Queen of Extinction

by Gwynn White

  Pulse racing faster than the second hand on the clock, he strode to the ingredients table—and almost slipped on a broken egg.

  That idiot Lardel waved a hand in apology. “Sorry, the stupid thing slipped out of my hand. I know nothing about making potions.”

  Raith ignored him. He fluttered a shaking hand over an almost unimaginable collection of dried and fresh plants, nuts, ground and whole rocks, and bits of animals in unlabeled vials, baskets, and bottles.

  His mind boggled.

  If he got this wrong, his potion would fail. It would not get him eliminated, but he would go into the final challenge at a distinct disadvantage.

  He had enough of those already.

  Stop it. You are a powerful incubus. You have a nose. Use it. And eyes, too.

  He scanned the ingredients with deeper concentration.

  A macadamia nut buried deep in its brown shell lay next to a shark egg, still wet and smelling of salt and seaweed. The oyster was also fresh from the ocean. The steel shavings glinted blue in the torchlight.

  He placed them in a basket and then lifted root after root to his nose.

  Fig had always stunk of cat piss to him. He allowed a smile through his grimace of disgust when the familiar stench hit him. He placed it in his basket.

  Now for the vials of powdered rock. Marble, he assumed, would be white.

  He picked up a vial of white powder and held it up to a flickering candle. Dull and lifeless, it gave nothing away.

  Aware of the ticking clock, he skittered down the line. The vial at the very end of the long table caught his eye. It shimmered pearly white . . . But so did the vial next to it.

  Which one was correct?

  His stomach clenched. He had to make a choice. His hand dithered over the two vials, then he said a quick prayer to Maleficent, grabbed one, and tossed it in his basket. If it was the wrong one, his potion would fail—someone.

  Those are the breaks in this crazy game. He gulped.

  Last, he picked up a flask of water—he hoped it came from a spring—and carried his treasure back to his side of the alchemy bench.

  Jorah had finished his preparation. With a casualness that infuriated Raith, the dragon swirled his steaming potion with a glass stirrer. Once again, it looked like Trojean’s killer would finish this trial first.

  Raith struck a match to light his burner, but his hands trembled so much, it snuffed almost immediately.

  Get a grip.

  His second try was more successful. He slid his cauldron onto the stand above the flame and poured in the water. Steam hissed, and the water bubbled.

  Next he prized open the oyster. A single dark pearl shone in the muck. He picked it up and held it to the dancing light. It shimmered like whale oil on the ocean. Not very pretty, but he knew its value and rarity.

  Was it supposed to go into his potion?

  The recipe hadn’t called for a pearl. Would Aurora have known the oyster hid this gem? How could she? Finding it had to be serendipity. He slipped it into his pocket to give to Aurora after the trial was over—it could be useful in wooing her again. The rest of the oyster went into the boiling water. The shark’s egg pod came next. Then the steel shavings. These were followed by mashed fig root.

  He counted the turns of his whisk, careful not to do more than the recipe called for. Whisk held in midair, he let the brew swirl on its own, counting the seconds down in his head.

  He took a moment to assess his competition. Lardel leaned over his collection of ingredients with a sour expression. He had yet to lift a blade to start chopping. Mahlon smirked over his cauldron as if he had done this a thousand times.

  It fueled Raith’s nerves.

  Jorah was the worst. As placid as a summer’s day, he shaved the tips of a goose feather into his solution.

  Raith’s brew hissed, pouring steam into the already noxious air. He yanked the flame out from under the cauldron.

  It burned his hand. He sucked in a sharp breath; he’d forgotten to grab a mitt.

  Giving the water time to cool, he picked up the macadamia nut. Notoriously difficult to crack, he dropped it into a heavy mortar and jammed the pestle down onto it.

  It didn’t even scratch the shell.

  He tossed the pestle down and raced to the equipment table.

  A small hammer with an iron head. But when he thunked it down on the nut, the tricky brown ball shot across the table and hit Jorah.

  The dragon glared at him as he rolled the blasted thing back. “Keep your nuts to yourself, or I might be tempted to crack your head like one in the final trial.”

