The Alchemist

By Megan Derr

Marcum sacrificed much to be the greatest alchemist on the continent and a master of poisons rivaled by precious few. Power and standing in his father's court. The chance to build friendships, find romance. His beauty, which was once considered noteworthy, but now is ruined by scars and burns. He is regarded with wariness at best and fear at worst.

Though a recent move to the kingdom of Blodwen, far from his home of Roseberry, offers something of a fresh start, still his ravaged appearance and eccentric ways do him no favors—especially not with Goulet, the handsome, infuriating goblin who will clearly never see Marcum as anything but an ugly, bothersome know-it-all unworthy of the tattoos Goulet inks into all their friends.

Then a goblin is murdered, and Marcum's laboratory mysteriously destroyed, opening the doors on a nightmare that should have ended for good more than a decade ago, but now seems to have returned with vengeance in mind...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Megan Derr
• Release date: Dec 13, 2020

Megan Derr

Megan is a long-time resident of queer romance and keeps herself busy reading and writing it. She is often accused of fluff and nonsense. When she’s not involved in writing, she likes to cook, harass her wife and cats, or watch movies. She loves to hear from readers and can be found all over the internet.meganderr.compatreon.com/meganderrmeganderr.blogspot.comfacebook.com/[e-mail]@meganaderr

Book preview

Marcum sacrificed much to be the greatest alchemist on the continent and a master of poisons rivaled by precious few. Power and standing in his father's court. The chance to build friendships, find romance. His beauty, which was once considered noteworthy, but now is ruined by scars and burns. He is regarded with wariness at best and fear at worst.

Though a recent move to the kingdom of Blodwen, far from his home of Roseberry, offers something of a fresh start, still his ravaged appearance and eccentric ways do him no favors—especially not with Goulet, the handsome, infuriating goblin who will clearly never see Marcum as anything but an ugly, bothersome know-it-all unworthy of the tattoos Goulet inks into all their friends.

Then a goblin is murdered, and Marcum's laboratory mysteriously destroyed, opening the doors on a nightmare that should have ended for good more than a decade ago, but now seems to have returned with vengeance in mind…

The Alchemist

Blodwen Forest 2

By Megan Derr

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

Edited by Samantha M. Derr

Cover designed by Megan Derr

This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

First Edition December 2020

Copyright © 2020 by Megan Derr

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter One

Marcum took a break by a stream to look over the mushrooms he'd spent the whole morning collecting. He tipped the basket onto the ground and set it near to hand. Next he went through the mushrooms one by one. He'd collected at least seven kinds, grabbing and throwing them in the basket without much regard, since it was more efficient to gather first and sort later.

As he picked through them, he was pleasantly surprised to see that eventually the basket was practically full again. Some days, he was lucky to come away with more than a handful. Mushrooms were mushrooms for most things, but when it came to alchemy everything got a thousand times fussier. The slightest flaw in the wrong place could ruin a potion, and Marcum really preferred to get his potions right the first time, and without dramatic flaws erupting in his face.

He touched fingers to his ruined cheek, where he could honestly barely feel the touch. It was dumb luck alone that had saved his eye, and meticulous grooming and makeup that gave him an eyebrow on that side, so he didn't look even more grotesque.

Dropping his hand, he got back to work before his thoughts strayed down paths he didn't want them going. Paths riddled with beautiful, smarmy, infuriatingly intriguing goblins who would never see him as anything but a bizarre, ugly human. That he was a prince rarely mattered to anyone. All they saw was the scars and the alchemy.

Damn it.

Marcum dropped the last of the good mushrooms into the basket, then gathered up the remaining in one of the many kerchiefs he always carried. Shrugging the basket back onto his shoulders, he hummed a working song as he headed off deeper into the woods to where an old goblin woman lived. It was unusual for goblins not to live in their caves, but there were oddities and rebels in all groups.

He knocked on the door of Cray's cottage. Cray! Mushrooms for you today! He waited for her acerbic reply about mushrooms from alchemists and frowned when it didn't come. Was she not in? But no, there was smoke coming from the chimney, so she must be. Cray would never be so careless about leaving a fire going when she wasn't home.

Knocking again, much louder this time, Marcum waited with growing trepidation. He swore softly and peered through the front window, but the panes were made of cheap, thick and cloudy glass that didn't let him see anything but vague shapes.

He grabbed the door handle, fear growing when he found it locked. Cray never locked her door, on the chance someone came with an emergency, where every second mattered. Swearing far more loudly this time, he reached into the pouch at the small of his back and extracted the lockpicking tools he kept there.

The door was open in seconds, and he shoved the picks back into their place as he swung the door open and stepped inside.

And drew up short as he saw Cray sprawled on the floor in a pool of blood. Damn it. Marcum approached slowly, carefully, grimacing as his boots tracked in the blood. Nothing for it, though, because he had to check on her.

Unfortunately, she was as dead as he'd feared. But still warm to the touch, and the blood not yet dried or even coagulated. He'd missed the killer by fucking minutes.

Standing, Marcum withdrew from the cabin, closed and relocked the door, then sealed it so that no one but him could open it again.

Then he went to go find the very last person on earth he wanted to talk to, but always most wanted to see, if only to torture himself with 'what if' and 'if only.'

He dumped the mushrooms on the first servant he encountered, with strict orders to deliver them undamaged to his laboratory. Not waiting for an acknowledgement, he went in search of his target.

Not that Goulet was ever hard to find. He was nearly always in his workroom, inking somebody or sketching out his next project or whatever image had struck his fancy but did not yet have a home. Or enjoying himself with whatever most recent beauty had wandered into his bed; Goulet never struggled for company.

