Twisted Potions (Hidden Blood Book 2) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  A Strange Dinner

  Smokin'

  Pink and Fluffy

  Mysterious Strangers

  Feeling Sluggish

  Resting Up

  Divorce Springs to Mind

  Men!

  Mister Scabby

  Rescuing Hubby

  Kitchen Blues

  The Truth

  At Breaking Point

  D-Day

  A Transformation

  Things Get Stretchy

  What You Get for Helping

  Fancy a Cuppa?

  Bed Time

  A Call

  Freaky Even for Me

  It Begins

  Ghoulish Delights

  A Simple Question

  Moaning

  Waiting Sucks

  An Appearance

  Not Helping

  Odd Behaviour

  Feeling Bad

  A Girlie Chat

  No Sleep

  Dead and Gone

  And There's More

  And More

  Language

  A Lead

  To the Castle

  On the Trail

  Yay, A Cave

  No Butterflies Here

  Here Comes the Sun

  Tea!

  Hazy Daze

  Breakfast

  Oh!

  Shellshocked

  Surprise

  Itchy Feet

  Back at It

  If I Was a Ghoul

  A Reach Around

  Got That Wrong

  Grumpy Old Men

  Feeling Sad

  Shiver Me Timbers

  Like Superman

  A Heady Mix

  Getting it Together

  Call the Fuzz

  Old Skool

  Welcome to Hell

  Unwelcome Visitors

  Don't Panic

  Things That Go Bump in the Night

  Things Get Worse

  Up in Flames

  A New Chapter

  Dark Times

  An Inner Fire

  A Blank Spot

  A Gathering

  Hang On

  Annoyed and Dangerous

  A Wizardly Wakeup

  Make Em Gasp

  A Messy Mashup

  Angry Head

  A Lightbulb Moment

  So Long, and Thanks for all the Hugs

  What Now?

  Long Gone

  Nowhere Left to Hide

  Eek

  Squirming

  My Babies

  A Change

  Never Surrender

  All's Well...

  Twisted Potions

  Hidden Blood Book 2

  Al K. Line

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  Copyright © 2017, Al K. Line. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  A Strange Dinner

  I puffed out my chest, told myself for the hundredth time everything would be fine and this was just me cooking dinner to repay a debt, and forced my heart to slow.

  Acting without permission, my fist bunched until the knuckles were bone white and rapped on the sturdy but discolored door.

  After an interminable wait, and the sound of numerous locks and bolts being fiddled with as only the truly paranoid or those with something to hide ever employ, the door opened a fraction. A wary, weeping eye belonging to a face deep in shadow peered through the crack. My host looked around furtively, then he focused on me and opened the door wide in what I could only assume was pleasure.

  The stench of stale body odor, unwashed laundry, and unmentionable excretions assaulted my nostrils. But that wasn't what sent me reeling back a few steps, forcing me to grab the railing lest I collapse. It was the deep, pungent, potent chemical cocktail of fire, brimstone, acid, steam, and all manner of deadly potions bubbling away in his lab-cum-home freezing my nervous system and dissolving half my lungs that almost did for me.

  "Kate, you came!" exclaimed the Chemist in utter delight as he reached out a long, misshapen arm, grabbed me by my lapel, and pulled me in before checking outside again.

  He slammed the door behind us, fumbled with the locks and bolts until he was satisfied, then rested his back against the scarred paneling and smiled. I wondered how long I had to live and if I had time to call my husband and tell him I loved him. It was doubtful. My lungs were on fire, cells dying by the million, and I found it hard to form a coherent thought. I couldn't imagine a time when I could use full sentences in such a torturous atmosphere.

  Rooted to the spot, I didn't resist as the Chemist said, "Here, let me take that," and proceeded to slide my long leather jacket off one arm. It got stuck as he tried to remove it from the other as I hadn't let go of the bag containing everything I needed to make a nice dinner.

  I came to my senses and managed to loosen my grip. The bag dropped to the floor, getting tangled up in my jacket, so thankfully nothing broke.

  "Don't worry," he said nervously, "you'll get used to it. Best thing to do is breathe deep, get it over with, and in a few minutes you won't even notice the smell." He gave me a joyful smile, or attempted to, but only part of his face worked. Half his face was without functioning nerves. Most of his features melted down so one side hung like a mannequin's after a fire, there was a gaping hole in his cheek so you could see his decaying teeth and white-coated tongue, and one eye wept continually, red raw and oozing.

  His head was a mess of scar tissue and criss-crossed with thick red and white welts in the throes of a serious party, wispy gray hairs hung long and lank, but through it all it was clear he was happy to see me, was feeling somewhat nervous himself, and wasn't quite sure how to act.

  Guess he didn't get many female visitors; guess he didn't get many visitors of any description.

  "I cleaned up," he said brightly, reaching down for the bag without having to actually bend, his arms were so long.

  "Uh-huh," I manged to grunt, taking in the room without risking moving my head or breathing just yet.

  I'd heard all about this place, but hadn't believed it. Now I was thinking I hadn't been told the true extent of how bad it was. Still, he seemed content.

