* As always, I heart you all. Thanks for taking the time to read and review. Special thanks to CherrySlushLover for pointing out a typo in my summary. *hugs!*
Chapter Eight
Sydney
"Hello, Sydney."
My head snapped up at the new, clear voice I didn't recognize. I was further surprised to see that not one but three people watched me from the other side of the window. They were all Alchemists, of course. They wouldn't be in this place otherwise. Or so I used to believe.
Jameson's appearance earlier had thrown me off. When I had woken, he was gone. I had wondered if it had been a hallucination induced by the drug the Alchemists had given me. A part of me wanted to believe that reasoning because the alternative was a terrifying. Another part of me warned that that was exactly what the Alchemists wanted—me to brush it off and blindly accept the easy answer; while the more suspicious, analytical side of me said they wanted me to question reality, my sanity.
My rational, logical side shoved that all aside. It didn't matter what they wanted or even what I did. I knew what I saw. Jameson had been here.
And unlike him, the three visitors I had now were born-and-breed Alchemists. Golden lilies shone on their left cheeks. A man and a woman sat with clipboards, their business attire in nondescript colors, their expressions indifferent with studious tilts of their heads. The third, a man with dark auburn hair, stood between them in a sharp suit, his hands clasped behind him. He studied me as well, but his face and demeanor were foreboding, not clinical. And he looked familiar.
When I stayed silent, he narrowed his eyes. "I'm Dale Hawthorne."
I inhaled sharply, instantly recognizing the name and placing him. Dale was one of the Alchemist directors—and the same one I saw meeting Jameson. I had never met the director before and didn't know what he looked like until I had seen those video stills that I had stolen for Marcus of an Alchemist facility's main entrance.
The director's appearance now told me two things: Jameson had indeed visited me earlier, and I was in trouble. Well, in bigger trouble, for more than I originally had been.
I started coughing, both out of sheer panic and my worsening cold.
"You should drink your water," Dale said when I finally finished and could breathe again—barely.
I glanced at the full cup by the door and shook my head. I wasn't falling for that trap again. I might have gotten some sleep, but I woke up being wheeled to another session of electroconvulsive therapy. When I roused from that, it took me a long while to calm down enough to go through more stretches of phrase repeating. I hadn't slept, eaten, or drank anything since and was just about to doze before Dale and the minions came.
"Suit yourself," muttered the director. He stepped closer to the window. "Tell me what you know about Marcus Finch."
The ex-Alchemist was brought up before, but I had never uttered a peep. Nor had I given any indication I recognized the name or that I even heard the voice say it. I wasn't a snitch either. I might not be an official member of Marcus's group, but that didn't mean I didn't completely support everything he was trying to achieve by freeing Alchemists.
I blinked and stared silently at Dale. His jaw clenched. His gray eyes, like storm clouds, grew colder.
"You agreed to cooperate. I suggest you do so before—"
"Marcus Finch," I started, interrupting the threat I knew was coming. "Male in his early twenties. Former Alchemist."
When I didn't continue, Dale stared in disbelief. "That's it?"
Well, I wasn't about to describe Marcus, inferring that I had seen and knew him, let alone mention that before I met him, Clarence had given me a picture of him.
The director gave me a patronizing smile. "Come now, Sydney. I know you were supposed to meet Marcus the night you were apprehended."
He lifted a clear baggie that held a cell phone. Adrian's Love Phone, I realized with unease.
"There's a text here from you—after you were mislead with a change in the meeting place. 'Marcus got in touch?' " Dale looked up from what he was reading, his smile a touch smug. "I believe the Moroi you were involved with called him 'Robin Hood' in previous texts." The director looked down. "Ah, yes, here it is. 'Robin Hood called. He's going to meet you at JT's, Sunday at 8pm.' After which you texted back thanking the unnatural creature for setting it up, and the response indicated that Marcus thought everything should go through him, Ivashkov, just to be safe."
Dale dropped his arm. "That's incriminatory evidence and a good trail in a few texts, not only against you but also against Adrian Ivashkov and this 'JT' person. And we already have an idea on who she is." He let that pointed pronoun and threat sit. "Now, start speaking."
"That would have been the first time I was to meet Marcus." The lie rolled smoothly and coolly.
The director studied me. "And the …" he glanced down "… 'stuff' you said you needed to bring to the meeting. What was that?"
"Money."
"You expect me to believe that?"
I shrugged. "The life of a rogue Alchemist must not be as profitable as well-organized criminal one."
He scoffed, not missing the jibe. "How did you come in to contact with him?"
"He found and contacted me." No hesitation. One of the keys to lying was to answer quickly.
"How?"
"I'm not sure." Keep the answer as vague as the question when necessary.
"When was the first time you spoke to Marcus?"
"A few months after my meeting with the Warriors of Light to release Sonya Karp." Add some truth when possible, too.
"Again, how—with what and where?"
"Again, I'm not sure. I assumed Marcus called Adrian since my number was unlisted." I hated to bring Adrian back into the conversation, but the implication was already made with his own texts. "And Marcus was obviously suspicious enough that he didn't want to chance calling me directly. I don't know the exact place or setting when he called. I wasn't with Adrian at the time."
