The Potion Diaries Read online

  For Elv, Rachel, Lucy & Zareen,

  whose magic touch brought

  these books to life

  CHAPTER ONE

  Princess Evelyn

  ‘ANY NEWS?’ HE ASKED, LEANING AGAINST the doorframe, his arms folded across his chest. He was worse than Zain when it came to acting like he owned the place. But then, she supposed, he kind of did. Prince Stefan. Her new husband.

  She wanted to spit out some witty retort, but when she opened her mouth she descended into one of the terrible coughing fits that left her body shaken and tissues covered in a dusting of white powder. They often brought her to her knees.

  ‘Just as bad?’ he said.

  She didn’t have the energy to answer. Just as bad. Of course it was just as bad. Didn’t he have eyes to see?

  She collapsed back down onto her bed, the voluminous duvet enveloping her body like a cocoon. She closed her eyes, unable to remember the last time she had felt this weak. She even felt like her power was waning. She knew she would feel different . . . she had given away half of her Talent to her new husband (dragons, she hated that word) after all. But if anything, it felt like something else was draining her. This virus, this mysterious illness she had, was becoming a serious problem. Stefan had been giving her a pill that seemed to keep the worst of it at bay – he took the same one – but he wouldn’t tell her what the pills were for.

  She hated being reliant on him. She hadn’t left the Palace since Sam’s ceremony that had proclaimed her a Master Alchemist. A familiar wave of guilt washed over the Princess as she thought about her friend, Samantha Kemi. Not long after the ceremony, she’d seen Sam on TV. She was being interviewed on a newscast, claiming that Stefan had been the real mastermind behind the bombing of the Laville Ball, and that the person who had taken the blame – Emilia Thoth, Evelyn’s now-deceased evil aunt – had been just a pawn in Stefan’s larger game.

  Stefan had walked in while she’d been watching the cast and turned it off with a flick of his finger. When Evelyn tried to turn it back on again, the screen remained black.

  She had meant to confront him about Sam’s accusations, demand he tell her the truth! It was just that this illness was making her so weak, she could barely focus . . .

  She opened her eyes as he approached her. ‘I was afraid of this.’ He reached over and put a cold hand on her forehead. She jerked away, but couldn’t get far. ‘You were my last hope. I needed you to be strong enough to fight it. I’d always heard that you were the strongest Royal that had ever been in Nova. Now, we only have one option.’

  ‘Hmm?’ She knew what he was saying was important, but she kept drifting in and out of consciousness. ‘Fight what?’ she mumbled. ‘Do you know why I’m ill? What are the pills for? Why haven’t you told anyone?’ She struggled to sit up, wondering when her limbs had turned to lead.

  ‘Hush now, Princess. There won’t be any more pills for you.’

  Her eyes rolled around in her head, her gaze finally landing on her arm. There was something stuck into it. A syringe. Stefan was injecting her with something. ‘What are you doing?’ she cried. But the words came out muffled and squashed together. She wasn’t even sure that they made any sense.

  ‘Hush,’ he said again. ‘The virus is going to spread. There’s no way to stop it – I see that now.’

  ‘Wait . . .’ She struggled against the pull into sleep, but it dragged her down anyway, aided by Stefan’s hand pressing firmly on her forehead. The last thing she saw before her eyes closed forever was Stefan’s curious-looking tiger-striped eyes staring down at her, and his final words.

  ‘Dragons help us all.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Samantha

  ‘SO . . .’

  ‘So . . .’

  I can’t help it; I have to giggle. The laugh bubbles up out of me like soda from a can that’s been shaken.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Zain asks.

  ‘All this time building up to our first proper date, and I never expected it to be this awkward!’

  To my relief, he laughs too. A strand of his black hair flops onto his forehead as he looks around the crowded restaurant, our elbows so close to the next couple I could almost share my neighbour’s napkin. ‘I guess between my uni studies and working for ZoroAster Corp, I’ve forgotten how to be human,’ he says.

  ‘I forgive you,’ I reply with a grin. ‘It’s normally me who’s the awkward one.’