  The clock struck the hour.

  Sweat broke out on Raith’s brow. He had one hour left, and he hadn’t finished adding his ingredients.

  Another prayer that the potion Carian made went better than this one. He considered choosing an easier recipe but rejected the idea. By the time he could find something to make, he would be out of time.

  She said everything we could need is here. Something on this table will have to work.

  He picked each strange contraption in turn, studying them carefully. Finally, he spotted an old iron vise. He raced to it, stuck the nut between its metal jaws, and cranked the handle. It squealed as the cog turned and the vise bit down into the shell.

  Another couple of rotations, and a satisfying crack filled the air. He cranked the vise open, grabbed the nut, and ran back to his potion. The creamy white flesh he scooped out and tossed in the cauldron. Careful not to burn himself, he pushed it back on the flame.

  Now for the powdered marble.

  Please be right. Please be right.

  He measured out the exact amount on a set of shining golden scales and tipped the tiny mound into the cauldron. A few bubbles floated to the top and popped, spreading powder across the surface. The liquid changed to a milky gray color.

  The smell didn’t improve. It added to the malodorous stench that filled the room. It didn’t seem to be bothering anyone else. Lardel had started tossing ingredients into his cauldron.

  Mahlon sat with his feet on the table while his potion boiled. Most of the stink was coming from his station. Raith’s nose curled with distaste. Whatever happened, he hoped he didn’t end up drinking whatever muck was in that pot.

  Across from Raith, Jorah’s steady hands poured his potion in a vial.

  Raith’s heart stuttered. The killer has finished?

  He swallowed and risked speaking. “You done?”

  A sneer from Jorah. “So it would seem.”

  Lardel looked up from his stirring. “What! You can’t be. What did you make?”

  An eyebrow raise from Jorah. “A potion that stops the drinker from bleeding if cut.” He fixed his icy eyes on Raith. “Figured it might come in handy.”

  Raith gulped. Before he could reply, Mahlon said, “Argan Dexterity Serum. Famous for making the drinker more agile. It loosens the joints and sinews. Or so the instructions say.”

  Raith had his doubts that anything that smelled so terrible would help anyone with anything other than a severe case of vomiting.

  “And you?” Lardel asked Raith.

  Avoiding Jorah’s stony gaze, Raith said, “Strength. It will help in the next challenge.”

  Lardel tossed his hands up. “Waste of time. I’m not doing this.” He stalked away from his bench and sat on a sofa in front of a pot-bellied stove.

  “You’re giving up?” Jorah asked.

  “I came to fight,” Lardel snapped. “Not to mess about in the kitchen.” He folded his arms. “The way I see it, I was beat when she changed the rules. And the prize isn’t worth the loss of dignity that comes with playing on.”

  “The prize?” Jorah’s voice was as frigid as his eyes. “I trust you aren’t referring to Princess Aurora?”

  “The princess. The kingdom. Not worth it.” Lardel stood. “I’m going to get some fresh air.”

  So that was it. Lardel gone.

  Raith exchanged a satisfied look with Mahlon.

>   “The princess isn’t much to look at, to be sure, and she’s a bit too fiery for my tastes, but the kingdom’s worth something,” Mahlon said, with a toothy grin. “Like an old carriage, I can strip it for spare parts.”

  Jorah stepped into Mahlon’s personal space. “You haven’t won yet.”

  Mahlon waved at his potion. “Can’t lose.”

  “I’ll see you whipped before I let you marry Aurora,” the dragon said, his voice low, “or strip her kingdom of its wealth.”

  Mahlon stepped back. He must have seen something of the dragon in Jorah. His usual bluster gone, Mahlon held up his hands. “No offense, Thalyn. Let’s not get antsy.”

  Jorah turned away and sat on the sofa Lardel had vacated.

  Raith looked at the clock.

  Half an hour left until he faced the dragon in the final trial. A trial he knew he could not win, no matter how much strength potion he drank.

