Sinister Magic: An Urban Fantasy Dragon Series (Death Before Dragons #1) - Lindsay Buroker Page 0,62
everyday use. Even in their heyday here on Earth, few people knew the alchemical language.”
“Are you one of those people?”
“You called me a people. I’m honored.” There was that smile again and a slight bow.
“Weren’t you one once?”
“Indeed, indeed. Not so long ago that I can’t remember it. But these days, I merely stay in my dark hole and research and teach, and occasionally contemplate summoning my followers to this place so that I might feast on their blood while turning them into young vampires. I could raise up an army to do my bidding.”
“Followers?”
“Yes. To my channels.” He extended his hand toward the computer setup. “There are millions.” His dead black eyes managed to gleam.
“Oh, the teenage girls.”
“And some boys. Also, my demographics studies have shown that housewives between the ages of thirty-four and fifty-three find me quite the tiger’s meow.”
I squinted at him, suspecting that was to let me know that he knew Sindari was prowling around up there. “Tigers don’t meow.”
“No?”
“What would you do with an army?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it? Perhaps I could find a way to rule this nation—your political system seems fraught with strife, so it’s clear that a superior option is needed—but my difficulties with sunlight would pose a challenge. And I’m certain your government would field someone like you to come slay me. Which would be tedious.”
“No doubt.”
“And besides, my followers are terribly valuable where they are. My sponsors value them a great deal. Their funds pay for me to have my alchemical supplies delivered. The world has become a fascinating place.”
“Yes. Can you read that?” I tapped the page.
A light warning zap ran up my finger.
Zoltan lifted a hand, shooing mine away. “Only one versed in the language and suitably respectful to the dark elf way may read this book.”
“Does that mean it’s unlikely that some kid—such as one of your followers—found another book like it and taught himself or herself to make the potion that was used against my boss?”
“They’re called formulas, my dear, and no mere mortal alive today could have mastered this language and learned enough to interact with a tome such as this. As you felt, it’s warded against simpletons turning its pages, and I do not teach the dangerous arts to my followers. Only enough for them to poison a brutal lover or abusive parent if they wish. Self-defense, if you will.”
“Noble of you.”
“Yes.”
I had about given up on him getting to the point and offering me useful information when he touched the sigil. “For your two hundred dollars there, I’ll tell you that this formula was created as a way to kill people slowly so that suspicion would be drawn neither to the deliverer of the formula nor the alchemist who created it.”
“How much time does it take for the victim to die?” I whispered.
“Oh, four to six weeks for most people.”
I swallowed. How long had it already been since Willard had been dosed?
“This is the list of ingredients. A few of them would be challenging to acquire, at least for this landlocked vampire.”
“Do you know who made the pot—formula and if there’s an antidote? Something that will cure the illness or at least remove the magical component of it so that modern medicine can do its job?” I worried that the disease might have progressed too far for modern medicine, but I refused to give up hope.
“If the formula was made and delivered in this part of the world, I can most certainly tell you who crafted it. But let me take a closer look, eh.”
Zoltan picked up the vial and walked to a microscope, a fancy modern one hooked up to a computer. He prepared something resembling a drugstore cotton swab, moistening the end with liquid from a dark bottle, and prodded around in the vial. How much residue would he find in there after it had spent weeks in Willard’s coffee-ground-strewn garbage disposal and then been carted around in my pocket?
I kept myself from pacing as he prepared a slide and examined it. Sindari, any update?
I haven’t been able to find Dimitri.
What? My fist clenched. If bringing him here got him killed, I’d have more blood on my hands—more guilt. Why hadn’t I ordered him to go back to the van and wait inside with the curtains drawn and the doors locked? Did he leave the carriage house?
I don’t believe so. His scent lingers here, but he is not in this loft or anywhere in this main room.