The Blood Alchemist (The Final Formula Series, Book 2) (16 page)

I slid back in my seat—my small corner of the seat not occupied by a large furry hellhound—and snapped on my seatbelt. Maybe Donovan was right. I just needed to give them time. Perhaps one day, we’d be what we once were.

I balanced the compass on my palm, and the needle held steady. No matter where I stood, the needle pointed to the ivy-covered statue in front of us. We were in a little park somewhere north of the city. After driving in what felt like circles following the compass needle, I wasn’t sure exactly where we were.

“Maybe it’s St. Anthony,” Donovan said.

“That’s not even funny.” I handed Donovan the compass and started back toward his SUV.

“Addie, I was kidding.” Donovan trailed along after me.

“Who’s St. Anthony?” James asked from behind me. I assumed Rowan followed, though he didn’t speak.

“The patron saint of lost things…and people,” I said over my shoulder.

“Yeah, not funny,” James agreed.

“I apologize,” Donovan said.

I stopped. For some reason, I could never stay mad at Donovan. I turned to face him. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s just…” I lifted my hands, then let them fall.

“That’s okay. James was right: it was in poor taste.”

“Are we sure she’s not here?” James asked. “Maybe we should search the park.”

“She’s not here,” Rowan said.

“How do you—”

“This close, I would feel her.”

I frowned, remembering Era’s comment about feeling another Element when they were nearby.

“We should go,” Rowan said.

“But Addie’s formulas don’t fail,” James said.

I almost told James about the burn salve, but just the possibility of messing up such a simple formula shamed me. I opened the back door of the Suburban and climbed in. James joined me, but Donovan and Rowan had stopped. Rowan had his phone out.

“Rowan, what is it?” I called out, praying it was news of Era.

He looked up, a frown creasing his brow and a hint of orange around his pupils. “There’s been another murder.”

Chapter
11

N
o one spoke on the drive to the new murder scene. I spent the time staring out my window, but saw little of what passed. The only sound in the vehicle was the occasional directions from the GPS on Rowan’s phone. According to her, we were getting close.

We drove through a residential area of modest homes and tree-lined roads. This place reminded me a lot of the last murder location. Donovan stopped at an intersection, and I noticed how dark it had gotten. A streetlight adorned the corner, chasing away the gloom, but it did little to illuminate the lawns beyond the intersection.

I caught a glimpse of movement to our left and turned my head. A figure in dark clothes was visible just beyond the circle of light. Puzzled, I squinted, trying to make out what he was doing. It was too dark for yard work. He raised his arm and something glinted in his hand. It looked like…a gun?

I hit my seatbelt release and slid to the center of the back seat. “Donovan, down!”

“Wh—”

Something thumped against the side of the truck. I lunged between the two front seats and wrapped my arms around his head and shoulders, using my weight to pull him down.

The driver’s-side window shattered in a spray of glass, the bullet seeming to whine past our ears. More thumps sounded from the side of the vehicle.

James dropped to the floor with a grunt.

“Go!” Rowan shouted and slid his own leg over the console to slam his foot against the accelerator. The Suburban shot forward—right into the intersection. Fortunately it was empty. We fishtailed to a stop.

“I got it,” Donovan said. He took off then jerked the wheel to the left and barreled down the first side street we came to. The sudden turn threw me into Rowan’s lap. He wrapped his arms around me to keep me from smacking my head against the dash.

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“Is anyone shot?” Rowan helped me right myself.

“No.” I pushed back between the seats to return to the back seat.

“No,” Donovan answered.

“James?” I touched his shoulder. He half knelt on the back seat, one knee on the seat, the other on the floor.

“Yes,” he answered.

My heart thumped against my ribs. “Is it—”

“Yours? I don’t know.” He drew a shaky breath. “Hurts like hell. Need to change.”

James’s body didn’t heal on its own. It was both an advantage and a limitation. He healed completely when he changed forms, but if he couldn’t change, it wasn’t pleasant.

“Just a moment,” Donovan said.

Cold air whistled through his broken window. I didn’t know if I was shivering from the cold or the adrenaline. Both probably.

James pushed himself into a sitting position and I scooted closer.

“The alchemy.” I could barely get the word out around the restriction in my throat. “Do you feel—”

“Your bullets were designed to stop the heart.” He gripped the edge of the seat, his knuckles white. “My heart doesn’t beat. It never has.”

