Page 10 of Elixir of Strife
“Obfuscate.”
The air glistened and sparkled with diamond dust, this strange arcane substance that Max used as an extra layer of security for blocking out security. Cameras, that is, and systems, something about his spell functioning as electronic chaff, creating fuzz to disrupt the sensors.
We reached the door, and I reached into my pocket, ready to pull out the bell. Create an isolated field of silence, bash the damn thing with a hammer, and bam. Who needed a key? Except Max already had his fingers pressed to his lips, signaling yet again in this foreign, convoluted way of his.
“Penetrate,” he whispered, a pair of crystalline slivers growing out of his wrists.
With a few deft twists and slides, he’d already picked the lock open. I grumbled under my breath to myself, feeling all sorts of useless, and yet so hopelessly turned on by Max’s ruthless, uninterrupted efficiency. Very conflicting. Much confusion.
“After you,” he said, letting me enter first.
Which I’d consider something gentlemanly in other situations, except if this place was loaded with buzzsaw traps like the ones that Guillotina favored, I’d get my head chopped off first. No worries. If I died, I’d just come back as a vengeful specter and haunt Max’s penis for the rest of his days.
“Too dark in here,” I said, reaching into my backpack for a flashlight.
I couldn’t see a thing. I couldn’t even see Max’s face. And yet, somehow, I knew he was smirking.
“Illuminate.”
Light materialized from the palm of his hand, generated by a shard of crystal no bigger than a battery. Okay, that was a new one. Very cool. The crystal levitated from his palm, hovering ahead of us like a helpful little drone. Fine. Beyond very cool, and no way I could tell Max that I thought that. He had a big enough head as it was.
We followed the glowing crystal, our surroundings glimmering as the objects in the warehouse reflected the magical light. Perfect. We’d come to the right place.
Bottles. All bottles. Skinny ones, stout ones. Bottles shaped like mermaids, Grecian statues, crystal balls.
Rows and rows of them, the shelves stacked high. All in unique designs, an endless variety, infinity captured in glass. The only common denominator? Each was partly filled with liquid, all in the same shade of vibrant amber.
I frowned. “So, what exactly are we looking at here? What are these bottles even for?”
Max shook his head. “I wish I could tell you. They’re all shapes and sizes. These could be for anything.”
His mouth hung slightly open as he gazed around him, all the wonder of a kid in a candy store. I knew that my priority was to focus on the mission, but it was too cute a moment not to capture in my memory. He pointed at one of them, a bottle with a stout base and a stopper in the shape of a crystal ball.
“Like that one. It could very well be a decanter for keeping cognac, brandy, all sorts of liquor. Beautiful one, too. But that one over there? The more slender one. Perfect for storing and displaying olive oil, maybe even vinegar.”
I clucked my tongue, still curious over his own curiosity. “How do you know all this stuff? Back home we’d just make do with whatever was on hand.”
He shrugged. “I grew up around this kind of thing. Mama liked to keep the good stuff in fine crystal decanters. Same goes for perfume, massage oil, whatever.”
I shook my head. Trust rich people to buy empty bottles to store other liquids that already came in perfectly good bottles. I liked money in the sense that it could keep me fed, in bed, and mostly alive, but it seemed to me that being actually rich only meant inventing little obstacles.
That and moving stuff from one place to another, whether it was money between accounts, or a super-yacht between two disgustingly opulent vacation beach houses. Or, you know, olive oil and cognac and shit.
I gestured at the bottles, the racks. “And how are we so sure that none of these actually contain oil or alcohol?”
Max thumped himself on the chest. “Call it experience, pouring out and stealing my mother’s good liquor and trying to replace it with colored water. Mainly tea. Of course, that only worked until she tried drinking some of it.”
I tried not to chuckle, sparing his ego. So Max really was a bad boy, but not really in the way I’d expected.
“So, theoretically,” I said, peering closer at some of the smaller bottles. “Some of these might be used for potions too, right?”
He nodded. “I don’t see why not. They’d have to be some pretty fancy potions. Generally speaking, unless it’s something extremely rare, I mainly see potions in plainer bottles. Chug and chuck, you know?”
Alchemy was an entire art within the arcane underground, the ancient practice of distilling magic into the confines of a humble bottle. A potion to grant the ability to breathe underwater, to protect the drinker from even the hellish heat of dragonfire. With the right ingredients and the right recipe, a talented alchemist could brew an incredible variety of powerful potions.
But Max was right. Most potions were meant to be consumed shortly before their intended purpose, if used for protection or function, or shortly after something dangerous or injurious. An antidote for manticore venom, for example, or a simple potion of healing to help staunch blood loss and stitch minor wounds closed.
Chug and chuck, as disposable as beer or juice or bottled coffee. Most alchemists wouldn’t bother prettifying their potions in snazzy bottles. It didn’t make economic sense. And then it hit me. I snapped my fingers.
