The Potion Diaries (4 page)

Shockwaves ripple through the room and my hand flies to my mouth. This is the last thing that I expected. The Royal family is untouchable. The Palace is one of the most secure buildings in Nova. Who could break down the magical barriers put up by one of the world’s most powerful Talented families?

‘Is she all right?’ someone asks.

‘We don’t know. But we do know this . . .’ Renel hesitates. He walks over to the centre of the room, where there is a tall column of crimson velvet cloth. He pulls the cloth away, revealing an immense curved horn, as long as my arm and black as lacquered ebony. Intricate hunting scenes are carved into the bone and thin gold bands circle both ends. It floats in the centre of the room, encased in a beam of golden light. It is breathtakingly beautiful. And it can only mean one thing. ‘Auden’s Horn has awoken. The Princess’s life is in mortal danger, and the Horn has called you here to join in a Wilde Hunt for the cure.’

A frisson of electricity runs through me. Can this really be happening? But I don’t want to question it. Wilde Hunts create alchemy
rock stars.
My spine straightens, my arms fall by my sides and I hold my head a little higher.

‘Over my dead body.’ There’s a growl from behind me that I recognise. My grandad enters the room, accompanied by two guards. The flat cap he always wears has been knocked askew; he looks like he’s barely been able to button up his coat before they brought him in. They must have brought him here from the shop – my grandad would never transport. He shrugs off the guards, strides over to me in front of all the people, grabs me by the arm and yanks me away.

‘Ostanes, stop,’ says the King. There’s a collective intake of breath and the room falls silent. My grandad shakes with reluctance, but he stops and turns back to face the King.

‘The Kemis don’t participate in Royal goose chases,’ he says, through gritted teeth. ‘We don’t need to be here as we won’t be participating.’ There is rage and defiance and even a touch of fear in my grandad’s voice, and it sends chills down my spine.

‘Let him leave,’ says a man’s voice. The hairs on my arms rise as Zol steps forward. He’s probably the richest man in Nova, CEO of ZA Corp, and close to the Royals already. I suppress the urge to cower in his presence. ‘Your Highness, with respect, why didn’t you come straight to us? We have the best mixers in the business. We can cure anything. Create any potion. I have a hundred graduate interns that could beat anyone in this room. But a Wilde Hunt? Is that really necessary?’

‘I’m sure you would rather send one of your interns than risk it yourself,’ my grandfather says.

‘Be quiet, old man!’ Zol snaps.

‘Are you suggesting we ignore the call of Auden’s Horn and endanger my daughter’s life?’ the King asks.

‘No, of course not, your Highness,’ Zol bows.

The King slumps into his throne. ‘Believe me, if we could avoid this, we would have. But the Wilde Hunts have protected my family for centuries. If the Hunt has been called, then we have no choice but to obey.’

CHAPTER SIX

Samantha

‘
C
AN WE SEE HER?’ THE WORDS ARE OUT of my mouth before I remember the company I’m in. But the whole crowd tilts forward slightly towards the King and Renel, as if they were waiting to ask the same question.

Renel’s mouth is set in a firm line, but he walks over to a darkened window on the opposite side of the room, touches it with his staff and it becomes clear glass. ‘For the moment, the Princess is residing in these chambers, looked after by Palace doctors.’

We edge forward, desperate to see what on earth can have happened to one of the richest and most powerful people in the world. Grandad mutters to himself, although I can tell he’s still intrigued. But there’s nothing to see. In fact, if Renel hadn’t told us that something was wrong, I wouldn’t have suspected a thing.

Princess Evelyn is sitting quietly, her hands in her lap. The room is sparsely furnished, just a simple desk, the chair she’s sitting on and a mirror hanging on the far wall.

She’s just as pretty as in the casts. Prettier, actually. She’s wearing the super-cool dress that Anita loves, all light blue sparkle and sequins but still somehow lighter than air. It floats around her body, almost as if it’s suspended in water. I wonder if any of it is glamoured, but if it is, it’s the most natural one I’ve seen.

Sitting there, surrounded by the grey stone walls, she looks so vulnerable, like an exotic bird trapped in a cage. Occasionally she looks up, but not at us. The window must be one-way, as she doesn’t seem to notice the people peering at her through the glass.

‘I’m confused, I thought you said she had been poisoned?’ asks someone.

Renel nods. ‘She has.’

‘Then let ZoroAster Corp be the first to agree to join the Hunt,’ says Zol, from the back of the room. He doesn’t step forward to look at the Princess.

There’s a crackle of electricity and a shrill voice fills the air. In the centre of the room, a frail form emerges, swathed in a long purple gown. The Queen Mother. ‘Why should we trust you when it was likely your son who administered the potion!’ she says accusingly.

Shockwave number two – and I don’t think some of the older folk in the room are going to be able to handle any more bombshells. Zol’s son . . . Zain? He’s here too, cringing behind his dad, his face pale. He’s in a tuxedo, but he looks dishevelled – his bow tie hanging loose around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He must’ve been on his way to the Princess’s party when he . . . I can’t even bring myself to think it. I don’t know Zain well but what I do know about him makes me sceptical that he’d poison the Princess. Top of his class in basically everything, most popular boy in school, captain of the Talented rugby team, apprentice to his father, and heir apparent to ZoroAster Corp – not to mention incredibly hot. Not someone who needs to resort to potions to solve his problems.

I want to disappear into a hole in the ground, but I relax as I doubt Zain will recognise me.