Normally a master inker like Goulet would be living deep within his tribe's cave complex, but goblin culture involved a strict practice of non-interference, and Goulet had interfered deeply when the castle—and kingdom—had been threatened by a Bloody Beauty. If not for him, Marcum and Levaughn would not have arrived in time to help, and Calder, Levaughn's lover and Huntsman of the Forest, would have been dead alongside many others, and the Bloody Beauty all but unstoppable.

In the end, however, Goulet had been thrown out by his tribe for breaking such a deeply-ingrained taboo and, in their eyes, putting the whole of the tribe at risk. Which wasn't wrong. The Bloody Beauty would have retaliated by attacking—massacring—the whole tribe if she'd gotten the chance.

True to Goulet, however, he was thriving living amongst humans. He never lacked for work, friends, or companionship of any sort. Whenever he had free time, he subjected their circle to tattoos. Calder especially was used to being at Goulet's artistic beck and call, but Goulet had also tattooed Levaughn and Queen Gwenda.

Everyone in their inner circle, save Marcum.

He and Goulet had been antagonistic since they'd met, but Marcum hadn't thought that Goulet disliked him so much he would insult—hurt—him in such a way. He did, though, over and over, when his beautiful sketches wound up on the skin of their friends and Marcum's remained bare.

But there was also that they were all beautiful, and Marcum was very much not. Beautiful art wouldn't make him less ugly; if anything, it would just enhance the hideousness of his ruined face. Beneath his clothes, the burns were even worse, where the explosion had melted fabric to his skin and required laborious amounts of time, work, and money to heal. There were myriad other scars scattered over the rest of him, the result of a lifetime spent pursuing a dangerous profession.

So of course Goulet would never consider Marcum worthy of his art.

That didn't make it less painful or humiliating.

Pushing his useless emotions down where they couldn't hurt him or anyone else, Marcum took a deep breath and pounded on the door of Goulet's workroom.

It opened a moment later to reveal a half-dressed, notably disheveled and irate Goulet. I'm busy.

I just found Cray dead.

Goulet's eyes widened, then he slammed the door shut.

Marcum withdrew down the hall slightly, stomach churning at the thought of why Goulet would look like that in the middle of the day and be so irritable about an interruption.

Sure enough, a pretty young woman came out of the shop a couple of minutes later, scowled at Marcum, then went the opposite way down the hall. Goulet followed shortly after, dressed for trouble. Tell me, he said as he reached Marcum and they started walking.

Not much to tell. I went out early this morning to gather mushrooms. When I finished, I went to give her what I had left over, like usual. He finished off the rest of the tale, and wasn't surprised when Goulet did not reply, a pensive scowl marring his beautiful features.

Marcum had been intrigued with Goulet right from the start, and hopelessly infatuated not long after. Despite his hopes, and his efforts, they never seemed to do anything except snipe and bicker when they were in the same room, and Goulet seemed to find him just as vexing and annoying as did most people back home. The only thing he didn't seem to feel was fear, which was achingly refreshing and part of his appeal.

No matter how much he desperately wished otherwise, Marcum was more likely to receive a marriage proposal from the moon than he was to get so much as a kiss from Goulet. He kept hoping the attraction would fade, give up, but it was damned hard for that to happen when Goulet was right there every single day.

Have you told Calder yet? Goulet asked.

No, I figured it was goblin business first, even if it is in his forest, Marcum said. Goulet was also a lot easier to find, since Calder could be anywhere in the forest or castle at any given time.

Goulet glanced at him, looking pleased for a moment, before simply giving a nod. Yes.

They traveled quickly through the forest, both adept at the often-arduous hiking required, familiar with the trails, some more obvious than others, that wended through it like the world's most complicated maze.

When they reached the cabin, smoke was no longer coming from the chimney, and a silence had fallen around it, as though the local critters had realized that the kindly woman in the cottage would no longer be throwing them seeds, nuts, and berries.

Marcum broke his seal and pushed the door open before stepping aside.

Goulet slid into the house like a predator, steps near-silent as he crossed the room to the body. Your boot prints?

Yes.

Did you examine further?

No. Once I knew she was dead, I left to get you. I didn't want to tamper with anything until you'd seen her.

Well, go ahead and do your mucking about, Goulet said, and stepped out of the way.

Not certain if he was being insulted or complimented, or a little of both, Marcum knelt where he had before and this time thoroughly examined the body. Her hair was bloodstained, disheveled, like she'd done something that had caused it to come loose and get in her way. He gently moved the matted silver strands aside and immediately saw what he'd expected. Her throat was slit. He frowned as he studied her more closely, gently touching his gloved fingers to her throat and face. But it looks like she was beaten and strangled first. Likely she put up a fight, escaped the strangulation, but the assailant managed to slit her throat shortly thereafter. Help me turn her over.

Once she was on her back, it became even more apparent that she'd endured a brutal beating, and that the knife used to kill her had first caused damage in several other places.

Why in the world would someone murder Cray, and in such a horrible way? Goulet asked. She didn't have an enemy in the world, not so far as I'm aware. She's a healer and spends her spare time making jams and pickles. Did someone kill her for not giving them enough apple jam?

You're wrong and right, if I had to guess, Marcum said, rising and going over to the back half of the cottage, which was set up to be Cray's workroom. All along the back wall were shelves with lips, filled to the brim with bottles, jars, canisters, and more, each one meticulously labeled. Marcum had admired the collection the first time he'd visited, after stumbling upon her cabin by chance while learning the forest.

They often had tea and chatted about their shared knowledge of poisons, since there was a very fine line