The Element of Death (The Final Formula Series, Book 1.5) (5 page)

“Ready to do business now? I thought you might come around.”

James said nothing, but he didn’t look away.

“You’re going to help me free Edgar’s soul.”

“Edgar?”

“Dr. Edgar Winters. A true visionary who was taken from this world far too soon.”

The air froze in his lungs. If this wasn’t Winters, then who— “The nurse,” James said.

She used Rowan’s face to smile.

Chapter

5

J
ames released Rowan and rose
to his feet. Brute force wasn’t going to accomplish anything, nor did he have his power to fall back on. He had to find another way. What did he know about this woman?

He remembered meeting her upstairs. She’d shown him the way, guided him here to…free Winters? “What makes you think I can free him?”

Her smile on Rowan’s face looked so wrong. “It’s in your blood, grim.”

Something moved behind Rowan. The burned man James had met upstairs stood in the doorway. His empty eye sockets seemed to stare right at James. Then he flickered out of existence.

“Are you not the Element of Death?” Gertrude asked, drawing James’s attention back to her. The smile became a grimace. Rowan squeezed his eyes shut, twisting his head from side to side.

“Come on, Rowan,” James whispered.

“No…mine.” Rowan pulled his lips back, baring his teeth.

A low rumble rolled around the room, vibrating the glass in the cabinet doors over the counter full of lab equipment. Abruptly, the ground buckled beneath them, throwing James to the side. He caught himself on the handle of a mortuary drawer. The old handle came free and he fell to the floor. Another rumble, louder than the last, shook the walls, and the bank of drawers bulged forward as if the ground behind it had shifted. The sound crescendoed and a section of six stacked drawers came free from the wall.

James pushed himself to his knees, but didn’t get a chance to stand. One of the doors popped open and its drawer, now tipped at a downward angle, fell free. He got a hand up, but he wasn’t able to slow the momentum of the heavy drawer. It slammed into his chest and shoved him over backward. He grunted on impact, momentarily pinned beneath the drawer.

James pushed the drawer up, holding it above at arm’s length as he tried to slide out from beneath it. As he did so, the next door up popped open, releasing its drawer. This one aimed at his face.

James shoved the drawer he held up, and rolled to the side. He was only inches away when both drawers slammed into the spot where he’d been. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, sucking in a lung full of dirt-scented air.

A deafening pop, and the framing around the drawers gave way, the entire section falling toward him.

James shoved himself to his feet and jumped out of the way an instant before it all smashed to the ground. His shoulder collided with the wall adjacent to the drawers. Stumbling, he threw out a hand to steady himself, but his foot caught on a loose tile and slipped out from under him. He landed hard on his butt.

Another concussion shook the room. A snap sounded overhead and James looked up. A series of deep cracks radiated outward across the ceiling. When they hit the wall, they continued downward, busting the mortar joints. Bricks broke free and tumbled toward him. James scurried on his hands and knees out of the bricks’ path until he reached the corner. Unable to go any further, he crouched down, using his arms to shield his head. The wall caved in, pulling a large section of the ceiling down with it. Debris continued to fall, blocking his view of Rowan, then blocking the light entirely.

The tremors stopped, and the abrupt silence left James’s ears ringing. Dirt trickled to a rest with a soft shushing sound, as if trying to calm the violence of a few moments before.

“Rowan?” James held his breath and listened. No one answered him. He didn’t know if only his corner had collapsed, or if the entire building had fallen in, burying them alive.

Fighting to keep his stomach where it belonged, he pushed himself to his feet.

“Rowan!”

Still no answer. He reached over his shoulder, trying in vain to pull out the staples. He could only reach the one, and it was lodged too deep for him to pry free without some sort of leverage. He dug at it for several more minutes before he forced himself to stop. Even if he managed to get it free, the other staples would remain, hindering his ability to shift forms and heal himself. His human body didn’t heal on its own. Without the ability to shift, he’d simply bleed to death.

“Patience,” he whispered. It might only be his corner that had caved in.

His human eyes couldn’t penetrate the darkness, forcing him to use his hands to feel his way around. Miraculously, an area of clear space, about three feet in diameter, surrounded him. He found a half-buried brick and pulled it free. An avalanche of soft earth followed, the cool dirt covering his bare feet as it flowed into his space. Just when he began to fear he might be buried after all, it stopped. He reached out and found an opening. Slipping into a wider space, he felt his way to the next obstacle.

He lost track of time, and his fingers grew raw as he moved broken brick and block, along with handfuls of damp soil. Digging out by hand was agonizingly slow, and the staples buried in his back didn’t make it any easier. Iron drew his blood like a magnet. His fingers and toes already tingled with the limited blood flow, but he couldn’t let himself think about that. He kept digging, stopping occasionally to scent the air. Was that blood he smelled, or was it his imagination? Shoulders aching, he dug faster.

Loose dirt continued to bury his feet, at times as high as mid-calf. Some of it was from his digging and some from the unstable earthen walls that brushed his shoulders to either side. He’d left the corner well behind, moving in the direction where he’d left Rowan. He dug in for another handful, and his fingers scraped painfully into a brick surface, ripping away part of his middle fingernail.

He cursed and gripped his smarting finger with the opposite hand. It might not bleed—only iron made him bleed—but it still hurt.

After a brief moment to let the pain subside, he reached out to feel the rough bricks his finger had encountered. A broken section of wall, or had he been digging in the wrong direction?

His stomach squirmed, but he refused to give in to the fear. He closed his eyes, searching with his dulled senses. This must be how his brothers felt. They only had the power of the blood, and not the actual hound to guide them. He didn’t want to think about them, but his mind traveled the familiar path without guidance. He used to spend hours trying to figure out a way to become something other than his family’s dirty little secret. To find a way to earn their respect. But that was gone now. They’d sold him out, too.