Around and around the questioning went. Dale pressed for more specific details when my answers didn't satisfy him. Often, he inquired after the same information again but posed the questions differently at a later time to check if my responses contradicted or offered more. They didn't. I was tired and frustrated, but I was also driven.
The Alchemists failed to realize that they had given me purpose when they had threatened my friends. Fear was a great motivator. Instilling it would certainly make someone bend to another's will, but like a well-exercised muscle, I was strengthened by the back-bending and mind-drilling activity, and I wouldn't snap under the strain. If anything, it energized me.
The director was also good to not reveal information he wasn't sure I already knew. Although I anticipated the breaking of tattoos would be brought up, it was never mentioned. It was alluded to, however.
I sighed. "I don't understand why you keep asking me about Marcus's objectives and operations. I would think you'd ask the Warriors of Light high council. They would know since they met him." It might have been dangerous to bring that group into the interrogation, but I needed to cultivate the seeds of suspicion between them and the Alchemists.
"And how would you know the Warriors of Light have met Marcus?" asked the director.
"He was mentioned in the Warriors of Light arena before Sonya Karp was to be decapitated. It was actually Jameson—no, Angeletti who informed me that Marcus was a former Alchemist."
Dale paused to jot that down before he bandied back, "You once asked your superior, Donna Stanton, about Marcus and much earlier than before meeting with the Warriors of Light, as I recall."
Ignoring the twinge in my gut, I kept my face neutral. "Clarence Donahue. Not only did he bring vampire hunters—the Warriors of Light—to my attention, which I relayed to Ms. Stanton, he also said someone named Marcus Finch had helped him from the Warriors' attacks." The Alchemists already knew Clarence, his whereabouts, and his involvement because of the feedings setup in Palm Springs. That fact didn't make me feel any better, but I could feel guilty for bringing up the old Moroi later.
The director raised a brow. "And you simply concluded Marcus was an Alchemist?"
"Clarence mentioned Marcus had a tattoo on his left cheek. Different from mine," I added. "But he found the placement odd. I didn't discount the detail. I checked in with Ms. Stanton in the hopes she would either know Marcus or could find info on him. She said she had never heard of him." I sounded as bitter as I was and gave Dale a pointed glance; the Alchemists had been caught lying, as well. "Either way, I imparted what I gathered to my superior."
Moments passed as Dale considered me. I affected a calm air, which was interrupted with a coughing fit. Finally, the director said, "You're an exceptional liar, Sydney. But a powerless one. It's a shame, really. You could have climbed the Alchemists ranks to the top."
It was foolish of me, but I couldn't resist goading, "Now that's self-incriminating. Are you saying all Alchemist directors are the best of liars?"
I couldn't believe I kept a straight face as I stared blankly at the director and watched his jaw tick. In my periphery, the other two Alchemists' eyes widened. Now they really thought I was crazy. I mentally patted myself on the back.
Without a retort, Dale gathered the materials in front of him, more forcefully than necessary. As the silence continued, my fatigue caught up with me. My mind was no longer engaged, and I felt all my body's aches. I licked my chapped lips, rubbed my eyes, massaged my temples, coughed.
"You really should drink some water, Sydney," insisted the director.
I didn't bother to shake my head. Too much energy, and he no longer paid me any attention. He held mine, though, as he demanded the other two Alchemists leave. After the door shut behind them, the director placed an all-too-familiar case on the table. My throat dried even more. My thoughts and pulse sped up. I was fully awake now.
Until a few months ago, I had owned only one special locked case. It held my Alchemist supplies needed for being in the field: A compound to dissolve a Strigoi body, mixtures to melt certain materials such as metal locks, substances to create diversions like a flash, or fusions to generate an aid in escape comparable to a dry-ice smoke screen, plus more ingredients for a dozen other things. They were all small samples and sanctioned by the Alchemists.
What was in my newer, second case was not.
Donning gloves and long-handled tweezers, Dale put on display numerous charms that I had made while under Ms. Terwilliger's tutelage. I might have laughed at the picture the director presented if I didn't have to remind myself to breathe slowly.
I wasn't sure what the Alchemists found more despicable about the vampires: Their need for blood or their connection to elemental magic. I assured myself that, with their abhorrence for the arcane and unexplainable, the Alchemists wouldn't see the charms as anything more than showy necklaces, trinkets of pretty stones, and pouches of wonderful smelling herbs that anyone could use in cooking. The vials of crushed rocks and liquid potions, however, might be harder to rationalize.
"It has come to our attention that your history teacher, Jaclyn Terwilliger, practices witchcraft. You spent a considerable amount of time with her, in and off school property, as well as beyond school hours." The director closed the case and set it aside. He gestured at all the paraphernalia. "Let's hear you explain this."
"I was her teacher's aide." My tone was disparaging. "Grading papers and researching sources for her book. More than anything, I was a glorified gofer. I fetched her coffee and supplies. I had no idea she was a witch." That last statement rang false in even my ears. I shook my head, hoping Dale took it as disbelief. "Are you even sure? Never mind. I don't want to know."
