The Transparency Tonic Page 2

  “I just want to go over there and put my arms around them and tell them it’s going to be all right. Don’t you?” Adilene asked.

  Gordy snorted. “No! They’re just entering the seventh grade. They’re not going to war.”

  Adilene had done something different with her hair, and it fell about her face in round curls. And was that makeup? Gordy had never seen her wear makeup before, but he was almost certain she had applied some sort of lip gloss and eye shadow. She may have been one of Gordy’s best friends, but he wouldn’t dare mention the makeup. Not in a million years.

  “Do you have your class schedule?” she asked.

  Gordy pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. Adilene scanned the document and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “All we have together is geometry.”

  “At least we have that. Max and I don’t share a single class all semester.”

  Adilene gasped. “Whatever will you do?”

  The two of them found Max rummaging through his old locker in the seventh-grade wing.

  “What are you doing, Maxwell?” Adilene asked. “You have a new locker this year, remember?”

  Max flicked his chin in a greeting at Gordy and then frowned at Adilene. “Yeah, but my combination still works. I’m just checking on a few of my things.” The inside of the locker looked like an animal’s nest, with every possible inch crammed with papers, tattered binders, and old textbooks.

  “Maybe you should clean it out for the next student,” Adilene suggested. “That would be a decent thing to do.”

  “Oh yeah. Good idea.” Max pulled what he wanted from the shelf and then slammed the locker door closed, preventing the impending avalanche of last year’s past-due homework assignments from escaping. He brandished a frosted fudge brownie wrapped in cellophane at Gordy. “Breakfast? I’ll split it with you.”

  Gordy shook his head and grinned. “How old is that?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t ask.” Max stuffed the brownie into his mouth, and Adilene groaned. “So, check it out. Word on the street is Mr. Pugmire took another job at some high school in another state.”

  “Mr. Pugmire’s gone?” Adilene looked worriedly at Gordy, who shrugged with equal surprise.

  “Yep. We have a new principal, some guy named Brexil.” Max looked over his shoulder, then lowered his head secretively. “And he’s got a daughter in the eighth grade. Her name’s Sasha.” He whispered the name mysteriously.

  Adilene folded her arms. “And you discovered all this in the five minutes of time you’ve been here in the hallway?”

  “Uh-huh.” Max wadded up the cellophane wrapper and crammed it through the slot in his old locker. “Word travels fast if you know where to listen. And get this, I heard Sasha was asking about you.” He pointed a fudge-coated finger at Gordy.

  “Me?” Up until that point, Gordy hadn’t been too interested in the conversation, his thoughts lingering on his uncomfortable ride to school, seated in the passenger seat of Estelle. Sure, Mr. Pugmire was a nice enough guy, but he was the principal. Gordy had had almost zero interaction with the man all of last year, other than at pep rallies or occasionally hearing his voice over the intercom. “Why was Sasha asking about me?”

  “Not a clue. Anyways, I got to sign up for wrestling. You coming?”

  Gordy raised an eyebrow. “Wrestling? You can’t be serious.”

  “I told you I was going to. After last fall, when I tackled all those bad dudes almost by myself, I took it as a sign.”

  “You had a third arm from Gordy’s potion,” Adilene said, glaring at him. “You won’t have that anymore.”

  Max shrugged and flexed his muscles. “Whatever. I guess I’ll see you around the hallways. Catch you on the flip side.” Max waggled his eyebrows, stuck his tongue out at Adilene, and huffed away down the hallway.

  “He’s so . . .” Adilene sighed. “What’s the word? Absurdo.”

  “Yes, he is.” The first bell rang with the five-minute warning, and Gordy and Adilene walked hurriedly toward their homeroom in the eighth-grade wing.

  “So, are we both still meeting you this Friday afternoon?” Adilene asked, winking.

  Gordy nodded. “Yep. Training begins, and I need my lab partners.”

  Adilene practically hopped out of her shoes, collapsing upon Gordy with a massive hug. “This is going to be the best year ever!”

  “Okay, okay, calm down,” Gordy said, laughing, but staring awkwardly around at the people whispering and watching them embrace in the hallway. “People are going to get the wrong idea.”

