Chapter 59 The chemist’s Skepticism
CHAPTER FIFTY NINE
Lena's POV~
The antidote vial Valenticia had given me glinted under the microscope and its amber contents were a frail hope. Fear curled in my chest, whispering: What if it fails her? My hands, taut from years spent honing my sleight of hand, shook as I tuned the lens with the label, Antidote Prototype taunting my uncertainty. I remembered Dr. Marrow’s serum trials, in 1999, guilt cutting sharp as a scalpel. I’d had to assist Galden, calibrating doses for their memory experiments, not knowing at the time that Subject V was a child—Valenticia Clawford. My breath caught, shame burning up my windpipe, as I leaned back, the lab freezing as it seeped into the gangrene of my white coat. How could I not know? The question haunted me, a ghost I could not expel, and fear pulsed -- what if I cannot make redemption? The lab was quiet, the dawn of Seryne muted through the frosted windows, but the gift of Valenticia’s faith, her fierce eyes when she presented me with the vial, was a weight I would bear.
The door to the lab hissed open and Valenticia entered, her black hair wet with the sea air, her eyes aflame with a combination of anger and hope. My heart skipped and fear spiked — she was a storm, violent and secure in her invincibility, but so defenseless at the same time. “Lena,” she greeted her, low and urgent, “what’s it looking like? Can the antidote work?” She filled the room, a presence that overpowered the cold equipment, and I swallowed, my voice shaking. “It’s … viable but too volatile. Unstable compounds — risks neural overload.” The breath caught in her throat, and the fear shadowed her eyes, and I despised myself for the warning, for my part in her burden. “What does that mean?” “The hell?” she demanded, marching closer, her bag hanging over her slender shoulder, the coastal lab notes peering out. I looked at her, guilt scrubbing at my chest. “It could restore them, Valenticia, but… it could overload your mind, and damage you.” Her jaw shut tight, resolved to stiffen behind it, but fear remained in her voice. “Can you refine it?” I nodded, my hands clenching. “I’ll help you. I’ll make it safe.” Her nod was a quick, silent promise, and something cracked into place. I owe her for this.
As Valenticia went to her phone, it buzzed, and she answered, her tone softening. “Grandmother?” I fussed with the vial, but her voice carried: sharp, urgent: “Gregor’s spies are in Seryne, child. Natasha’s taking point for them — keep focused. My chest seized, an icy bolt-Natasha? The name was Poison, a Galden operative I’d seen in Marrow’s files, ruthless and cunning. Valenticia’s expression went white and fear scored across her features as she whispered, “It was on her card at the lab. My heart was pounding, the lab lights suddenly too bright, a fear whispering: They’re closing in. I leaned in over the microscope, pretending to concentrate; Smith had his mouth on me how far were they away from the antidote? Valenticia removed the communication with her eyes distant, and it was me that spoke, voice hushed: “I’ll be quick, Valenticia. We’ll beat them.” She nodded, but her eyes gauged fear, a reflection of my own, and she departed, her boots clicking merrily down the corridor, leaving me alone with the vial and my guilt and all the delicate hope.
I looked to my instruments and began to pipette the sample of the antidote, the shimmer of liquid a delicate wish. I thought unbidden of Marrow in his lab, in 1999, his voice calm as he changed dosages, ignorant that I was helping to erase a child. Valenticia, I said, my chest squeezing, I didn’t know it was you. Guilt was a blade, but determination blazed brighter—I’d tweak this remedy, unmake my wrongdoing. Hours bled away, the lab’s hum a steady whine, and I tested compounds, my notes covering the counter. Fear beat like a drum—what if I don’t live up to her? — but I kept going, adjusting, readjusting, the fire of the vial’s promise in my veins.
I jumped at the knock, and in came Stefan, large haunted frame, stress-hollowed eyes. My discomfort spiked—what the fuck is he doing here? “Lena,” he said, tone clipped, “Where is Valenticia? I need to find her.” I found his agitation disturbing, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping and okay, he’s too tense. “She left an hour ago,” I said, tone neutral, fear whispering: What is he hiding? Stefan swiveled his eyes and fell on the vial, and for a moment my heart jumped — does he know? “Let her know I came by,” he grumbled as he turned to go, but he did so with his body in tension, a query I could not answer. I frowned, the nest of fear tightening, is he with her or against her? The door to the lab hissed closed and I dropped my head a moment to center myself once more on the antidote, my determination a barrier against the questions Stefan’s visit had raised.
As evening fell I reviewed one more sample, my eyes stinging from hours at the microscope. One of the vials caught the light. I stopped cold, fear spiking. This isn’t mine. I held it aloft, heart pounding, and found a faded signature: N.A.—Natasha Anderson. I held my breath, horror washing over me. She’s been here, messing around. The sample was the wrong color, just slightly off, but fatally so —spoiled and worthless. Rage bubbled up, but terror dominated—she’s going for the cure. I seized the vial, my oath alight: I will guard it, for Valenticia. The lab filled with the loud sound of my phone ringing, and an unknown number flashing across the screen. I replied, my voice eerily calm despite the pounding of my heart, and a distorted voice growled, “Refine it, or else.”