Oceans & Potions Read online

  We entered what appeared to be a workshop of sorts, and I stifled a laugh when I saw it was the complete opposite of the sedate décor in the rest of Glenn’s house that, frankly, didn’t suit him one bit. Here, it seemed, he allowed his imagination to run free. Each wall was painted a different, blindingly bright color, and was lined with shelves straining under the weight of hundreds of magical gadgets that were spinning, shrieking, rotating, and, in one case, shrinking and regrowing in a matter of seconds. At least a dozen cauldrons were bubbling on a giant workbench in the middle of the room, and in the far corner entire sections of the walls and floor were covered in thick foam.

  “What’s that for?” I asked, pointing to it.

  Glenn followed my gaze. “That,” he said, “is where I practice the new spells and potions I’ve invented.” He tapped the side of his head. “Keeps the old noggin from knocking into anything too hard if things go awry, which they usually do. I got smart one day and conjured the foam after a particularly forceful tango tonic sent me spinning straight into the wall instead of the arms of my dance partner. Took me a year to fully recover, and even then I often found myself performing a rather stupendous two-step in my sleep. Fortunately, I would wake up just before I tangoed straight off the chimney. Usually.”

  I stared at him mutely, then cleared my throat and held up the empty vial, hoping he would take the hint. As much as I’d love to spend all day with Glenn—I never quite knew what was going to come out of his mouth next—I did have a murder to solve, after all.

  “Ah, yes,” he said primly, taking the vial from me and heading over to the workbench. “All work and no play, I suppose.”

  He set the vial down and uncorked it, then tipped it over and let the last drop of potion slide into an empty cast iron cauldron that looked like it had been around the block more times than a siren in heat. The cauldron sizzled and emitted a shower of sparks in the same shade of pink as the potion, and when Glenn threaded his wand through the sparks while murmuring an incantation, the drop of potion expanded to fill the entire cauldron.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” he said when he saw my eyes widen. “I’ve had seven centuries to practice.” He picked up a ladle from the workbench, then dipped it into the potion and drew it up to his nose, inhaling the cotton candy smell that was rapidly filling the entire room. “Just as I thought,” he said. “This is one of Helga’s potions. It has her scent written all over it.”

  “Helga?” I asked, vaguely recalling Garnet mentioning her to me when I first arrived on the island.

  “The most powerful potioneer the magical community has ever seen,” Glenn said, waving his wand over his palm. Four miniature vials appeared in it, and he uncorked them and set them down beside the cauldron.

  “She’s been retired from the IAMB for a great many years and lives as a recluse on a remote island several days’ journey from here. Helga has taken to using her talents to brew custom potions for those who have both the means and the desire to circumvent the law, for the vast majority of her creations are commissioned by those who have something to hide.”

  He cocked his head and gave me a sly smile. “So let’s find out what your friend Emeril took great pains to conceal.”

  He simultaneously jabbed his wand into the potion and held one of the tiny vials above the cauldron, and a moment later a light blue liquid soared up from the cauldron in a perfect arc and landed in the vial. He performed the spell again and again, and by the time he was finished, at least fifty vials were lined up on the workbench, each containing a different ingredient—the potion, reversed.

  “What do you—” I began, staring at the vials, but Glenn flapped his hand in the air to silence me. He circled the workbench, studying the vials and muttering to himself, his hands clasped over his round belly.

  “A touch of witch hazel,” I heard him say. “The scrapings of a bearded fig tree, and just a hint of…” He picked up the last vial and shook it, watching the gold liquid dance inside. “Dragon’s blood.” He shook his head gravely, then turned to me. “It is my belief that this is a bamboozlement brew. Highly volatile, highly illegal.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, peering down at the ingredients. One of the vials was filled with a shimmering purple light that was bouncing off the sides, another with a handful of small brown pellets that were popping and cracking, a third with a miniscule eyeball I realized was staring right at me. I shuddered and looked away.