Once again, Dale's smile was patronizing. "And the case? Why was it in your room, under your bed?'
"Ms. Terwilliger asked me to hold on to it after she'd left it in my car. I guess we both forgot about it."
"It's a rather large coincidence that the case is nearly identical to your primary one." He lifted the metal box, hefted it in his hands as if to test its weight. "Except for the size. This one is smaller, but the same brand and color. It must be sheer happenstance that you also had its key." He raised a baggie with said key and shook it.
All my hopes to justify the case were snuffed out. I sighed and closed my eyes, swallowing disappointment and resentment. I had no one to blame but myself. I didn't have to make any, let alone all, of those charms. I could have switched teachers if I really wanted to or dropped the TA position and accepted not receiving transcript credit. I could have ignored Ms. Terwilliger altogether.
I should regret participating in mystic hermetics, but I couldn't. Many of those charms and spells saved my life and those of whom I loved. I also knew, deep down, human magic was as much a part of me as alchemy was.
I might have gone into it kicking and screaming, unable to defy a teacher's authority and my over-achieving nature—that need to study and know even against ingrained beliefs—but magic called to me on an instinctive level. The components needed and words said to conjure made sense, collectively speaking to me intellectually, elementally, and spiritually. The joy and serenity that swelled within, the connection I felt to something larger than myself, awed and inspired me. Magic didn't simply fill a hole I hadn't realized I'd been missing, but was more an extension of myself.
Even now, looking at the crystals on the table, I yearned to touch magic. I couldn't, of course. The materials were on the other side of the window, and the Alchemists were watching. Always watching. I didn't have the energy, either.
"Have you ever heard of the elixir of life, Sydney?"
I blinked and frowned at the director, wary and confused by the topic change. "Yes ... It's also known as the elixir of immortality or referred to as liquid gold."
Dale nodded and gestured for me to continue.
"There are multiple myths from various cultures. Like the name, the stories differ from a fountain to a cup or from an open spring to a well, but the premise stays the same. The drinker or bather receives eternal life or youth. Some believed the water or elixir could create life."
Dale kept motioning, clearly impatient and wanting me to say something specific. I had no idea what. He gave me no clue whatsoever. Surely, he knew the stories or had the means to read them if he didn't.
Then it dawned on me. He wasn't interested in the fables and legends but the people connected to them. Not the gods, rulers, adventurers, or prophets. But the sorcerers—and the alchemists.
Incredulous and bewildered, I eyed the director. He was serious, very determined and eager. I wasn't sure where his question led or what he wanted me to deduce, but my doubt and disbelief quickly turned to caution and suspicion.
"Historically," I began, slow and careful, "throughout many periods and civilizations, alchemists were known to not only attempt to transform iron into gold or silver and create the Philosopher's Stone but also to seek the formula to the elix—"
An alarm blared. Dale smacked the intercom, cutting off the sound to my room. Red lights flashed on his side of the window, and he picked up the phone. I couldn't hear him, but he seemed to be barking in to the receiver. I watched his angry expression darken. He glanced at me. His eyes narrowed.
I stood. What was going on? If I wasn't mistaken, there was a fire or maybe a breakout. Or break-in. Could it be?
I scanned around me, searching for a sign to what was happening. Nothing. My cell stayed brightly lit, impenetrable to sound and inescapable with a door that had no knob and hinges, hardly a gap around the edges. The slots were closed and way too small. Not even skeleton me could fit through. I wouldn't have known anything was amiss if the director hadn't been interrogating me and the window hadn't been cleared.
Dale slammed the phone and then stood there watching me. No, he was watching my cell. A moment later, a brume of something unknown flowed into the room. The fog wafted from the ceiling and rose from floor, billowing around me.
Panic seized me. I banged on the window and screamed, "What's going on? What is that? Tell me!"
I breathed in and coughed. My eyes watered, from fear or the gas, I wasn't sure. I took a deep breath and held it. As I continued to hit the window, I knew I couldn't hold my breath for long. I began banging on the door and looking for a way to open the slots, though I knew it was hopeless. The vapor dissipated, yet I could see that it still blew in from the hidden vents.
I gasped for air, unable to stop instinct. I slid to the floor and tried to crawl to the middle of the room. My body collapsed, but at least I had a view of the window, of the man on the other side who authorized this, and he of me.
Dale Hawthorne just watched. I couldn't say he was unfeeling but more … vindictive.
My stomach clenched. My throat seemed to swell and close up. I could feel saliva pooling in mouth. I consciously couldn't move, but my muscles began to twitch. My frantic heartbeat sped before it began to slow. It was a terrifying feeling—to be so aware of everything with your body and powerless to stop it, to think, I'm going to die. I am dying. They're willing to kill me.
The Alchemist director left. I guessed he couldn't stomach what he sanctioned. And as my vision dimmed, I thought I saw green, green eyes and a beautiful, mischievous grin. It wishful thinking, I knew. My last thought and sight were clear enough. The eyes were sharp, cold blue and the smile was disturbingly triumphant.
Note: Cellphone texts from The Fiery Heart, Razorbill Publishing, US hardcover, pages 328–329, 384