  ‘True, you alchemy nerd,’ he teases. I throw my napkin at him, which he ducks easily. Then he leans in to whisper to me. ‘Are you ready to get out of here?’

  ‘Why? Have you got a better idea?’

  ‘I was thinking we could go see the kelpie dance?’

  I grin. ‘I haven’t done that since I was about three years old!’

  ‘I heard they updated it recently. It could be cheesy but . . .’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ I say. Anything to get out of this place. When Anita heard that we were going out to Marco Darius Winter’s signature restaurant MDW, she almost choked on her pumpkin spice latte. Even when I clarified that we would be sitting in the more casual section, not the fine dining room, she foamed with envy. ‘That’s still one of the hottest restaurants in the city! How did you get a reservation?’

  ‘I dunno,’ I’d said. ‘Zain got it.’

  ‘You are so lucky!’

  If so, it was lost on me. I’ve lived in Kingstown all my life and I can count the number of times I’ve been to Morray Street (or ‘Money Street’ as it’s not-so-affectionately nicknamed) on one hand. It’s the fancy part of town, with luxury shops and fine-dining restaurants, and the restaurant, MDW, is smack-dab in the middle. It’s so fancy that they can afford Talented waiting staff, so our plates are magically whisked away the moment we’re finished and our glasses are never empty.

  I only hope the refills are free, but considering they’re serving special ‘glacier ice’ in their tap water, I highly doubt it. Zain insisted on picking up the tab, so I didn’t get a chance to find out.

  I’m not a foodcast addict like Anita, so I just don’t appreciate the artful but tiny dishes that are being served up, a twist on Novaen tapas. I can’t help but feel out of place, sixteen-going-on-thirty, and keep thinking that I’d rather go get a burger at Hungry Joe’s than drop any more money here. Besides, all anyone can talk about is Prince Stefan and Princess Evelyn. Like the couple next to us. My teeth clench as their conversation starts back up again over their dessert.

  ‘Well, I think he’s good for her – I feel so much safer now that she’s married,’ says the woman, tapping the edge of her spoon delicately on the sugar crust of her crème brûlée. ‘And their honeymoon looks so beautiful. Do you think we should book a stay at the Luxe resort for our next holiday?’

  The man nods. ‘Whatever you want, honey. And don’t forget, it’s a smart move politically. King Ander is no fool and now our two countries are closer than ever.’

  ‘You’re wrong,’ I snap, spinning in my chair so I’m facing him.

  ‘Sam . . .’ Distantly I hear Zain call my name and catch the warning tone in his voice, but I can’t stop.

  ‘Stefan is dangerous,’ I continue. ‘He tricked the Princess into marrying him!’

  The man drops his fork and holds his hands up, like I’m attacking him over his slice of chocolate mousse cake.

  ‘That’s Prince Stefan to you, young lady,’ says the woman, who brandishes her spoon like it’s a weapon.

  The man’s expression changes from wide-eyed surprise to curiosity. ‘Hang on, don’t I know you? You’re the alchemist girl who was pulled off the air during that interview on Nova Breaking News!’

  I wince. I’m not the alchemist girl who won the Wilde Hunt and saved the Princess any more
. Now I’m the raving lunatic who was cut off mid-rant.

  ‘I’m really sorry, sir, we were just leaving,’ Zain says, standing up.

  The man folds his arms across his chest. ‘No, wait . . . I want to hear what this young lady has to say. Why is Prince Stefan dangerous?’

  I swallow and wait for a beat. This is the news I need to get out there, and I’ve been preparing for just this moment – even if it’s for an audience of only two. ‘For starters, he kidnapped me at the Laville Ball and forced me to find the recipe for an aqua vitae for him, and then when that failed, he convinced the Princess to marry him and poisoned her with a contagious virus.’

  ‘I thought it was you who said that the aqua vitae was a myth,’ says the man. ‘That there was no such thing.’

  ‘There isn’t, but—’

  ‘And the Princess had to get married or else endanger all of Nova, right?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘And even though the Princess has some deadly virus she’s able to jet off to the beach for a fabulous honeymoon, where she’s photographed looking perfectly happy and healthy?’