He had a point, but I wasn’t reassured. “Where were you shot?” I patted his chest.

“Beneath the ribs. Left side.”

I found the hole in his shirt at the same moment. “No blood.”

“Just lead.”

Right. Only iron could make James bleed. Otherwise the hellhound blood that animated him remained in his veins. Impossibly toxic to anyone who touched it. Anyone, but me. Something about the Final Formula had made me immune. The Elements might also be immune, but we weren’t willing to test that hypothesis.

Donovan wove through a few more side streets and finally emerged on a wider road. “There’s a park just down the street.”

James groaned and I squeezed his shoulder.

“Help me out of this shirt,” he whispered.

I got up on my knees to help him pull off his sweatshirt. We were making good progress until Donovan pulled into the park, and I ended up in the floor.

“That’s why you should wear a seatbelt,” Rowan said.

“What is it with you and seatbelts?” I climbed back up on the seat.

“You can help him out of his clothes when we stop.”

“Do you think he wants to watch?” I asked James.

“Don’t make me laugh,” he breathed.

Donovan was already chuckling. He brought the truck to a stop in a small paved lot beside a playground.

James opened his door and slid out. His legs buckled, and he thumped against the side of the truck. Rowan jumped out and hurried over to help him regain his balance. Donovan got out, too, and helped James out of his sweats. I smiled to myself, watching the two older men take care of my sidekick.

“That had to be the murderer,” James said. “I’m going back.”

“Be careful, Fido,” I called.

He glanced at me and nodded, before moving away from Donovan. A shimmer of darkness and an enormous black dog stood in his place. A dark portal opened, and he leapt through before it winked out of existence.

I released a breath. I didn’t like him going off on his own.

“Let’s wait in the truck,” Donovan said.

Rowan didn’t immediately move. Tension lined his shoulders as he looked back the way we’d come.

“What is it?” My heart beat a little quicker. Had his magical senses picked up on something I missed? I scanned the darkness, but didn’t see anything.

Rowan turned to face me. “The bullet from each murder scene was fired from a different weapon. I should have told James to take him alive. If there are others, we’ll need to question this man.”

“Oh.” It felt strange discussing the need to tell James not to kill anyone. His easy-going temperament masked a terrifying ability. James could rip the soul from a living human being with very little effort.

Rowan paced while we waited, but Donovan imitated me, sitting on the edge of the passenger’s seat with the door open. Neither of us spoke as Rowan wore a path in the snow. We didn’t have to wait long. A flash of darkness, and James seemed to materialize beside Rowan. Donovan gathered James’s discarded clothes and walked out to him. I remained where I was, giving James privacy to dress.

“He had a car.” James’s voice carried to me. “I lost him.” He didn’t sound happy about that.

I slid out of the SUV and walked out to them.

“I think he felt me come out of the portal.” James straightened the waistband of his sweats before accepting the sweatshirt Donovan handed him.

“You think he’s magical?” Rowan asked.

“I don’t know. But it should have been too dark to see me.”

“Maybe it was the eyes,” Donovan said. “They’re pretty distinctive in the dark.”

“If he’s magical or a Sensitive, that might explain why he shot at us,” I said. “Otherwise, how would he know? No one should recognize your faces.”

“Your face has been all over the news,” James reminded me.

I hadn’t considered that. Plus I’d been on the same side of the vehicle as the gunman, visible in the light of that streetlight. What if he’d been shooting at me, not Donovan? And the bigger question, why?

The house was only a few blocks away. The garage door was up, and a man and woman stood in the drive locked in an embrace. The man sobbed against her shoulder, but she looked up as we climbed out of the Suburban.

“Your Grace,” the woman said, relief in her tone.

Rowan walked over to greet them while Donovan and I followed James into the garage. A dead woman lay on the concrete beside a burgundy Impala.

“I’ve seen her before,” James said.

“I think she works for a florist. Bernie’s, I believe.” Donovan said.

“That would explain why she smells of flowers,” James said.

“And why there’s a smock from Bernie’s on the back seat.” The red fabric had caught my eye.

Donovan cleared his throat. “If the magic ever leaves us, we could be private investigators.”

“I’d rather not deal with this every day.” I looked down at the woman lying beside the open car door. Aside from the bloodstain beneath her lower left leg, she could have been asleep.

“I’m going to circle the house,” James said. “See if I can find anything else.”

“Sounds good, son.” Donovan clapped him on the shoulder, and James disappeared through the open garage door.

