“First of all, the tree is a quarter of a mile away at best, so stop exaggerating. Secondly, don’t focus on what you can’t make out. You can see the overall shape, the branches and size. Focus on those aspects instead of getting mad at me for not being able to see the rest. You’re getting angry for no reason, Violet. This is a common occurrence for you. If you keep up this kind of behavior then your powers will latch themselves onto your emotions. It makes you dangerous – and not in a good way,” Lincoln states.
I roll my eyes as he walks away, leaving me alone to stare at my nemesis, the tree. Angry? He thinks this is me angry? My finest moments are created when I’m fuming. The fury creates a tunnel for my focus, eliminating everything else around me. I imagine it, just as he told me to.
It works.
The magic hears me and does as I ask it. The lightning rains from the sky with enough speed that there’s not enough time to make out its shape. The sizzle of current lingers long after the blinding flash of light fades away. The heat is unbearable as bolt after bolt crashes to the ground, the energy in each so high that craters litter the sand around us.
Lincoln doesn’t say a word; I can only assume he doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction.
Several minutes pass, and I don’t know what to do. Lightning scores the earth and the sky and I have no idea how to make it stop. I may very well have started something that I can’t stop.
“Are you done yet?” Lincoln yells dryly from right next to me. “Tell it to stop.”
I bite my lip, not sure how to do what he is asking of me. Sweat beads on my forehead as the heat grows and grows.
“End it now!” he bellows over the cracks of thunder. “Otherwise I will have to do it myself and you won’t like my methods.” His head angles downward towards me, his chest nearly touching mine. Flashes of electricity circle around our bodies. I can see the reflections of my ability in his eyes as he stares down at me. “Tell it to stop, Violet.” His voice is like a caress to my nerves, a soft breath calming my anger.
He went from annoyed to angry to sensitive in a matter of minutes. Maybe it was to see which tone made the biggest impact with me, maybe it wasn’t. All I know is that I don’t even need to ask my power to stop its wrath, it does it all on its own. “You’re right, I was mad. But I did as you asked. My anger allowed me to focus my thoughts and that’s what I did. I focused them on you, willed the lightning to act the way I wanted it to.”
“I don’t want your powers attached to your emotions in anyway, Violet. I understand that you think anger helps you focus, but to rely on a feeling to wield your ability makes you weak. You won’t always be angry when you need to be. You need to figure out how to channel your focus without resorting to that. In fact, consider that your homework for tonight.”
If I thought that I was going to stay here in Pensatore, perhaps I would do as he asks. I don’t want to stay here though. I want to go back to Miami and have everything normal again. I don’t need to learn how to control my power because soon enough, I won’t even have it. I’m going to purge it. Get rid of every last drop and become human again. There won’t be a telling lingering over my head or people chasing me or any of this craziness any more. I’ll go back to washing dishes and pretending to not stress over how we will pay rent this month.
All I need to do is learn enough that I can purge and then we can leave. Days. That’s all I need. Just a few days.
8
EMMY
They call it the Lab. From the outside, it looks like a normal house. It’s a narrow, three story building on the outskirts of the settlement. It’s not hard to miss – if for some reason you don’t see the billows of smoke coming out of the chimneys, then there’s no way you could overlook the odor. It’s not what any normal person would describe as fragrant. It’s almost acidic, like someone tried to boil a pot of bleach on the stove, forgot about it and let it char to the bottom of the pot. It burns your nose and eyes, but after spending eight hours here for the last few days, I almost don’t feel or smell it anymore.
Violet is training with Lincoln, therefore Damon is with me. He won’t go into the building. He claims that to do so is bad luck, so he stays outside the front door, sitting on the rickety stairs on the attached patio. I can’t blame him. When I first entered yesterday, the place looked and felt evil. Pensatore’s settlement is orderly and kept up. The grass is neatly trimmed and even the ivy that grows up the stone walls of the buildings is in perfect shape. There are colorful pots of plants lining the cobblestone streets and flaming lanterns on every corner. The Lab is like something out of a horror show compared to that.
It’s divided into three sections: creation and testing, stockrooms, and manufacturing. The manufacturing area is exactly what it sounds like. The majority of Alchemists are assigned here. It’s their job to create the more standard potions such as healing and personal care – apparently having a proper skin potion is essential. These are the type of potions that are brewed daily and sent out to several shops in the Market to sell. The rooms are filled with well-used cauldrons that vary in size. Some are large enough for me to crawl into, while others are barely big enough to fit a cat. This area is where the majority of the odor comes from. There are a handful of potions that are more fragrant – almost floral – and then there’s the one that smells of acid.
