The Seeking Serum Read online

  Potion Masters Series

  The Eternity Elixir

  The Transparency Tonic

  © 2020 Frank L. Cole

  Illustrations © 2020 Owen Richardson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without permission in writing from the publisher, Shadow Mountain®, at [email protected]. The views expressed herein are the responsibility of the author and do not necessarily represent the position of Shadow Mountain.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Visit us at shadowmountain.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Cole, Frank, 1977– author. | Cole, Frank, 1977–. Potion masters ; bk. 3.

  Title: The seeking serum / Frank L. Cole.

  Description: Salt Lake City, Utah : Shadow Mountain, [2020] | Series: Potion masters ; book 3 | As the fight intensifies between B.R.E.W and the Scourges, it falls to Gordy and his friends to unite the potion-making community and stop Mezzarix from plunging the world back into the Dark Ages.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019019683 | ISBN 9781629726069 (hardbound : alk. paper) | eISBN 978-1-62973-793-5 (eBook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Friendship—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction. | Magicians—Fiction. | Good and evil—Fiction. | Monsters—Fiction | LCGFT: Fantasy fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.C673435 Se 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019019683

  Printed in the United States of America

  Lake Book Manufacturing, Inc., Melrose Park, IL

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Book design © Shadow Mountain

  Cover illustration by Owen Richardson

  Art direction: Richard Erickson

  Design: Sheryl Dickert Smith

  For Michael—My brother and my hero.

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Glossary of Potions

  About the Author

  Rain pelted Gordy Stitser’s umbrella as he dashed through the backyard toward the garden. Leaping over enormous, pulsating pumpkins, he barely avoided a nasty collision with one of Tobias McFarland’s booby-trapped plants hiding beneath a patch of otherwise unassuming dirt. The forested land beyond the backyard was littered with McSwooshers, Boomclobbers, and, Tobias’s personal favorites, Spikey McOuchies. The Irishman had drawn a map pinpointing their locations, but he couldn’t remember where he had planted all of them, which made venturing too far from the house a risk. One false step might lead to a disastrous accident.

  As Gordy knelt down, trying to spot any other hazards lurking in the shadows, something much larger than a common raindrop splatted against the taut fabric of his umbrella. He chanced a quick glance at the flock of seagulls circling overhead. Tobias’s place was nuts! If the plants weren’t threatening to tear off your limbs from below, the birds were dive-bombing you from above. And for what reason? Something about specialized fertilizer, but Gordy wasn’t entirely certain.

  After a few close calls with other suspicious vegetables along the path, Gordy arrived at the garden shed. Stepping under the awning, he retracted his umbrella and rapped softly on the metal door. Less than a minute later, Bolter’s face appeared from inside the dimly lit building.

  “You’re late!” Bolter whispered, peering over Gordy’s shoulder before ushering him into the room. “Thought you weren’t coming.” His button-down shirt had scorch marks along the hem, and he was wearing skinny jeans. But all jeans were skinny jeans when Bolter wore them.

  “My mom is still awake,” Gordy replied, wiping his boots on the bristly doormat and dropping his umbrella in the corner.

  Bolter straightened to his full height, six and a half feet, though it was hard to tell. The man had horrible posture. “Well, then you must go back at once!” Bolter started for the door, but Gordy grabbed his elbow.

  “It’s okay. She won’t find out,” Gordy said. “She’s on the phone with my dad, and she’s pretty upset. I doubt she’ll come out of her room until morning.”

  Bolter relaxed, his shoulders slumping once more, and he gave Gordy a sympathetic look. “Then I trust their journey went without a hitch?”

  Gordy nodded. “Landed about three hours ago.”

  Tobias’s farmhouse was no longer safe for any Stitser unable to brew a potion, so right after breakfast that morning, Wanda Stitser, Gordy’s mom and a celebrated Elixirist, fourth class, had Blotched her husband and the twins using a Tainted tube of toothpaste and then planted a jar of Haitian Konfizyon Cream in Mr. Stitser’s suitcase. Then she had driven them to the airport, where the three confounded Stitsers boarded a plane believing they were going on an international vacation, when in reality, members of the Stained Squad had escorted Gordy’s family to an undisclosed location where they would be kept safe for as long as needed.

  Gordy had no idea when he would see his family again, but as long as his grandfather, Mezzarix Rook, was on the loose, it wouldn’t be anytime soon.

  Gordy’s mom had been an emotional mess since the moment they had left. Blotching a family member was never easy and mostly frowned upon by the potion community, but by the tone of Mr. Stitser’s voice on the phone earlier, it sounded as though he was in good spirits. Konfizyon Cream had a way of doing that.

  “Have you finished it yet?” Gordy asked Bolter, glancing around.

  Bolter had been at Tobias’s for less than a week, but he’d already managed to transform the neatly kept garden shed into his personal workstation. Car parts were scattered everywhere. Several cardboard boxes floated lazily, like abandoned canoes, in an ankle-deep puddle of oil gathered in one corner of the room.