Donovan and I returned to Rowan. It turned out the man was the dead woman’s husband, and the woman holding him was his sister. The sister had been watching the couple’s nine-month-old son while they were at work. Oddly, she seemed hesitant to go inside and check on the sleeping child.

“Would you like me to sit with him?” I wasn’t a kid person, but if I could give these people a little peace by watching a sleeping child, I could do that.

“Would you?” The woman’s reddened eyes settled on me. “He’s in his room.”

I didn’t know where that was, but I nodded anyway.

“I don’t want him to see this.”

“I understand.” Not that a nine-month-old would have a clue, but I kept that to myself.

The interior of the house was cramped, but clean. I noticed three place settings on the table with a high chair between two of them. The smell of meatloaf, or maybe a roast, hung in the air. I took a detour to turn off the oven, then hurried toward the hall to find the nursery.

Photos adorned the walls of the short hall. Wedding photos, vacation pictures, extended family and shots of the baby. I found him in a tiny room painted blue and decorated with teddy bears. He’d thrown off the blanket and squirmed atop the sheet. He wasn’t awake, but the way his face scrunched up, it reminded me of someone having a bad dream.

For a moment, I stood by the crib undecided. I didn’t want him to fully wake—I’d be at a complete loss then. But if I left him where he was, he’d be awake soon—and not happy about it. I could envision being forced to take the screaming child to his distraught father or aunt. I didn’t want Rowan to witness me failing again.

Lower lip between my teeth, I leaned over the side of the crib and caught the little guy beneath the arms. He was small, but solid—and warm. Sweat dampened the fringes of his downy blond hair.

He whimpered a little with the movement, and I brought him to my chest, attempting to lay him against my shoulder. It wasn’t as easy as the mommies of the world made it appear. I guess it was a practiced move, and I had none.

“Sorry,” I muttered to the little guy, wishing I’d asked his aunt his name. I looked around the room, rubbing his back as I paced, and saw
Aaron
embroidered on a blanket draped over the far end of the crib.

“So, you’re Aaron? Nice to meet you. I’m Addie.”

Was it my imagination or did he calm a little? Maybe if I kept walking and talking.

“I wish the circumstances were better.”

He whimpered again, and I decided that discussing the circumstances would do neither of us any good—not that he’d understand.

“I’m an alchemist.” I kept pacing and patting his back. “No, not one of those alchemists. At least, not anymore. I help people—or try to.”

He quieted and I kept moving. I needed to keep my tone cheerful. Happy thoughts.

“So, what do you do? Eat, poop, drool? Reminds me a bit of James’s brothers.” I chuckled at my own wit.

A little arm slid up around my neck. Okay, that was sweet. The kid smelled kind of nice, too. Clean. Shampoo, laundry detergent, maybe some baby powder. I guess one dirty diaper would negate all that, but at the moment, this wasn’t so bad.

“Know anything about alchemy? Wanna help me work out a formula?” I might as well get something done. I wanted to actually. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so inept. I started discussing the formula I had in mind. Asking Aaron’s opinion and interpreting the occasional coo as a suggestion.

“I don’t know,” I said, continuing my monologue. “Do you really think sodium bicarbonate would be the best choice?”

“Depends on whether the effervescence would be a problem,” Rowan said from the doorway.

I gasped and turned to face him, the sudden movement getting a little squeal from Aaron.

Rowan leaned against the doorframe, hands tucked in the front pockets of those jeans. Something about his casual stance said he’d been there a while. How long had he watched me inanely chat with a nine-month-old?

He straightened and started toward us. “Well, would it?”

“Huh?”

“Effervesce?”

The sodium bicarbonate. Right. “Yes, but that’s what I want.”

Aaron stirred against my shoulder, grunting in a tone that might have been displeasure. Weird that I’d connected to the kid well enough to know that.

“Don’t let me make you uncomfortable.” Rowan stopped beside us and laid a hand on Aaron’s back. Unlike me, he did well with kids.

I frowned, annoyed that he’d jump to that conclusion—even if it was true.

“I’ve learned that his mother was an empath.” He continued to pat Aaron’s back. “His family suspects he is, too.”

“You mean, he’s sensitive to emotions around him?”

“Yes. Some just feel them, others can share them, and the powerful can actually influence what other people feel.”

“Oh. Wow.” I twisted my head to look down at the baby. “What is he?”