  It was time he and Carian came up with a plan to destroy Jorah.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Aurora

  The stench of rancid potion reached Aurora the second her foot touched the top of the stairs to Niing’s burrow.

  Her heart pounded.

  Someone down there had made a terrible mistake.

  She hoped it wasn’t deadly.

  Except perhaps if it was Raith who had messed up. It would solve all their problems if he poisoned himself. She would not have to hide out in a Guardian—doubt now pricked her at the wisdom of that—and Jorah would not have to fight another Magical being on an ever-shifting mechanical construct designed to debilitate and weaken.

  But even as she hoped for Raith’s demise, she doubted the gods would be so obliging.

  Zandor grimaced. “What’s that? Your potions never smell that bad.”

  “That’s because I don’t botch my potions. Or at least not that badly.”

  “With a bit of luck, it’s Raith’s and he’ll poison himself,” he muttered.

  She wasn’t the only one who sought an easy solution to the incubus she’d inflicted on Ryferia, then.

  The smell was worse at the bottom of the stairs. She had to pause to stop from gagging. She cleared her throat and straightened her corset. Artemis and a group of Intelligentsia had gathered in the burrow to see the end of the trial. It seemed their blood lust had not been cured.

  She swept past them and announced, “Your time is up.”

  Jorah reclined on a sofa; Lord Mahlon stood smirking next to his brew; and Raith sat straight as a board next to his station. Lord Lardel was missing.

  “Where is Lord Lardel?” she asked.

  Jorah eased off the sofa. His tall, handsome frame was clad in black trousers and a cotton shirt, open at the neck. His cravat hung loose over his shoulders.

  Her heart kicked in her chest. Beneath his shirt, she caught a curl of black ink. Her fingers itched to slide the white cotton aside to expose what he’d had tattooed on that beautiful skin. She held them clenched at her side.

  When had Jorah Thalyn become so important to her?

  “He decided that potion-making wasn’t to his liking,” Jorah drawled. “He’s withdrawn.”

  She wasn’t sorry—it meant one less person clambering over the Guardian to worry about. But she could not show that type of emotion. “So be it.”

  Almost unbidden, her focus drifted to Raith.

  Was it possible the incubus radiated so much charm that he could hook her from across the room? Knowing she had to fight it, she still stared at him.

  He smiled at her—but happily, his smile and his eyes were wild. Afraid.

  From this distance, it was impossible to tell if it was his potion that stank. She wasn’t going any nearer to find out.

  Another—more likely—possibility for his fear presented itself. Did he suspect that she knew his brother had attacked Keahr and left a trail of mutilated bodies across the capital?

  If he did, perhaps it would make him reconsider the course he was on. Even if Jorah won, there was no guarantee Raith would not continue his quest to make that terrible potion.

  Blindsided by that realization, she was marshaling her thoughts on what to say to him when Lord Mahlon called out, “I have a magnificent potion for you, princess.”

  She gave him a strained smile, then turned to the four musketeers who had supervised the trial. “Who was the first to complete their potion?”

  A musketeer stepped forward, bowing low. “My princess, Lord Jorah finished first.”

  Hardly surprising, but she’d had to ask. When Jorah stepped into her personal space with his potion in hand, a flush of delicious heat pooled in her core despite her anxiety.

  Not even Artemis leering over her shoulder could cool it.

  “Just for you,” Jorah said, voice a low rumble in his throat.

  All she could think as he handed her the potion was that she wanted this distant, disdainful, ruggedly handsome dragon more than she had ever wanted anyone.

  She swallowed, praying that he—and Artemis—wouldn’t feel the lusty heat streaming off her body like the rays of sunlight at noon day. “What have you made?”

  “You hadn’t named the potion, but from your scribbled notes I think it’s safe to call it an elixir to stop bleeding.”

  Very good choice, given what they knew about Raith.

  She only just managed to resist giving him a knowing smile. It would not do to let Artemis suspect that she and Jorah had a relationship outside the trials.

  Relationship.

  Oh! How much more intimate that sounded than it really was.