  I guess ghouls obsessed with all things alchemical have a warped sense of what cleanliness is.

  Running down the center of the single large room was an ancient, scarred, burned, chunky wooden work bench covered with jars of powders and liquids, and various notebooks. Some stacked precariously, others open and full of spidery writing and strange, worrying diagrams. Bunsen burners hissed, burning blue or startling orange, strange tubes slithered from one bulbous bubbling jar to another, all colors of the rainbow spitting and hissing as the contents simmered behind murky glass.

  The threadbare carpet was mostly hidden by books, mounds of dirty dishes and takeaway remains, piles of festering shirts and underwear. In one corner was a bare mattress, so stained and sallow it didn't look suitable for burning let alone sleeping on.

  The kitchen area consisted of a cramped alcove. There was a sink with a dripping tap, a small section of counter free of chemicals, and an oven that was so old it was probably an antique.

  I was sweating badly now, the humidity so high I was amazed the Chemist could get anythin
g to burn, and overriding everything else was the caustic, sulfurous stink that made breathing seem like a fast track to the afterlife.

  My ears began to sting and I realized that everything was silent, the only noise the bubbling of the jars. This was getting awkward. Not wanting to offend, I shunted magic through my still fresh full-body tattoos, let my inherited Hidden magic combine with my vampire nature, and my body purged itself of several cancer-inducing, tumor-causing, death-giving compounds already circulating through my system.

  I pulled back my shoulders, sucked in air cautiously through my nostrils, thinking maybe it would filter it a little, exhaled, smiled wide with my new red lipstick now seeming like a bad idea as it was steaming off my lips, and said, "So nice of you to invite me. What a lovely home you have."

  The Chemist grinned and did a little jig on the spot like an excited child, gave a fancy bow, then nervously stepped aside to reveal his surprise. "Thought we should do it in style."

  "Oh, that's, er, very thoughtful," I said, nodding at him then studying the small square table he'd covered with what looked like a dirty white sheet. In the center was a large bell jar with a stub of candle, the flame stuttering under the strange mix of gases in the room, oxygen way down on the list. "Very, er intimate."

  "Thank you for this. I don't get many guests." The Chemist dumped my bag by the sink then lumbered to his workbench and turned a knob to reduce the heat under a bottle of something green, and probably dangerous, close to bubbling over.

  "My pleasure. I promised I'd cook for you when you got us out of that scrape, so here I am." I picked my jacket up from the floor, decided it would be rude to throw it outside, so draped it over the back of a chair instead.

  "Great."

  "Great."

  There was another awkward silence, and it was getting ridiculous. He was a nice guy, a nice ghoul, and just because he was trapped in the mortal world and ate decomposing flesh now and then when he could resist the urge no longer, didn't make him a bad person.

  "Okay, let's cook," I said, smiling and reaching out for his hand.

  "You want me to help?" he asked with surprise.

  "Sure, it'll be fun." I took his ruined hand, all lumps and hard callouses, fingers half fused and nails yellow and broken, and we squeezed.

  Then we set about making dinner.

  Hi, I'm Kate Pound, reluctant Vampire Enforcer. And I'm on a date. It's okay, my husband knows.

  Smokin'

  I cooked steak and potatoes, with butter-drenched green beans from our garden on the side. Nothing fancy, just basics done with care and attention. The Chemist seemed to enjoy it immensely, and it was a pleasant dinner with some nice conversation, even though I took a while to adjust to how he devoured the meat with his hands. I'd prepared it just the way he liked it, meaning, it almost touched the frying pan but was so rare it may as well have still been running about going "Moo."

  We chatted, we laughed, and I even mostly forgot about the smell. The Chemist seemed delighted to have a proper conversation with someone, and he shared several stories about his past, about the years he felt so alone when he found himself, a true supernatural creature, one of the Hidden, stuck here with no way to return.

  He didn't go into the details, but he was here, and here he would stay. He liked it, loved what he did, and even though it tortured him to perform his comedy it was in his blood and who he was.

  To my surprise, he turned out to be a genuinely nice guy, smart too. You just had to get past the utter strangeness of his mannerisms and the penchant for peeling bits of decaying or loose skin off his own body and surreptitiously popping the scabs into his mouth when he thought you weren't looking.

  When we'd finished, we leaned back in our chairs, both creaking dangerously, and groaned with post-meal happiness.

  "Thank you, Kate, that was lovely."

  "My pleasure. I said I'd make you dinner and I keep my word. I owed you for helping us escape from that bit of bother."

  "And did everything get resolved?" he asked as he licked his plate then poked a fork through his cheek and dislodged a few strips of meat.

  "Yep, all dealt with. It was my first job, but it went fine, even with everything else that was happening."

  "Good, that's good. And I hear you're still working for Dancer?"

  "For my sins." Dancer is Head of the UK Hidden Council, in charge of all human, and not-so-human, magical affairs, and although by rights he's my boss, the reality is that Oskari, Vampire Head, has the final say.