  Glenn sat down heavily on the workbench. “It is, essentially, mind control. The wielder of the potion can bend the will of those who drink it, to serve whatever purpose he or she desires. It was invented by a potioneer during the eighteenth-century vampire uprisings and was, understandably, banned by the IAMB immediately after that. It is extraordinarily difficult to make—many of the ingredients that go into it are among the scarcest in the world, and therefore only the most highly skilled potioneers can brew it… Helga being perhaps the only one living today with the necessary talent. Not to mention the total disregard for ethics and authority.”

  “What could Emeril have been doing with something like that?” I wondered out loud, then gasped as another possibility struck me. “Unless someone was using it against him.”

  The faces of Preston, Isla, and Amelia flashed through my mind as I considered who had a good reason to try and control Emeril—and I couldn’t rule out any of them. And how did this tie in with the note from Isla I’d found in Emeril’s desk? Or was it completely unrelated? Despite traveling all the way to the Frozen Island, I felt like I was no closer to finding out the truth now than I had been when I started my investigation.

  Glenn gathered up the miniature vials with a sweep of his wand and dumped their contents back into the cauldron, then immediately set fire to them. As we watched the puffs of pink smoke spiral into the air, Glenn glanced sideways at me and said, “There’s no point telling you to stop, is there?”

  I didn’t answer, but I didn’t need to.

  He sighed heavily. “Be careful, Wren. Some secrets are better off remaining in the grave.”

  “I can’t do it!” Garnet said, tugging on the ends of her long hair in frustration. She rolled up her sleeves and aimed her training wand at Hunter, who gave her a reassuring smile that trembled slightly at the edges as he eyed the wand.

  The three of us were holed up in an empty classroom at the academy, practicing the three defensive spells we’d learned from Lady Winthrop, who warned us there would be a practical exam during our next lesson. In addition to the bubble spell, she taught us the emerald fire spell, a temporary wall of impenetrable, inextinguishable green flames, and the extinctus spell, which plunges both the spellcaster and opponent into total darkness.

  Hunter was playing Garnet’s opponent—he’d readily volunteered; I would never be so stupid—and now seemed to be regretting his rash decision as feeble green sparks ignited the air around her wand, which was also emitting a strange hissing sound.

  “Igviri!” she cried again, jabbing her training wand into the space between herself and Hunter.

  A blast of flames erupted from the tip and made a beeline for Hunter, who hurtled out of the way just before they caught him full in the face. Ever the gentlemen, though, he took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and positioned himself in front of Garnet once more, though I could have sworn I saw his lips moving in prayer as she picked up her wand and aimed it at him again.

  I, on the other hand, was standing in the corner of the room, idly tracing my wand around myself as I pretended to practice the bubble charm… but in reality I was churning through the evidence I’d gathered so far in Emeril’s death.

  First there was Preston, suspect number one, at least in Kellen’s eyes. At first glance, he had the most obvious reason for killing the yeti—to cover for stealing Emeril’s clothing designs and passing them off as his own for his wildly popular new collection. Add in the very public fight they had during the fashion show—right before Emeril’s fall—and it was no wonder mo
st of the magical community believed the diminutive designer to be the culprit. Though he swore up and down that he and Emeril had an honest agreement about the designs, when I’d interviewed the yeti backstage at the fashion show, he’d told me an entirely different story.

  Then there was Amelia, Emeril’s estranged sister, who seemed to be both an outcast in her own community and a known liar, at least according to Yancy. She was obviously angry with her brother for writing her out of his will, but after my conversation with her it became apparent that her frustrations with him ran deeper, due to her belief that he left her in the dust as he climbed the ladder of fame. Not to mention her own admission that she’d taken money from him, and though she’d tried to downplay it, Yancy claimed the damage numbered in the tens of thousands. And she, too, had been spotted at the fashion show, and could easily have blended in with the other yeti models, giving her plenty of opportunity to set fire to Emeril’s harness and sneak away before she could be detected.