  My face drains of colour. ‘There are photographs?’

  The man nods to his partner. She rolls her eyes at me and takes her phone from a sleek clutch purse. ‘Here, look.’ With a few taps, she pulls up a paparazzi shot of the Princess on the beach, Stefan’s arm draped over her tanned shoulders. Although it’s a little blurry, as if taken from far away, it’s obviously them.

  ‘Come on, Sam.’ Zain holds out my coat for me. ‘We’re sorry to bother you.’

  ‘But . . . I don’t understand,’ I stutter. The woman flicks through the photoset, and with every smiling photo my heart drops. I grab my coat from Zain’s hands and charge out of the dining room as fast as I can – but not fast enough to avoid the woman muttering loudly about how the clientele in MDW has really gone downhill.

  ‘You okay?’ Zain asks once we’re outside, slipping his hand into mine and giving it a squeeze.

  ‘Yeah.’ I let out a deep sigh. ‘I’m sorry; I know we said we wouldn’t bring it up tonight. But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t listen to them talk about how great he is. Why does no one see what Stefan’s really like?’

  ‘Because he’s a master manipulator with all the Palace resources at his fingertips?’

  ‘I suppose. I just wish she’d get in touch.’

  ‘I know.’

  He’s hurting as much as me. The last time either of us saw Evelyn was at the ceremony that made me a Master Alchemist. The Princess’s last words were that she was ‘coming down with something’ and then she was swept away by secret service. Since that point, I’ve tried everything to get in touch with her short of chaining myself to the Palace gates but I don’t know how to get her attention. And since the Princess won’t listen, I’ve been trying to get the word out about Stefan in other ways: contacting everyone I’ve met in the media since winning the Wilde Hunt, posting on my social channels, writing letters to the Palace . . . but no one wants to hear it.

  ‘Can we forget about it for the rest of the evening?’ Zain tugs at my hand.

  ‘You haven’t heard anything then?’ I ask.

  He winces, then covers it up with a shrug. ‘It’s the Palace. They contact you, not the other way around – even when you’re long-term friends. Besides, Stefan’s only just learning the ropes. Once he’s settled, I’m sure Evie will be back in touch and things will go back to normal. So . . . back to forgetting about it?’ He stares up at me through his fringe and I feel my resolve waning.

  ‘Okay, it’s forgotten.’

  We walk hand-in-hand down to the waterfront, where the kelpie dance takes place. There are two big grandstands set up facing the water, and Zain pays a few crowns for a ticket inside. The atmosphere is like a fairground, with silly games and cotton-candy stands all around, and Talented business owners enchanting toys to light up in the night sky as the sun sets.

  ‘Come on,’ Zain says. ‘I’ll win you a prize.’

  ‘Really?’ I say, unable to resist cringing a little. ‘How about I win you a prize?’

  ‘Sorry champ, but these games are Talented only.’ Zain points to a sign in front of the stall.

  ‘Well, how is that fair?’ I put my hands on my hips. ‘Isn’t that discrimination or something?’ Talenteds – people like Zain, or my sister Molly – can manipulate the streams of magic in the air through an object like a wand or a pair of gloves. The most powerful Talents in Nova are the Royal family, including our incommunicado friend Princess Evelyn. They can use magic with just their hands. But I’m ordinary. And that means I can’t use magic at all.

  I try not to get too bummed about it. Most alchemists are ordinary, because we can work with magical ingredients without any adverse effects. The Talenteds who try mixing ingredients end up with their bodies and minds twisted – it’s not normally worth the risk. There’s only one Talented alchemist in the world that I know of. An icy shiver slides down my spine, despite the warmth of my jacket.

  Zain nudges my shoulder, thinking I’m still insulted by the Talented-only sign. ‘It’s just a game. Watch.’

  I focus back on Zain, but I know what’s really given me a chill: thinking about Emilia Thoth. The Talented alchemist – and the Princess’s estranged aunt – who kidnapped me from the Royal Tour. She’s dead, I remind myself. She can’t hurt me, or my friends, any more.