  "Here, let me." The Chemist rose and moved to grab my empty plate.

  "No, you stay put. I'll clean up."

  "Thank you. Aah, what a pleasant evening. I could get used to this." The Chemist laced his fingers behind his head and sighed with contentment.

  "You should try to find yourself a nice ghoul lady, it would give you some company. Maybe think about tidying up a bit. You could make this place nice." I took the dishes over to the alcove and wondered how I could clean them in such a fetid sink.

  "Eh, what do you mean? By ghoul standards this is bordering on clinical. Many ghouls worth their salt would be proud to call this place home."

  "Oh, well, there you go then," I said brightly. "You should start looking for someone. It's not good to be alone so much."

  "Hmm, maybe. But I have my work, and it takes up a lot of time. Plus, I have plans."

  I turned and stared at him. He was already at the bench messing with his potions. He was serious, but it takes all sorts I guess.

  For five minutes we didn't speak as I drowned the dishes in washing up liquid and scoured the sink while they soaked. I scrubbed the draining board, and tried, futilely, to disinfect the counter top.

  I wiped my hands dry on my white t-shirt, the only thing clean in the whole room, then went to see what he was up to.

  Mesmerized, I watched as he carefully broke seals on tiny brown vials arranged obsessively in a small wooden tray, each with a neatly printed label stuck on perfectly straight. He used a spoon so small it looked like something stolen from a faery to sprinkle minute grains from each into a large beaker that changed color and hissed and steamed with each addition.

  All the while, he poked his never-still tongue through the hole in his cheek in concentration; his hands were as steady as time itself. For a man who had more nervous tics than a vampire on a detox in a room full of naked virgins high on crack it was a wondrous and strange sight to behold.

  Once satisfied, he settled the beaker on a metal tripod over a low heat and stood back, smiling.

  "Now we wait," he whispered.

  "For what?"

  "For it to work its magic. This is a powerful potion, but it takes weeks to make. It's worth it though," he said winking, or maybe it was just a tic.

  "What does it do?"

  "It makes you happy." He waggled his one eyebrow suggestively.

  "Oh."

  The Chemist frowned, clearly expecting a more animated response. "No, I mean, really happy."

  "Um, okay."

  "What about this?" I asked, brushing my forearm against a large bulbous jar full of pink liquid as I pointed at a tiny test tube held in a clamp above a flame so gentle it was almost a whisper.

  The Chemist's eyes opened wide, his hair stood on end, and he panicked so much he tried to move in all directions at once.

  I watched as the peculiar jar I'd touched with my bare skin bubbled violently and turned dark and angry.

  "You touched the glass!" he screeched.

  "Sorry, but that's all right isn't it?"

  "No, the magic will react, your Hidden magic, your vampire blood magic, it will seep through the glass. That can't happen. Ugh." He scrambled for a large beaker of cloudy liquid at the far end of the bench, but in his haste he knocked over countless empty vials and as I moved to try to help him I got a cut on my pinkie.

  The Chemist turned fast, as if he sensed the blood, and as I lifted my finger to suck it he screamed, "No!"

  It was too late.<
br />
  The blood on my finger beaded fat and delicious but then I felt an enormous pressure as if the digit had been placed in a vacuum, and a sliver of blood was sucked from my finger right into what looked suspiciously like a gaping maw on the large jar I'd touched.

  The now murky liquid went nuts. It frothed until it spilled over the glass, doused the flame beneath, and chewed through the stand it was on. Finally the whole lot sloshed over the bench and covered the neatly labeled vials.

  The bench dissolved, eaten away like by acid. Powders flashed and burned upon contact, releasing noxious fumes. More glass vials, tubes, powders, and strange things in boxes were all drenched and the bench was gone, nothing left but a mound of bubbling pink froth expanding at an alarming rate

  Blood was pouring from my hand now, not one finger but all of them, and I felt woozy and sick. The Chemist stared at the mess, then me, in a stupor, as my vision turned red.

  Blood was being sucked from my eyes, my nose was bleeding so bad I was getting a mouthful of the good stuff, both my hands were sending streamers of potent claret into the frothing mess on the fast dissolving floor, and my head was swimming with myriad emotions, the half-finished potions affecting me in ways too scary to think about even as my body worked overtime to eradicate the effects.

  "Run!" shouted the Chemist as he headed for the door. Kind of pointless, as it took a while to get the numerous locks off. He still flung the door open dramatically, though, then ran.

  Vision almost gone, head ready to split open, a peculiar emotionless state took me over. I walked in a calm manner while magic swirled and my tattoos grew fat and dangerous as timeless energy eddied around my system.

  Then my focus returned and I grabbed my jacket before dashing through the door and up the steps from the basement onto the road where the Chemist was standing in a panic, brushing nervously at his head and checking the street.

  "What happened?" I asked, the calm evaporating, a deep dread having taken over.

  "You just fed it. Now we're in trouble."

  "Fed it? Fed what?"

  "You'll see."

  And with that the Chemist's home exploded. A cloud of pink gas burst through the door and expanded until the night was nothing but a pink haze.