Creation and testing is where the elite Alchemists go. They are the ones who manufacture and invent new potions. The Prime Alchemist, Ollie, works here as well. These witches and warlocks are the ones covered head to foot in soot. The ones who wear aprons in an attempt to keep as much of the ingredients off of them as possible – by the looks of them at the end of the day, it doesn’t do much good. Basically, it’s their job to know each ingredient inside and out. They memorize how they work together, how each piece reacts to complements another. The rest is all in their imagination. Apparently, not every idea they have is possible. One of them seared off their eyebrows yesterday in an attempt to create a potion that would accelerate plant growth. This, according to Ollie, is a combination that they have been working on creating for many years now and are no closer to figuring it out than they were when they started.
The stock rooms are typically what frightens people – at least that’s what I assume anyway – and it’s easy to see why. The walls of the room are lined with shelves that reach floor to ceiling. Jars upon jars are stacked there, some filled with rocks or ash, others with blood or feathers. Bones hang from several lines draped from the ceiling as though they were hung out to dry. The room scares the hell out of me and I don’t like being in there. There are only two Alchemists assigned to this section and apparently I am going to be the third.
I gently sit down a medium sized crate in the creation area. Ollie is carefully weighing a finger sized vial of red liquid. I have no doubt that it’s the blood of some poor animal that was unlucky enough to be caught by one of the stockroom Alchemists. Ollie is known as a Prime, they are the leaders of each different job or specialty in the settlement. They are the best at what they do and the leaders of their designated people and fall directly below the Commanders in the hierarchy chain. Ollie is a fickle character to say the least. He’s a ginger – the orange red color of his hair matches that of his long beard. He’s not as toned and muscular as the brothers are, but is still a decent size for his height. The freckles speckled across his cheeks are still visible despite the heavy layer of soot. He’s not a bad looking man, just more average and nerdy than most in Pensatore.
He doesn’t acknowledge me, but I don’t let that scare me off. I have questions, hundreds and hundreds actually, that need answers. Once he finishes, he empties the vial into the cauldron that is already steaming and nearly boiling over. The reaction between the ingredients is instantaneous and causes an explosion of lime green gas that fills the room. We both break out into a coughing fit. With my arms stretched in front of me, I try to navigate my way out of the room without hurting myself or tripping over something that I rea
lly don’t want to trip over.
There’s a creak and a burst of bright sunlight that cuts through the gas. A hefty breeze flows into the room, giving me at least some clean air to breathe.
“Emmy?” Damon’s voice bounces through the room. “Where are you?”
I try to answer him, but my throat burns from the fumes, making words impossible to form. Ollie’s coughs have subsided and he now swears under his breath. I follow the sunlight until I find the window that either Ollie or Damon managed to open, and warm wind hits my face. “Here,” I finally manage to say.
Footsteps pound across the wooden beams of the floor until Damon stands next to me. He must be truly worried about me to face coming inside the Lab, something he was so adamant to avoid. He looks me up and down checking for any injuries. “What the hell was that?” he demands, looking around for Ollie.
Ollie plows between us, the cauldron of ruined potion in his hands. He heaves the pot out the window, dumping the contents. “Calm down kid. You’re overreacting. She’s fine. Now get out of my Lab.”
Damon looks to me for direction. I nod, silently telling him that I’m okay and he doesn’t need to stay in here. He looks ill, his face pale and slightly green. The stench of whatever Ollie just did is strong and I’m sure I look very similar to him. He doesn’t linger any longer than he needs to before literally running out of the room towards freedom.
The now empty cauldron slams down into its holder that hovers a few inches above a red hot flame. Ollie kicks around the few crates that sit on the floor, the glass vials within them rustling around, and heads towards a long, narrow table against one wall. He squeezes his temples and his jaws lock into place as he tries to focus. Grabbing a quill from the tabletop, he scratches at the paper, clearly marking something out. “Blood of the ranidon won’t work,” he mumbles to himself. “It reacts to …” Ollie grunts loudly, kicking out his foot again, trying to hit anything he can find.
I bend down to pick up the quill he had thrown to the floor in his bout of frustration. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
My voice must pull him out of his haze because he turns slowly in my direction. His fist slams into the table, making it shudder from the impact. “I need quiet. I need to focus.”
I ignore him and act like he never answered. “Blood of ranidon? Isn’t that used for its dehydration properties?” His brow furrows and I take a step towards him, laying down the quill next to his paper. “What are you trying to create exactly?”
“You’re assigned to the stockrooms, correct?” he asks through gritted teeth.
He made it clear the first day I showed up here that he did not appreciate having a person assigned to the Lab. I figured that was one of the reasons I was assigned to do the grunt work. I wasn’t even trusted to be one of the important stockers who go out to collect ingredients across the settlement and the surrounding area. I simply spent the day shuffling crates from point A to B and ensuring that the Alchemists in each section had everything they needed. Then, at the end of the day, I single-handedly loaded up a wagon full of potions and saw that they were delivered to the Lab’s storefront in the Market.