  Finally there was Isla, Emeril’s assistant and the beneficiary of his entire estate. Although she’d put on quite a show of emotion in the immediate aftermath of his death, I’d witnessed a completely different reaction the next day when she was clearing out the yeti’s dressing room. Of the three suspects, she had the most to gain—Emeril’s estate was substantial, to put it mildly, and as his assistant, she undoubtedly witnessed his extreme wealth firsthand... and now she would never have to work another day in her life. Add in the note I’d found demanding that he “pay up” or else—even though I still had no idea about her reasons for sending it, it seemed pretty clear that she had blackmailed her way into his pockets. Yetis lived for many years, and Emeril was by all accounts perfectly healthy, so she may have decided to simply take matters into her own hands and… help him along.

  Three suspects, three motives, three opportunities. And one yeti, cut down in his prime.

  A yell of alarm followed by an earth-shattering crashing sound jolted me from my thoughts, and I whirled around to find Hunter struggling to crawl out from beneath a pile of desks and chairs that had flown into the air and crashed down around him, nearly crushing him.

  “I’m sorry!” Garnet cried, throwing aside her training wand and rushing over to him as he climbed shakily to his feet and studied his glasses, which had snapped clean in two from the fall. “I don’t know what happened.” She gave her training wand an accusatory glare, as if it had been responsible for the mayhem.

  “I think I’ve had my fill of practice for today,” Hunter said, rubbing his arm and wincing. When he saw the crestfallen look on her face, he quickly added, “Only because they’re expecting me at the real estate office in fifteen minutes. I’ve got a showing today for a houseboat.” He patted her on the back. “You did great, much better than I would have done.”

  I covered up my snort of laughter and turned to retrieve my bag, realizing with a groan of frustration that it had overturned in the commotion, spilling its contents all over the floor. As I began gathering up pens, gold coins, and watermelon whiplash-flavored lip gloss I’d bought on a whim, I came upon a few scattered pieces of paper I didn’t immediately recognize.

  Turning them over and giving them a quick glance, I saw that they were a portion of the contract between Emeril and Preston that Sebastian and I had retrieved from Preston’s safe deposit box. “Another useless piece of so-called evidence,” I muttered to myself, beginning to stuff the pages back into my bag. As I was folding them, the signature page caught my eye, and I frowned as I examined Emeril’s loopy handwriting. Something seemed off about it, though I couldn’t figure out what…

  Until I did.

  Bolting upright, I shoved the last of my belongings into my bag and ran for the classroom door, knocking over the podium in my haste to leave. “What’s wrong?” Garnet asked, trying to grab my arm to stop me, but I shook her off, shouldered open the door, and sped down the academy’s steps without bothering to look back.

  It was time to pay one of my suspects a visit.

  Chapter 15

  I made a quick stop at my dormitory to drop off my spellbooks, and when I opened the door, I found Pierre waiting for me on the other side, his plump tail thumping eagerly against the floor, his leash hanging from his mouth. He turned his watery brown eyes to me expectantly, and I gave him a quick pat on the head, trying to hold in the sneeze that was creeping up my throat.

  “Sorry, buddy,” I said, dropping my books on the bed. “I’ll take you for a nice long walk later, I promise.” He dropped the leash at my feet, rolled over, and grinned up at me, his tongue lolling to the side.

  “Apparently, the beast is an idiot,” Monty said, eyeing us both from his chain. “He spent the better part of the morning stuck under the bed, and it was only when I bribed him with talk of meat sandwiches that he managed to wiggle his way back out. Of course, I didn’t mention to him that he would not be the one partaking in the sandwiches. Ever since I laid eyes on him, I thought he would do quite nicely with a brown mustard glaze and a sprinkle of thyme.”

  “I do not have time for this,” I said, tripping over the dog as I tried making my way back over to the door. “I have very important work to do.”