Anita might refute that statement. Zain has this weird habit of showing up wherever we are – at the coffee shop where Anita and I order our sugar-laden frappuccinos, at Molly’s school piano recital, and, most recently, he’d come back to our high school just to judge our annual potions competition. I chalk it up to coincidence, but Anita is convinced it’s somehow because of me. I deny it every time, but once, at the coffee shop, I caught his eye and we ended up staring at each other for longer was normal. He broke off first, his friends noticing, pointing at me and laughing. Except he had looked at me first. I was sure of it.

It didn’t matter, anyway. The potions fair was the only thing that annoyed me. That competition was my one chance to show off my skills somewhere other than in my grandad’s lab. Of course, what I learned in potions class at school could never compare to the training I was getting as my grandad’s apprentice, so I knew it wasn’t a fair game. But I’d never seen the girls in my class throw so much effort into a potions fair before. Now that
he
was judging, suddenly it was mixing this, and potions that.

I’d thrown my all into my project but I’d done that
every
year. This time I’d decided to experiment with mixing rosemary oil and Sphinx breath to try and come up with a formula to help sharpen focus. The problem was, it worked even better than I intended. I tried a tiny sample, and before I knew it I was up all night, my mind racing a million miles an hour, drinking up information from textbooks like it was water. I kept waiting for the inevitable crash, but it never came.

It was kind of genius. I knew if I took more of my potion, I’d be able to study for hours on end, without needing a break. I’d probably pass all my exams with flying colours. This was high-level stuff, well beyond my current grade. But I also knew it was insanely dangerous. It had been all over the news last year when two kids desperate to pass their exams OD’d on a synth version of a potion that was meant to counteract hyperactivity disorder.

But before the big day I noticed some of the potion had gone missing. Only about half of it remained in the container. As soon as I realised that, I pushed the mix into the sink, the glass smashing into a million pieces, the liquid swirling down the drain.

So instead, my competition entry was a simple tonic to cure a sore throat. Nothing fancy. I set up my presentation board and waited for someone else to take the glory. Yet Zain had walked straight over to me, without looking at anyone else’s work, his bright blue eyes shining, an old-fashioned rosette in his hand. He stood so close I could count the strands of black hair that tumbled onto his forehead. But then he saw what I was submitting, and I could see the confusion on his face . . . followed by the disappointment. ‘I expected better, Sam,’ he said, and I was so surprised he knew my name I almost forgot to be annoyed at how condescending he sounded. He awarded the prize to the girl next to me. She’d created some formula that fizzed and exploded like a miniature volcano. Toddlers could have mixed that potion.

I’d gone over every detail of that encounter with Anita. Arjun had overheard us gossiping, rolled his eyes, and said, ‘I bet he was looking for a mix to steal back to the ZA lab.’

Arjun was probably right, but something about the way Zain had looked at me made me feel ashamed for failing to live up to the Kemi reputation. Like he’d been expecting greatness and found me lacking.

Seeing Zain now, I’m taken straight back to that day. He still has his bluer-than-blue eyes and dark hair, almost jetblack, as his signature, his stand against the crowd. Normally the cool kids are defined by their golden blond hair – their attempt to emulate the Princess in all things. But Zain is
so
cool he doesn’t need to match. My hair is also so-dark-brown-it-might-almost-be-black, but no one thinks it’s cool. It’s an inherited Kemi trait: a clear marker of our eastern heritage that my mother’s blonde Novaen genes haven’t been able to impact at all. Sometimes I’d love to change it, but the cost of such a glamour is extortionate.

In addition to his apprenticeship to ZoroAster Corp, Zain studies Synths & Potions at University of Kingstown. It’s not like I stalk him or anything. I only know that because that was the exact course that I would’ve wanted to take . . . if I wasn’t going straight into full-time apprenticeship to my grandad after high school.

Despite the supposed ingrained hatred of synths that’s swirling through my blood, I sometimes think it would be amazing to work in a swanky lab, with every ingredient at my fingertips, and never worry about money again. The Kemi gift is an incredible thing to have – or maybe was, a hundred years ago, when working with natural ingredients was the only option.

Grandad calls synths a travesty, an abomination. I’m not so sure. All I know is that there’s no way any Kemi is going to work with synths, not while he is alive. I squash those dreams deep down into a locked box in my brain, disturbed that one look at Zain can make me want to change the course of my career and devastate my family.

The rage pouring out of the Queen Mother is palpable – so thick I can feel it wrap itself around me, uncomfortable as a blanket on a hot summer night. I can’t imagine what it must be like for Zol and Zain, at whom the heat is directed as sharp and focused as a laser.

‘We’ve already ruled out Zain as a suspect,’ says the King. ‘He volunteered for a truth serum test.’

‘I still don’t trust him in our Palace,’ the Queen Mother says.

‘Go back to your chambers, Mother. This is not your business.’

I can hardly believe the King is talking to his mother that way. The Queen Mother rarely makes public appearances – and now I wonder if it’s her choice or a decision made for her. The Queen Mother scrunches her face into an even deeper frown, but she doesn’t protest except with a single ‘Pah!’

I turn back to look at the Princess. She’s been still for so long; she’s like a waxwork statue and just as flawless.
What is wrong with you, Princess?

A bony finger brushes my arm and I jump like I’ve been shocked with electricity.
The Queen Mother is touching me.
I fumble over my etiquette – I really never thought I would meet a member of the Royal family, ever! – and end up in a half-curtsey, half-bow that I’m sure pays no one any respect. The Queen Mother doesn’t seem to mind though, or she’s too polite to fuss. She says, ‘Ostanes, is this your grandaughter?’