  “I have!” Bolter exclaimed, clicking his heels together. “An hour ago. Though it was more difficult than I had originally anticipated.” He directed Gordy to a table littered with a hundred automotive owners’ manuals and a small Tupperware container.

  Removing the lid from the container, Bolter withdrew a copper bracelet approximately two
inches thick and wide enough to slip over Gordy’s hand, fitting comfortably around his wrist. Four holes had been punched into the metal.

  “Each of the notches is equipped with a launching mechanism,” Bolter said, handing Gordy a magnifying glass.

  Squinting, Gordy could see miniature cogs and springs inside the dime-sized holes, as well as a tiny hammer held in place by a lever.

  “It’s so small,” Gordy said, marveling at the intricate contraption.

  Bolter squealed. “I know! And it actually works!”

  “Will it hold them in place?” Gordy glanced up from the magnifying glass.

  “Let’s find out,” Bolter said. “I’m assuming you brought them.”

  Gordy opened his satchel and removed a jar of several colorful glass orbs, each one no bigger than a marble. Gordy handed a green one to Bolter, who carefully inserted it into one of the notches on the bracelet, locking the orb into place with a click.

  “When pressed firmly, each notch acts as a trigger and releases the potion through a chamber at a rate of fifteen-hundred feet per second.” Bolter slapped the table with one of his fingerless hands. “That’s faster than a round fired from a .44 Magnum revolver!”

  That was fast. “And the potion?” Gordy asked. “Where does it come out?”

  “The liquid discharges from a pinprick hole along the edge,” Bolter explained. “I’ve tested it multiple times with blueberry juice.”

  “Why blueberry juice?”

  “Why not?” Bolter shrugged. “Anyhow, the trigger worked flawlessly. Though my aim is horrible. I made quite a mess, as you can see.”

  Gordy snickered, unsure of how he would be able to spot a specific mess in Bolter’s disaster of a room.

  Bolter pointed to a paper target pinned to an easel across the room. Splotches of blue syrup dripped from the wall behind the otherwise spotless target.

  “I haven’t figured out a way for the bracelet to automatically reload the trigger once a potion has been fired. That will be the next phase,” Bolter said, gazing at the bracelet with pride. “For now, you’ll have to bring the potions to me once you’ve emptied a full four rounds of ammo, and I’ll manually reload them for you.”

  Gordy aimed the contraption on his wrist toward the target across the room and pressed his finger down on the orb fitted within the notch. There was a crinkling of broken glass, and a potion cylinder equal in diameter to pencil lead, fired from the opening. A splash of green struck the bull’s-eye and instantly transformed into a web of writhing vines that wrapped around the target, snapping the wooden easel in two.

  “How . . . how on earth?” Bolter stammered, his mouth dropping open. “That was a fully formed Vintreet Trap! As large as one from a regular-sized bottle.”

  Gordy laughed in surprise, holding up another colorful orb containing bright-pink liquid. “I discovered how to distill potions into these containers. It takes longer than a normal batch and uses dehydrated ingredients and some fairly unique heating methods, but it yields the same results.”

  Bolter screwed up his face incredulously. “Was there a manual on the process?”

  “I don’t think so, at least I didn’t read any. It was the only way to make a potion that would work with the bracelet, so I started testing. And that’s not real glass either.” Gordy’s voice grew excited. “It’s candied sugar and emulsified corn syrup. I call it Ghost Glass. It doesn’t interfere with the actual ingredients, and it breaks easily with a little pressure.” He had already started transferring some of his potions into vials of Ghost Glass, figuring the odds were high that he’d find himself under attack by another army of Scourges at some point. Smaller containers meant he could carry quite the arsenal of weapons.

  “So, is all that”—Gordy gestured to the grease and oil stains dotting Bolter’s face and clothes—“from working on the bracelet?”

  Bolter flushed. “Of course not! I always have multiple irons in the fire. I’m nearly finished with another top-secret project. I hope I can complete it before I leave.”

  Gordy frowned. “You’re still planning on going?”

  Bolter nodded. “Early tomorrow morning. Before sunrise.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

  Last week, Bolter had received a message from one of his associates in Michigan who needed help with a special assignment, which meant that it would definitely be centered around cars, trucks, or other automotive equipment.

  “I do,” Bolter said. “We all have to play our part, and while there will be plenty of Elixirists ready to charge into battle and face the danger head-on, I can help in other ways. Besides, I need my own workshop. This place is fine, I suppose, but I miss my things.” He looked disdainfully around the messy room as if to imply he wasn’t the one responsible for its current state of disarray. Rainwater trickled through the ceiling, dampening stacks of papers covered with Bolter’s scribbled ingredient lists. “And I’m not on B.R.E.W.’s most-wanted list—not yet, at least—and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Gordy suspected he was only telling part of the truth. Ever since Zelda Morphata had betrayed B.R.E.W. and joined forces with Mezzarix, Bolter had acted differently. Her treachery had been a surprise, and the blow seemed to hit Bolter the hardest.

