby would let me approach him, perhaps I could knock him out long enough for something to be done. If I couldn’t approach him, maybe one of Waylon’s tranquilizers would work—if Colby didn’t see it coming. If he was like Rowan, he could ash bullets right out of the air.

“Where are the conference rooms?” I asked Barton.

“Downstairs.”

I thanked him, then headed for the front doors. Waylon blocked my path before I had taken two steps.

“I need to get in there,” I told him.

“Not alone. In truth, I would prefer not at all.”

“He’s under Neil’s control and Neil wants me.”

“You’re supposed to be locked up in my holding cell right now. He may not be expecting you.”

“If he went to the trouble to lock me up, he realizes that I can undo all his hard work.” I waved a hand at the lodge. “I’m going in. You may join me if you like.”

Waylon held my gaze, his jaw tight. “I bet you don’t back down from him, either.”

“Who, Rowan? Hell, no.”

He surprised me with a sudden smile, then turned to his men. “Move out!”

I faced the lodge. Hang on, Rowan. I’m coming.

The main lobby was impressive. The peaked roof rose multiple stories overhead with an enormous fireplace in the center. Leather couches were arranged in cozy groups around the room while the decor offered a rustic yet comfortable vibe. But my gaze didn’t linger there. My attention was drawn to the pile of ash not far from the registration desk.

“Odd,” I said.

“How’s that?” Waylon asked, his tone soft—to keep our presence secret or out of respect for the dead?

“When the Flame Lord incinerates things, he never leaves ashes.” Since Rowan always wore his robes to the PIA offices, I figured that few of the agents knew his name. It would be best if I kept it that way.

“Have you ever seen him burn a person?”

I frowned, not liking his word choice. “A couple of liches. There was nothing left.”

Waylon frowned, his gaze returning to the ashes. “That doesn’t make this kid any less lethal.”

“No, it doesn’t.” I looked around the room. “And the stairs are…”

“Over there.” One of the men pointed to the fireplace and I noticed the rail to a stairwell beside it. At Waylon’s nod, the man turned and led the way. The others had fanned out, quietly searching the area, but rejoined us as we moved toward the stairs.

The guy who showed us the stairs and burly agent Johnson took the lead. The stairs spiraled downward, a pretty structure with its wrought iron railing, but one that left us open and inspired the men to move slowly, checking for threats. It was all I could do not to shove past them and run down the steps.

We reached the ground floor at last, and the rest of the SWAT team spread out around the area at the base of the stairs. It was dimly lit, most of the illumination coming from the track lighting aimed at a large mural on the wall facing us. But it was the unnatural quiet that really bothered me.

I reached down and pulled the straw of Knockout Powder from my sock. Waylon gave me a questioning look when I straightened. I shrugged, not wanting to break the silence by responding. He had his arsenal and I had mine.

“Sir,” one of the agents whispered, motioning for us to follow him.

We followed him into a large room that contained dozens of tables and chairs. The back and side walls were made of glass and looked out over a large pool, currently covered for the winter months. Lights illuminated the patio area around the pool, and it quickly became apparent why the agent had called us over.

Three men stood on the snow-dusted concrete, and I recognized them all: Rowan, David, and Colby. I cringed when I got a good look at the front of Colby’s hoodie. If the blood had come from a nosebleed, I had never seen one of that magnitude.

“We found him,” I said. “The young guy in the gray hoodie.”

A flash of light lit up the grounds. A lamppost vaporized, while a second one toppled over. David tried to get out of the way, but his foot slid out from under him on the slick concrete. The lamppost struck him across the back of the legs as he tried to crawl out of its path and knocked him to the ground.