Of course, being the proactive person that I am, I finished all my tasks quicker than I should have and then had nothing left to do. So I searched the stock rooms and went through cabinets covered in cobwebs and months of dust. By the end of that first day, I came out with a book – leather-bound with handwritten pages. One quick glance at the contents was all I needed, and since then I have been spending hours each day with my eyes glued to the drawings and descriptions. It’s an Alchemist’s bible, at least I think it is. Each page details an ingredient, stating what properties it has and any known reactions it possesses. I’ve barely made a dent in it, but ranidon was one that I just happened to read last night before going to bed. Based on the drawing, it’s a weed with a thick white stem. This stem is filled with a dark red liquid that is best described as blood. If ingested in large quantities over a span of several weeks, it can actually cause death.
I finally nod in answer. “I am. I started here a few days ago.”
His head cocks to the side as he considers something. “How do you know about ranidon?”
“I read it. What are you trying to use it for?” I lean forward, trying to read his chicken scratch that can’t possibly be labeled as handwriting. “You’re looking for a way to dry out meat without smoking it?”
Ollie looks at me through narrowed eyes. He grabs the parchment, wads it up and stuffs it into the pocket of his apron. “There have been complaints that many of the younger generation are overcooking it while smoking it. There is a demand for such a potion therefore, yes, I am.”
“It’s hard to sell something that isn’t wanted by your consumers, right?” I ask. “That’s why the majority of the potions made here are everyday items?” When loading the wagons each afternoon, I’ve noticed the labels on each crate. Mostly beauty potions for smooth skin, shampoos and cleaning sprays. “Potions could be used for so much more than simply getting rid of a pimple.”
His nostrils flare. “Don’t you have something better to be doing than pestering me?”
I shrug. “Not really.” Ollie has a unique way about him and reminds me a bit of Violet. She has a tough exterior just like he does, but ultimately, I think they both crave friendship and someone to talk to. “Sometimes when you can’t see a solution, the best thing to do is walk away from it. Let your mind venture to something else for a little while. The answer will come to you when you least expect it.”
“The best thing to do is have silence.”
“What type of power do you have?” I ask him, trying to change the subject completely. “I’ve been told that I don’t have one. That I was born powerless.” Damon gave him a rough idea of my past the first day I was here, but abilities were not mentioned.
He pulls the parchment back out of his pocket and scribbles petal of dead flate? on it. “I’m an angel.”
I shouldn’t be surprised that each ability has a name or title associated with it, but I am. “What is an angel?”
“You truly aren’t from Strega are you?” He adds a quantity to the paper. “An angel is a member that is born with wings.” He turns and scurries across the room, adding different things into the cauldron, trying a second time to get the potion right.
When Lincoln brought us through the gate, I remember seeing a little boy that had been batting his wings up and down rapidly trying to lift from the ground. “That means you can fly?” I ask.
“It means that I should be able to. However, my wings did not develop the way they should have when I was a child.” The contents of the black cauldron quickly heat until the liquid is at a rapid boil. “They did not grow evenly, therefore flying is not possible for me.”
The confession of his disability doesn’t seem to weigh on him, which is good. “Are all the Alchemists impaired in such a way?” It’s not normal, I imagine, to be powerless in a realm of magic, and his words make me feel like maybe I can be accepted here with them despite this shortcoming of mine.
Ollie stirs the potion with a long wooden spoon. “No, not all of us. Alchemy has nothing to do with abilities though. Anyone can do this job, they just have to have the desire to do it. It’s hard and takes a long time to master. Most won’t set foot in the building – much like your friend outside. As adults, we typically find jobs more appropriate to our abilities, but that isn’t always the case.” He points toward a shelf off to my right. “Two petals.”
It takes me a moment to realize that he wants me to collect them for him. Each bottle is labeled, but it takes me a while to find the correct one. The petals look no different than a rose petal, dried and crisp to the touch. I hand two of them to him. “What do angels normally do?”
He balls his fingers to make a fist, smashes the petals in his chubby hand. By the time he releases the hold, the petals are little more than a fine yellow powder. “Typically they are messengers. Some work for Ben in
the army, others for themselves. It’s an easy job, but is the same day after day. This settlement isn’t as big as it appears to be, especially if you are flying instead of walking.”
When I see him cringe ever so slightly, I take a large step away from the cauldron. He tips his hand to the side, letting the powder fall from his palm and into the boiling crystal clear potion. This time there is no reaction and Ollie smiles. “On the paper, write down pulverize next to where it says petal.”
I do as he asks. This is the first time in three days that I have really gotten him to open up to me and talk like a normal person. The few times I tried, I failed epically. I was eventually shooed out of the room as objects were thrown in my direction. “That’s not a job I would ever want either. I like having variety. Using my mind to find the answers to things that most would have already given up on.”
He continues stirring, but looks towards me without moving his head. “How did someone like you know what ranidon is? Did one of my Alchemists teach it to you?”
“No.” I’m not sure if I’m technically allowed to have the book or not, but I don’t plan on giving it back, at least not right now. “I found a book. I’ve been reading it for the last few days.”
Enemy Of My Enemy (Price Of Power Book 1) Page 9