  “I’m sorry! I just can’t believe how lucky I am to have such a great friend like you.”

  Eighth grade was more than just the start of a new school year for Gordy. It was also the beginning of his formal Elixirist training at B.R.E.W. Every other Friday afternoon, directly following class, he and his two lab partners, Max and Adilene, would meet at B.R.E.W. Headquarters with Gordy’s mother as his trainer. There she would teach Gordy how to do all sorts of Elixirist things. Gordy wasn’t sure what else there was to learn. He felt he had mastered all the necessary skills, but according to his mom, there was still much more to discover. Gordy was eager to find out.

  There were about a dozen new students in Gordy’s first-period class, most of whom he didn’t recognize. But out of all of them, only one girl locked eyes with Gordy and immediately claimed the desk directly behind his. She was tall, maybe an inch or two taller than Gordy, with braided black hair and dark skin. She wore a green-and-yellow checkered dress, with several jangly bracelets on her wrists, and she carried a small handbag sparkling with rhinestones.

  “You’re Gordy Stitser, aren’t you?” she asked, dropping her purse on her desk with a light thud and leaning close enough to whisper in Gordy’s ear. “You don’t actually need to answer. I know who you are. My name’s Sasha Brexil. This is my first year at Kipland, but you already guessed that, didn’t you?”

  “Uh, yeah, I suppose.” Gordy hadn’t been expecting anyone to hunt him down right at the start of the eighth grade. Who was this girl, other than the principal’s daughter?

  “So, tell me. Do you like Kipland, or do you feel it’s a waste of your time and talents?” Sasha carried an air of authority with her as she spoke. No nonsense, with a distinct chip in her voice. “Personally, I can think of at least a dozen places I’d rather be and not just because it’s a lame school. What would you rather be doing, Gordy?”

  “How do you know my name?” he asked. Every other student in the classroom appeared to be playing catch-up with friends, asking about summer vacations and comparing class schedules. No one paid Sasha any attention. Which was a good thing—at least, Gordy thought it was. For the moment, it meant he and Sasha were alone with their strange conversation. Maybe that wasn’t a good thing.

  “That’s not all I know,” Sasha purred. “I know you live in that pink house in the cul-de-sac, and I know where you lived before that. I know about the gas explosion that wasn’t really a gas explosion at all.”

  Gordy’s eyes narrowed. This was rapidly going downhill. How did Sasha know these things? He had never met the girl before in his life. No one, other than Adilene and Max and some important people from B.R.E.W., knew where he lived. There were Distraction and Redirection potions all over the neighborhood. When strangers drove into the cul-de-sac, they saw only an empty lot where the Stitsers’ home should have been. And Gordy’s mom had worked hard to cover up the disaster of their exploding house in the media, but somehow, Sasha had learned the truth.

  “And I know, Gordy Stitser”—Sasha continued, lowering her voice—“that you are a Dram. And a pretty good one at that.”

  Gordy stiffened as the hairs on his forearms prickled with gooseflesh. It was then that his nostrils took in an odd smell. He wondered how he had missed it earlier. Most kids at Kipland smelled for a varie
ty of reasons, but those scents had never mattered much to Gordy. Beneath the mask of perfume and hair-styling mousse, Gordy caught a whiff of ingredients on Sasha. Potion-making ingredients.

  Being able to identify the faint residue of the components of a potion was just one of the many talents he possessed. Pass a bottle under his nose, and Gordy could recite a grocery list of items used to concoct it. But over the past several months, Gordy had also honed his Ciphering skill to the point of being able to recognize when someone had recently brewed. By the smell of things, Sasha Brexil had been in a potion laboratory earlier that morning. Gordy detected barberry, thorn apple seeds, and toasted kernels of a Lebanese sika plant. Someone had been brewing a Polish Fire Rocket, a dangerous potion used for battle. Which could mean only one thing.