  Struggling to keep her voice steady, she commanded, “Drink your potion.”

  He didn’t hesitate, swallowing the black liquid in three mouthfuls. Not blinking, he placed the vial back on the table.

  She picked up a chopping knife. “Your hand.”

  Palm up, Jorah extended his hand—the same one that last evening had revealed his Magical secret. When she sliced the blade cleanly across his skin, he gave not even the slightest flinch.

  No welling of blood. Or trace of his dragon hidden in his core.

  Her heart sang. A blood elixir was not an easy potion to make. He truly was adept at potion-making, something so dear to her heart. Would he never grow to care for her the way she was beginning to care for him?

  Jorah’s cool blue eyes gave nothing away.

  To hide her roiling emotions, she forced a bland expression. “Nicely done.” Her eyelids fluttered stupidly before she could stop them.

  He smiled for the first time—a slow, crooked one that set her blazing. “My princess. You honor me.”

  She coughed and took a step back, only to bump into Artemis, standing at her shoulder.

  Her toad of an uncle looked at her with cold calculation. He must have seen her lust for Jorah.

  As usual, her skin burned.

  Worse, being Artemis, he would no doubt devise some dastardly plan to use that information against her.

  Whatever he tried, she—and Jorah—would come back fighting.

  Briskly, to cover her embarrassment, she turned to the musketeer. “Who finished second?”

  “I did,” Lord Mahlon shouted before the soldier could reply. He sauntered over, arrogance rolling off him like waves, and placed his vial on the table before her. “Woman, as requested, a perfect potion.”

  She sniffed it, then recoiled.

  Lord Mahlon’s potion was the source of the terrible smell.

  This was not going to go well for the man. She forced that bland expression again. “Thank you, Lord Mahlon. What have you made?”

  “Argan Dexterity Serum. Famous for giving the drinker extra dexterity by loosening the joints and sinews.”

  She bit her lip. Would saying anything break the rules? Then her common decency stepped in. “I fear that you might be mistaken. I am always wary when one of my potions smells that bad. I generally feed it to the sink when that happens.” A smile. “Or maybe I offer it to the stable manager to use as rat poison.�
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  “Nonsense, woman. You’re just afraid of the power it will give me, that I’ll win. I won’t be tricked! Trust me, you’ll appreciate my increased dexterity even more on our wedding night.”

  Her hands found her hips as ribald laughter rose from the crowd behind her. To cover her embarrassment, she shot back, “Yes, you would need that compensation, wouldn’t you?”

  The laughs grew louder.

  She didn’t give Lord Mahlon an opportunity to perform for his audience or to further embarrass her. “I give you a choice: throw it away or drink it. You know what I would do.”

  Lord Mahlon smirked at her, then at the crowd behind her as he lifted his vial to his lips. He swallowed it, then thumped the vial back on the table. He, and the rest of the crowd, waited in anticipation.

  A cough raked him. He cleared his throat, but it didn’t seem to help. He coughed again, thumping his chest to dislodge whatever had him struggling for breath.

  His eyes turned from arrogance to widened alarm. A pale-blue tinge claimed his face.

  The Intelligentsia sniffed blood. They started a slow clap.

  Lord Mahlon scratched at his throat desperately. “An antidote?” he rasped as he stumbled back from the table, and landed heavily on the floor.

  She gripped her skirts, hating to see him suffer even if he had brought it on himself. “Unless you can point out the exact ingredients you used and the method you followed, I would not know where to start.”

  He tried to lumber to his feet, but collapsed back onto the floor. Wide, unfocused eyes gaped up at her. “Help me,” he rasped.

  “I would, truly, but—” What more could she say? She was as helpless as he was.

  The Intelligentsia clapped.

  Lord Mahlon’s fingers clawed at her skirts.

  It took all her strength not to look away—she owed him the honor of watching him die.

  His feet juddered in his boots.

  The clapping increased in pitch and tempo.

  Mouth as blue as a salamander’s back, Lord Mahlon’s head lolled.

  And then, his body crumpled into the flagstones to rousing applause.