  “Ah, yes, no one has time for the little people,” Monty said in a long-suffering voice. “At least the beast has arms and legs with which to entertain himself. You try playing Pinochle without them. I tried engaging him in a lively game just this morning, but it soon became apparent that he would rather sniff his own behind than sharpen his intellect.”

  I held out my hand to open the door, but Pierre beat me to it, planting himself in front of it and refusing to budge. “Fine,” I snapped after several minutes of trying without success to coax him away. “You can come, but trust me, it’s not going to be a walk in the park.”

  I grabbed the leash and clipped it to his collar, and we were just about to leave when a sparrow came zooming up to the door, holding a message addressed to me in its beak. I tugged the paper free and unfolded it, surprised to see that it had come from Merry—I didn’t realize that gnomes were permitted to use the sparrow network, another reminder that there were still so many things I needed to learn about the island.

  I could tell from the untidy scrawl that the message had been written hastily. Wren, it said, come to my place as quickly as you can. I can’t say more until you get here. Underneath that he wrote his address, which was practically on the opposite end of the island.

  “Sorry, Merry,” I muttered, tucking the paper into my bag. “Whatever it is will have to wait until later. Off we go,” I added to Pierre, who trotted obediently beside me as we finally walked out of the dorm.

  To my surprise, Pierre took off running the moment we got outside, dragging me behind him as I tried to keep hold of the leash, but eventually it ripped out of my hand. I called out for him to stop as he rounded the corner and made a beeline for the center of town, running straight past a cart selling delicious-smelling gyros without stopping to snag one. That’s when I knew he meant business, though that business remained a mystery.

  Ten minutes and several turns later, he skidded to a halt, and when I managed to catch up, breathing heavily, I realized he had led me to the front steps of the Magic Island jail. “How did you know?” I asked, squatting down to stroke his patchy fur. He licked my hand in response, and together we climbed the steps and entered the jail, Pierre sitting obediently at my feet as I waited for the officer manning the front desk to give me his attention.

  When he finally looked up, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, giving me the distinct impression that Kellen had made it known among the other officers that I was a persona non grata. As if that would stop me.

  “I need to speak with Preston Parker,” I said, my voice fierce. If it was a fight he wanted, then it was a fight he was going to get, because I had no intentions of leaving here without speaking to the designer. And if that meant getting thrown into the jail cell beside him, then so be it.

  “Sure,” the
officer said with a shrug, pulling a small pad of paper from his pocket. “Just let me write you up a visitor’s pass and you’ll be all set.”

  “Thanks,” I said grudgingly, feeling strangely put out that I didn’t have to argue my way inside. I attached the pass to my blouse as I followed the officer to the door separating us from the prisoners, Pierre trotting at my heels.

  “Wait here,” I said softly to him as I stepped inside the cell block. “This won’t take long.” He barked once, then parked himself outside the door, his ears perked up and his eyes alert.

  I experienced a strong sense of déjà vu as I walked down the row of cells, listening to the same jeers and catcalls that I’d been on the receiving end of the last time I’d visited Preston. Even the mermaid was still there, perched on her tank of water, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously at the police officer as we passed—although this time, I could have sworn I saw him wink back.

  Preston must have heard us approaching, for his nose was pressed up against the crisscrossing red lights as he came into view. “Wren!” he said, sounding delighted. I sat down across from him, and the officer left us to speak with the mermaid, who was giggling madly and winding strands of her long hair around her fingertips. “It’s lovely to see you! I presume you paid a visit to my safe deposit box and found the contract I made with Emeril?”

  “I did,” I said stiffly, folding my arms across my chest.

  His smile faltered. “And you found everything to be in order, as I said it would be?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He watched as I produced the contract I’d taken from the underwater bank and held it up as close as I could to the red lights, mere centimeters from his nose. “You’re telling me that Emeril signed this?” I demanded.