  Gordy spun around, coming face to face with the dark-eyed Sasha. He nudged his leg against his backpack and tried to remember what protective potions he had stored within the hidden compartments. There were at least two vials of Torpor Tonic for stunning, as well as a small container of Booming Balls. Gordy wasn’t sure how he would get away with launching either one of those inside the classroom, but if he didn’t have a choice, he would take the risk. Maybe Sasha was in cahoots with Esmeralda Faustus, the dangerous lady who not only attacked B.R.E.W. Headquarters but also destroyed Gordy’s home nine months ago. Esmeralda was supposed to be in exile, but he wouldn’t put anything past her. Maybe Sasha had been sent as an assassin.

  Sasha eyed Gordy’s fingers as he inched open the zipper on his backpack, and she puckered her lips. “Relax. You think I’m a threat? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a Dram just like you. There aren’t that many of us at this school, and I’m looking for friends.”

  “I don’t even know you.” Gordy’s fingers hesitated upon the zipper.

  “Well, let’s change that.”

  Lightning quick, Sasha whipped out something from her purse, and Gordy recoiled, clamping his eyes tight in case the potion might explode. When it didn’t, and he heard Sasha begin to giggle, he opened one eye. She was holding out a card with glittery lettering.

  “This is an invitation,” she said. “I’m having a small party next Saturday night at my house. I think you should come. There will be others there as well. You know them from school. And we’re going to brew all sorts of fun things. Okay?” She pressed the card against Gordy’s shoulder. “Just take it, silly!”

  He did, slowly, then opened the card and read the address.

  487 Harper Hood Lane

  He had no idea where that was, and, aside from the handful of birthday parties at Adilene’s house, he had never been invited to a party before. Not by a girl. Not by anyone!

  Gordy suddenly became aware of the crisp cardstock paper in his hand, and he pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, holding it out like it was a dirty tissue.

  “It’s not Stained,” Sasha whispered. “You’re not being Blotched.”

  “I didn’t say it was,” Gordy said. But it wouldn’t have been the first time someone had tried to Blotch him with a piece of paper.

  “You really are a jumpy guy. I can’t wait to find out why. Next Saturday. Seven o’clock. Bring your supplies, if you know what I mean. You had better be there.” She pushed away from the desk and gathered her things.

  “Wait. Uh . . . where are you going?” Gordy asked.

  “To class, of course,” she responded. “All my classes are honors courses, so I don’t spend any time in this hallway. I doubt we bump into each other again.” She scanned the room and tossed the handbag strap over her shoulder. Then, with the same air of confidence she had shown when she entered the room, Sasha Brexil made a grand exit.

  A piece of ice the size of a shopping mall broke free and plummeted into the Greenland Sea with the sound of echoing cannon fire. The brackish water lapping at the sharp edge of the glacier swelled, the caps of the waves frothy with foam as they fell upon the mainland a few miles to the west. The wind whooshed and howled, the bitter sleet fell in stinging sheets against Mont Forel, but inside his cave, Mezzarix Rook, a wizened old man well into his seventies, with a flowing mane of ratted gray hair, sat in his rocking chair. He blew across the lip of his teacup, humming a tune known only by him.

  Doll, Mezzarix’s servant, stood several feet away, plunging his bony fingers into a bucket of soapy water and cleaning off the bits of his master’s earlier dinner with a scrub brush. Doll didn’t speak as he washed the dishes—reanimated skeletons rarely did—but even if he had been an anomaly, it still would have been impossible for him to utter a single word. Doll didn’t have a proper head; his original skull had been swapped out and replaced with an egg-shaped stone by Mezzarix a few years prior. So while he couldn’t grunt or make any sound as he labored vigorously, he did manage to work the water into a murky lather.

  “Not so rough!” Mezzarix straightened in his chair mid-sip, and some of the liquid from his cup dribbled across his suit lapel. “You wouldn’t want to chip my only plate now, would you?”

  Doll paused for a moment and raised his head toward Mezzarix. The face on the skeleton’s once-faceless stone had been recently redrawn, giving Doll an endlessly inquisitive stare.

  Mezzarix leveled his eyes at the creature. “Just be gentle.”

  Doll looked back down at the dish and resumed cleaning, but with less vigor, using long, slow strokes with the brush. When he finished, he obediently carried the bucket outside into the swirling snow to dump the dishwater.