  Zain takes out his wand and approaches the game operator, handing over the fee to play. The game is a large wheel, like a dartboard, with holes strategically cut in different locations. Each hole has a score above it. ‘Game’s simple,’ the operator says. ‘I’ll spin the board – you use your magic to shoot through the holes. The spell needs to be just a simple rubber ball – nothing fancy, please. The more holes you shoot through, the higher your score, the bigger the prize. Got it? Five holes, six attempts.’

  Zain nods, and the look of concentration on his face makes me giggle.

  ‘Ready? Three, two, one . . .’ The operator spins the board.

  With quick flicks of his wrist, Zain sends bright red balls flying at the spinning wheel. What he certainly doesn’t expect – and neither do I – is for all of them to come flying back, missing the holes completely. After the six balls are shot, his score is zero.

  Zain’s mouth drops open, so wide I could probably throw a ball in there. ‘It’s rigged!’ he says in mock horror.

  I can’t help but giggle again. ‘Come on, we’re going to miss the show!’ I say, tugging his sleeve.

  ‘One more time.’

  ‘If you have to.’ I grin and catch the eye of the operator, who looks more than a little smug. Somehow I don’t think Zain is going to do much better this time.

  My phone buzzes and I glance down. On the screen is the subject line of an incoming email:

  ATTN: SAM KEMI DOCUCAST

  My first thought is, again?

  How many times do these people need to be told? I swipe the email away, determined to deal with it another time.

  A loud groan from Zain tells me he’s failed. I slip my phone back into my pocket and pat him on the shoulder. ‘Can we go in now?’

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ he says, scowling at the operator. But when he turns to me he’s all smiles. I melt a little bit further into my ankle boots. We’re an odd couple: he’s the heir apparent to the country’s largest synthetic potions manufacturer, the industry that threatens my family business. I’m a Master Alchemist of one of the oldest mixing families in Nova. Yet what we have really seems to work.

  ‘What were you frowning at?’ he asks, throwing his arm over my shoulder and pulling me close as we walk up the metal stairs of the grandstand. For the most part, the crowd is made up of families with young children, but there are a few other teenage faces around. The kelpie dance is not exactly known for being ‘cool’, but for a Zamantha date it’s way more our style than a stuffy restaurant. Plus, our seats are in a relatively empty part of the stands, and there are blanket
s for keeping warm. Nice and cosy and date-like.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw you looking down at your phone and frowning. Looked serious.’

  I shake my head. ‘No, it’s nothing . . . just this really persistent television producer person who wants to make a documentary about me. Says that the interest after the Wilde Hunt and the Royal Tour is at an all-time high and I should really “capitalise”.’ I make air quotes with my fingers and roll my eyes. ‘It’s probably a scam. It’s like the fourth or fifth email she’s sent – I’ve already told her no.’

  Zain’s eyes light up. ‘Are you serious? That sounds really cool! Show me the email?’

  I laugh. ‘Keen much?’ I pull the email up on my phone and pass it to him.

  He scans it quickly. ‘Sam, are you kidding? This is properly real. She,’ he points to the name of the sender, Daphne Golden, ‘is a really hot director! She did the last Yolanda film.’

  ‘Really? That was a good movie.’

  ‘See? This could be so cool. What is it they want to do? This email doesn’t have any details, it’s just a lot of begging,’ he says.

  I let out a deep breath. ‘Well, they want to film in the store – “the average life of an alchemist” type thing, maybe follow me to school and stuff. Interview my family and friends – you too, without a doubt. She says I have a story to tell. You know, the youngest person ever to be made Master Alchemist in Nova, my experience on the Wilde Hunt and the Royal Tour . . . that sort of thing.’

  ‘Sounds awesome!’

  I wrinkle my nose. ‘Does it? I dunno. I was kind of looking forward to the fame dying down, finishing school, not . . . going on TV again. It just seems like I’m asking for more attention. I’m surprised she even wants to talk to me after all the negative press that’s going around.’

  ‘Look, you’re a public figure in Nova now and people are going to talk to you whether you want the attention or not. Maybe it’s a chance to tell your story, exactly how you want to tell it?’

  ‘Maybe . . .’

  ‘And I bet they’re offering to pay well.’