The damn stuff smelled sweet.
James ran through the process again in his head and couldn't think why, none of the ingredients were saccharine. Not that that really had much to do with anything; the combination of particular elements, even in mundane chemistry, often yielded something new, something unexpected. It was, James was sure, part of what excited the ancient alchemists so much. But they didn't understand the web of fundamental rules they were playing with, and James did. Or he fancied that he did, some days. And the combination of those paricular ingredients, taking chemical reactions and molecular rearrangements into account, shouldn't have produced anything that smelled sweet.
Which meant that he'd done it. He'd made something unfettered by the natural laws as they'd been taught to him in college. James quivered with excitement, and put the beaker down so he didn't accidentally spill it, or worse, succumb to the impulse to drink it and see what happened. That would be imprudent. For one thing, it required no fewer than two imbibers to do what it was meant to do. Who would he get to share it with him, James wondered, once he had gotten to the human trial stage? Because of course he would have to share it with somebody. Otherwise, how would he know if he'd actually succeeded? How would he know if it worked? How could he prove to anyone else that he'd done this thing that no one in thousands of years of recorded history and myth had done?
...how would he ever convince another person to understand his passions and share his interest...?
James disregarded that last thought as irrelevant and pushed it back. The concoction wasn't for him, after all. It was for the sake of discovery itself, progress towards ordering the muddled words of all these books, so that someday, at the end of his lifetime, people could look at his work as into a pool of clear water and see everything plainly.
James frowned, suddenly irritable. He jotted a few terse observations in his notebook about the color and smell of the beaker's contents, circling the notation about the sweetness and, after laying his fingers against the glass to double check, about the warmth of the liquid itself, indicating perhaps that some reaction was still taking place. One of his books had mentioned allowing the mixture to sit for a period of three days. For the purpose of honoring of some deity or other for their blessings, according to the text, but James suspected it had the much more practical purpose of allowing the stuff to set. He tapped the end of the pencil against his lips thoughtfully, wondering if results would be diminished or absent entirely if he were actually to drink it early.
The pencil clattered to the other side of the lab table as he tossed it down with an irritated sigh. Three days of nothing but waiting! And he didn't need to make notes about any of this, he'd remember it, wouldn't he? It wasn't like he could stop thinking about it, anyway, all the details swirling round and around in his head. He could write it all up at the end if it still seemed like it was important, then he would know what was relevant and what wasn't. There were more pressing things to think about. For instance, there was still the problem of who he was going to share it with. He couldn't think of anyone he'd trust enough, not a single person – except for Nat. The thought made him grimace, even though she kept turning up in his mind as the best prospect. She knew about his work – his real work, here in his lab with all his occult books. And she knew enough about his past to know that it had been questionable, but at the same time never tried to pry. Nat's respect for his own privacy had led to a reluctant respect for her in return. Not that he would ever tell her so.
This particular project, though, had the potential for a great deal of unwanted intimacy. The sharing of souls – who knew what that could entail? James turned the beaker with his fingertips, staring at the amber liquid and burning with curiosity. He was especially curious how the element of 'soul' was going to be interpreted. Would he experience a flash of memories from the other person? Their collective experiences firing across the unfamiliar map of his own brain? Could it reorder their synapses, even reconfigure their DNA? Would it be temporary or permanent? Would the other person understand James, as even he didn't understand himself? Would all his own experiences be laid bare for judgement without understanding at all?
His snatched his fingers back from the warmth of the glass and shook his head. It was a problem. He couldn't choose just anyone. Or could he? He was tempted to just go and find a vagrant on the streets, someone who wouldn't know him from the next Joe and who wouldn't have the power to do anything to him afterwards. But if there was any kind of permanent change, any kind of transference, James had to consider what he might be saddled with himself. No, it couldn't be just anyone. But all the people he could stand the thought of sharing himself with were already gone...
There was no use thinking about it, James told himself firmly, physically turning away from the table so that he wasn't even looking at it. He wasn't at the human trials yet. The stuff had to get past animal trials first. For all he knew, it could just be a sweet smelling poison he'd made. None of the ingredients had been toxic either, but he reminded himself again that the result was very rarely ever simply the sum of it's parts. He'd once brewed something so incredibly lethal that it had put a rabbit into a coma just through tactile contact. And all that had gone into it was pure water and seventeen differently prepared infusions of turmeric. Nothing else. No, it had to pass testing before he even considered using it on himself or anyone else. And that meant procuring another test subject. James slung his coat over his shoulders and shrugged it on. He grabbed his keys and one of the battered animal carriers from the corner of his lab. Time to find another test subject.