  “You still haven’t told my mom yet, have you?” Gordy asked.

  Bolter gnawed on his lip. “No, but I intend to leave her a note.”

  Gordy scoffed. He couldn’t wait to see his mom’s reaction when she read that message.

  “Don’t worry about me.” One of Bolter’s eyebrows lifted. “I will be checking in with you as soon as I can. And I shall be leaving you a going-away gift.”

  “What is it?” Gordy asked cautiously. Many of Bolter’s surprises were often worth avoiding.

  “I can’t tell you!” Bolter laughed. “That will spoil all the fun. Now, you’d better be off before someone notices you’re gone.”

  On the eastern side of a mountain overlooking the grand expanse of a pale-blue ocean, Mezzarix Rook stood staring into the depths of an enormous hole. With craggy edges, crumbling rock footholds, and foul-smelling air rising from below, the hole looked far too treacherous for someone of Mezzarix’s age and condition to be near. But he had no intention of climbing down.

  He heard the distinct sound of metal hooks on stone growing louder as someone ascended. Soon, a white-haired head appeared, followed by the rest of an elderly man. All kinked elbows and knobby knees, the old creature wheezed and hacked before succeeding in hoisting his body from the depths.

  “Here, Gabriel, let me help you.” Mezzarix offered his hand. He nodded to Ravian McFarland, his companion, who for the greater part of the last hour, had been lying down with his legs draped over the ledge, whistling an annoying tune.

  “He’s back already?” Ravian inquired, frowning. His Irish brogue was thick with boredom. “That was at least a two-thousand-foot descent and then back up again. Should have taken him most of the afternoon.”

  “Stop questioning it and bring this poor soul something to drink.” Mezzarix snapped his fingers, and Ravian produced a water bottle from a red cooler basking in the shade.

  Plastic crinkled as Ravian opened the lid and passed the bottle to Gabriel. Sweat ran down Gabriel’s face, drenching the collar of his tunic as he drank, slurping down the contents in one breath.

  “How are you holding up?” Mezzarix asked, studying Gabriel with mild concern. He looked to be about eighty, but that was just a guess. In truth, Mezzarix had no idea how old the man was, or any of the Atramenti, for that matter. Age passed differently on the island, and Gabriel had been one of the first, or so Mezzarix had been led to believe.

  Gabriel grimaced, pressing a hand to the small of his back, which popped in protest. “I am quite all right. Just exhausted, that is all,” he replied in dulcet tones. “I am not as spry as I once was, but I am i
n excellent health, I believe.”

  “That was quite a climb.” Mezzarix peered into the hole, knowing full well Gabriel’s spine was crooked. The pain had to be immense, but he masked it expertly.

  “It is nearly impossible to see down there, and the keystones do not work as well in the depths of the mountain. I must feel around with my hands. And as I have said before, I have not made that climb in several years. But . . .” He withdrew a tiny vial of midnight-blue liquid from beneath his tunic. “I did manage to find a bit more.” Lips quivering in a proud smile, he showed Mezzarix his prize.

  Mezzarix snatched the bottle and held it up to examine the inky syrup in the waning afternoon sunlight. The liquid, speckled with dirt and fine bits of rock, didn’t look like much, but it was all that mattered at the moment.

  “Is this it, then?” Mezzarix asked. “The last of it?”

  “I am afraid so,” Gabriel answered, his smile dissolving. “It is not like a fountain you might see on the mainland. More like several springs buried beneath the rock. In some places, you have to dig deep and without tools—”

  “This is fine.” Mezzarix nodded. “Your people have brought me plenty.”

  “But will it be enough?” Ravian asked.

  “Shall I go back?” Gabriel turned toward the crevice. “Perhaps I returned too hastily.”

  Mezzarix stroked the grizzled edge of his beard with his thumb and forefinger. How long could this old man possibly hold up? “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Please, Master Rook, I have failed you.” Gabriel stooped near the hole, searching for adequate footing, his sandals scrabbling on the loose rock.

  “Stop,” Mezzarix commanded, his voice a few notches above a whisper.

  Dropping his hands to his sides, the old man obeyed the order at once.

  “I am satisfied, and I want you to take the rest of the evening off.” Mezzarix kept his focus on the vial, but his eyes flickered to Gabriel’s hunched back, and he felt a twinge of regret.

  It wasn’t as though Blotching made Gabriel younger or stronger. The controlling effects of the potion could make a person do things that normally seemed physically impossible, as Gabriel and the other members of the Atramenti had proven, but in truth, everything they accomplished was within the natural capabilities of their bodies. The Blotching just removed their inhibitions and doubts. Still, if Gabriel kept at it too long, he would die. And though he was nothing more than a minion, like all the others on the island, Mezzarix wasn’t ready to sacrifice his life just yet.