He opened his eyes. Yes, this direction felt right. He began to sift through the dirt, searching for an edge. A few minutes later, he found it. He dug his raw fingers under the bricks and pulled. Resistance, then a chunk of wall broke free—or half-a-dozen bricks did. A small trickle of dirt spilled into his cramped space, but when it cleared, dim firelight shown through. He’d found the main room.

Ignoring his tender fingers, he reached for the next brick. A flash of light and heat suddenly enveloped him. James jumped back. His heel caught on one of the bricks he’d pulled from the wall, and he fell against the mound of dirt behind him. The wall he’d been digging through was gone, and Rowan stood in the clear area before him. Fire burned in his eyes, and he gave James a wide grin.

“I see you survived, grim.” The giggle that followed made it clear that Gertrude was still in charge.

The cremator stood a few yards away, the counter of lab equipment across from it. The tremors hadn’t been violent enough to tumble anything to the floor. Odd. It was almost as if the violence had been limited to the corner where James had been. Or limited to him. He remembered the chandelier in the foyer and the burned man’s presence here.

“That wasn’t an earthquake.”

“No. I guess the building’s permanent residents don’t want you to help me wake Edgar.”

The building’s permanent residents? Of course. She was referring to Winters’ victims, like the burned man. They were trying to stop her. Everything clicked into place. She hadn’t shown James that vision, it had been Winters’ victims trying to show James why Winters must never be resurrected.

“He killed all those people for you,” James said. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Another smile, the fire still glowing in Rowan’s eyes. “Why would it? What Edgar and I have is real. True love transcends even death.”

James stepped around the mound of earth, not sure what he could do to stop her, but determined to try. He stopped when he saw what lay beyond. Candles had been arranged in a circle in the open area past the cremator. As it had been in the vision, the circle had been drawn with ash. The desiccator sat a few feet away, lid open, and a collection of empty vials littered the floor beside it. But that wasn’t what drew James’s eye. In the center of the circle, on a neatly arranged towel, lay Winters’ black heart.

“What are you doing?” James asked.

“Just what I said: returning Edgar to this world.”

Rowan threw out an arm, and an explosion of powder hit James in the face. No, not powder, ash. The taste of death coated his tongue and something more: magic. Alchemy. No, blood alchemy. Phantom screams filled his ears, and fear clenched a fist around his throat, locking his muscles in place.

Rowan caught him by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall. James smacked his head against the bricks, and a scattering of stars sparked across his vision. He blinked his eyes into focus—in time to see Rowan’s fist coming. The blow slammed his head against the wall a second time. Darkness haloed his vision, but James fought it, his fear no longer alchemically induced.

A second punch sent him into the darkness.

James woke on his stomach, the back of his shoulder throbbing. He lifted his head and groaned. His shoulder wasn’t the only thing that hurt. Rowan could certainly throw a punch. James pushed himself up on his hands and knees. Dust, ash, and blood hung heavy in the air.

He twisted around to discover Rowan on his knees within the circle. In his hands, he held Winters’ heart, except it was no longer blackened and withered. The glistening red organ dripped fresh blood onto the cracked cement floor, the iron scent mixing with the waxy odor from the candles.

“Rowan?”

A shimmer outside the circle grew into a familiar form. James recognized the white uniform and the dark hair tucked up beneath the nurse’s cap: Gertrude.

Does his blood contain enough power, my love?
Gertrude’s mouth didn’t move as she spoke, but the voice was clearly female.

My love? Dread clamped James’s stomach into a tight ball.

A low chuckle rose from Rowan’s chest. He lifted his head and gave her a wide grin. “More than enough, Gertie.”

He lowered the heart to the towel with tender care. Multiple slashes marred Rowan’s forearms, made by the bloody scalpel beside his knee. Blood had trickled down his arms and painted his palms. He’d used his own blood to coat the heart—or rather, Winters had. Gertrude had been successful. Winters had returned.

“His immortal blood was the perfect conduit to allow me to cross over. Now I only need to sever the link to my prison, and I will be free.” Winters picked up a set of pliers James hadn’t noticed, a long industrial staple held in its jaws. Candlelight glinted off the crimson that colored the staple’s pointed tips.

James flexed his shoulder and sucked in a pained gasp. Warm wetness tacked his shirt to his skin. The overpowering scent of Rowan’s blood had masked the smell of his own. Gertrude must have removed a staple. Dear God, if she’d gotten any of his blood on Rowan….

“Be careful with that!” James pushed himself to his feet, then braced a hand on the wall as his head spun.

Rowan locked eyes with him, though the maniacal light shining within was not emanating from the man James knew.

“The grim,” Winters said.

“The psychopath,” James held his gaze and took a step toward him.

“I wouldn’t.” Winters lifted Rowan’s free hand and reached out to touch the staple he still held clamped in the pliers.

“Don’t!”

“Then don’t interfere.” Winters gave him another grin before turning back to his wasted heart. It twitched beneath the fresh coating of Rowan’s blood.

“What are you going to do?”

“Use your blood to sever the soul-binding that tethers me to this last vestige of my mortal life. My brilliant lover saw the potential the moment she realized what you were.” He drove the staple into the bloodied organ. It sizzled like a steak on a hot grill, and a puff of smoke rose. Then the heart burst open, the outer layer crumbling to expose the black interior.

Winters threw back his head and screamed. The fact that he used Rowan’s voice to do it made it hard to tell who was in pain.

James sprang across the intervening space and landed in the circle. He gasped in surprise when he realized just what the ashes did. The mortal plane and the next didn’t overlap here; this
was
the land of the dead. James reached for Rowan, intending to throw him out of the circle.