  Mezzarix carefully laid his teacup and saucer on the table beside him and moved to the counter next to the cave wall, where a chipped, fungus-covered cauldron no bigger than a common soup tureen bubbled with harsh-smelling liquids. A kerosene-fed torch burned the underside of the cauldron, and Mezzarix checked the consistency of the potion with a rusted metal spoon. He held the utensil at eye level and frowned as the gloppy mess plopped back into the bowl.

  “This won’t do,” he muttered. What he wouldn’t give for some decent equipment. And he was running dangerously low on fuel.

  Mezzarix turned his attention to two small plastic bags lying next to his workstation, each containing a single strand of hair. One of the hairs was brown, while the other was chartreuse and clearly synthetic. Those two hairs represented Mezzarix’s only hope of leaving the Forbidden Zone. Of course, none of it would matter if he couldn’t successfully complete a potion that required far more than his rudimentary tools and more ingredients than he had access to. He’d been working on it for the past nine months without success.

  The sound of footsteps near the mouth of the cave returned, and Mezzarix grumbled. “Why are you so noisy today, Doll? I’m going to sew you some shoes. A pair with thick, padded . . .” His voice trailed off as he looked over his shoulder toward the entryway.

  Someone stood in the opening of the cave. An actual person with flesh and blood, wearing a warm, woolly coat with a hood.

  “So this is where you’ve been all these years,” the man said with a distinct Irish brogue. He pulled the hood back to reveal white hair, as soft and light as chick feathers. “Living the high life with someone to wait on your every need.”

  Mezzarix rubbed his eyes with his palms in disbelief. “Ravian McFarland? Is that really you?”

  “Aye.” The man kicked wet snow from his boots. “Wonderful place you’ve made for yourself here. Quaint and cozy. Much like my mother’s old cottage on Inishmore.” He moved to one of Mezzarix’s bookcases and curiously plucked a leather-bound tome from the shelf and flipped it open.

  “I remember your mother,” Mezzarix said. “But last I recall, she had earned herself a lifelong banishment.”

  Ravian grazed a hand across a wispy patch of hair, tucking the strands behind his ear, but the hairs immediately fell back. “Not anymore.” After examining a page, he held the book up over his shoulder. “She finally kicked the bucket. Had much use for this?”

&
nbsp; Mezzarix narrowed his eyes. “Which one would that be? Ah, Carditon’s Seventh Law of Stone Siphoning. Actually, that one has come in quite handy as of late. Why are you here?”

  Ravian curled his lip and shrugged. “Was in the area and just happened upon your place.”

  Mezzarix grinned wryly. The wards protecting his Forbidden Zone were powerful, binding him to his cave and, more importantly, shielding him from all outside eyes. No one just stopped in by accident.

  Ravian returned Mezzarix’s leather book to its spot on the shelf. “And I say to myself, ‘What’s that light amid the snow?’ And then I answer myself, ‘Why, there’s a nice dry cave over there.’” Ravian’s mouth twisted into an unsettling grin. “And with it blowing a hoolie outside, I thought I might go warm myself by that roaring fire. Then, lo and behold, who do I find snoozing in his rocker but none other than Mezzarix Rook, the legendary Scourge of Nations. What are the odds of that?”

  At one time, Mezzarix had found Ravian’s accent pleasant to the ears, but his patience had run thin, and he was in no mood to be lied to. “Enough of this,” he snapped. “You’re in a Forbidden Zone. You’ve probably already set off an alarm, so you haven’t got much time. Speak your peace or be gone.”

  “Did your daughters trigger an alarm when they came here a short while ago?” Ravian asked. “Surely that would’ve raised a few eyebrows from the higher-ups at B.R.E.W.”

  Mezzarix cocked his head to one side, studying his strange visitor. How did he know about his daughters’ visit? “No, they did not, because they were the ones who bound me here, which gives them special privileges.”

  “Banished you, now did they?” Ravian clicked his tongue. “Family quarrels are the worst. Goodness knows I’ve had my share. My boy, Tobias, is full of resentment for me. As I recall, though, I warned you about Wanda and Priscilla’s possible intentions to betray you, but did you listen to me?”