Chapter 2 #2
“No,” Hiram answers, still distracted after picking apart how time changed her voice.
Paranoia and secrecy drive Seers to weave their visions in riddles to make interpretation harder and protect themselves from laws that prohibit them from speaking plainly.
Hiram has a feeling they haven’t shown the stone to anyone else, which means this conversation is unapproved and off the record. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“A lot,” Gabriel admits. “Grace also wrote a note that came with her stone, which was how we found this house and, ultimately, you. She said that we needed to find her old pin that conceals a true face. Do you know what she’s talking about?”
“The only thing I can think of is her trickster pendant,” Hiram says, noting the second glance the two men give each other. “Grace has the only one that’s not hanging in a museum. Well, had. She lost it not long after I met her.”
Francisco cocks his head. “Lost or stolen?”
Hiram shrugs. “She said she was out with friends and realized on her way home that it was gone.”
“What does the pendant do?” Gabriel asks.
“It can change the appearance of the person who puts it on. I don’t know what the trickster pendant truly looks like, because its appearance depends on who’s wearing it.
The pin looked like a cat when Grace wore it, but the one time I touched it, it turned into a wolf.
It was a family heirloom, passed down from her grandmother.
Odd that she told you to find something she lost years ago in New York City. ”
“Unless she knew something. Can we speak to her son about the night she was killed?” Francisco asks.
Hiram’s expression hardens. “Absolutely not.”
“Grace is the most solid lead yet. Her murder is an aberration. We need to figure out why the Botanist targeted her. Perhaps, with her son’s statement, we can put the pieces together.
If anyone else was there, where they went.
Anything will help. There are a lot of families that need answers and want justice. ”
“I said no.”
Gabriel and Francisco exchange glances before the former tags himself in.
“As a father myself, I understand your concern. I know this is difficult, but her son was found at home, and there was evidence of a struggle. Why Grace left the house, we don’t know, but she was found nearly a quarter mile away. Her son—”
“Her son is also my son,” Hiram snaps. “He hasn’t spoken since she was found, anyway, so you’re wasting your time.”
“There are other ways to interview him—”
“I’m more concerned with protecting him from the trauma you’re asking him to revisit.”
“If we could just—”
“No.”
Hiram closes the door in their faces and returns to the pursuit of stability amid the chaos.
The Ellis name is complicated.
Hiram grew up sheltered and spoiled. As he caught glimpses of life beyond the carefully crafted confines of the Ellis way, he realized his identity was a python wrapped around his throat.
The more he fought to unlearn the prejudiced lies taught as truths, the tighter his heritage constricted.
College was Hiram’s first gasp of freedom.
He traveled to places where no one had heard of his family, made a name for himself without the unseemly association, and dated without caring whether they were acceptable matches.
Each year, he distanced himself further from his old life—until two months ago, when learning of his son’s existence sent him into a tailspin that ended with a phone call to his father and an invitation to come home and mend broken bridges.
His confidence wavers now that he’s back in Proventia, where the weight of his name is heavier.
He’s in a children’s boutique downtown when the owner, Nancy, says he looks familiar and asks for his name. Hiram considers lying, but truth wins out.
“Hiram Ellis.”
Her face changes as she vehemently shakes his hand. “Ellis? Like the Ellis family?”
“Barrett Ellis is my father.” Unfortunately, he doesn’t add, despite the urge.
There are two types of people in Proventia: Mages who love his family, and Seers and sympathizers who don’t. There are no in-betweens. Fortunately, Nancy is one of the former. It makes things easier, but also far more uncomfortable.
“Oh, you’re that Hiram. Welcome back.” She clasps her hands together. “The town’s buzzing about your return.”
To his credit, Hiram manages to mask his disdain. “I need clothes for a six-year-old boy.”
“I’d be happy to help.”
The more questions Hiram asks about the magical enhancements in the clothing, the more suggestions Nancy makes.
The more clothing he picks out, the friendlier she becomes.
Hiram is choosing between two bow ties when Nancy stands too close.
He’s been so focused, he hasn’t realized he’s made himself prey.
She’s figured out his status as a single father and joked that her beagle is the longest relationship she’s ever had.
Hiram smoothly puts space between them to inspect a pack of socks spelled to always find their mates.
Judging by her surprise, this isn’t the typical chat and number exchange Nancy expects.
He understands why. With her tall, slim figure, blond hair, green eyes, fair skin, and freckles partially concealed by bronzer, she’s attractive, decently witty, and clearly used to getting what she wants.
“We have other accessories you might be interested in. Bow ties are old-fashioned, but imbued animal pendants are in style. They can either protect your child from a spell being cast on them or act like an amulet and absorb the cost of a spell cast. Most on the market can absorb up to ten low-level spells, but these only do five. Child Mages don’t pay for magic like teenagers and adults. What is your son’s favorite animal?”
Hiram doesn’t know, but he’ll never admit it. “It changes every week.”
“Oh, well, we have one that changes to their favorite each day, if you’re interested.”
The pendant is expensive, but Hiram agrees and follows Nancy to the counter while she totals everything up and removes the antitheft gemstones from the tags.
“Also . . . if you’re interested in refamiliarizing yourself with Proventia, I’m available.”
She’s bold, Hiram will give her that. “I’ll pay with cash.”
Her smile fades. Hiram pays, grabs the four bags, and heads to the car.
His next stop is Fallen Oak Apothecary for potions and elixirs to stock his medicine cabinets.
Hiram is reaching for the doorknob when three enforcer patrol cars with lights on screech to a halt near his sedan.
The talisman atop the door pulses and jingles when Hiram enters.
Lavender and thyme are choked out by the scent of confrontation.
“Don’t move!” A short, older woman points toward an aisle, shouting accusations of theft and illegal magic use. Hiram can’t see the accused, but the older woman glances at him. “We’re closed.”
“The sign says otherwise.”
The back door bursts open. “Enforcers! Slowly walk to the front!”
The standoff devolves into raised voices and shoes pounding on wood. Hiram sighs. They must have used the alley to access the back.
“Very well,” a woman replies, bleeding defiance as she steps out of the aisle with a box and an enforcer at her back, his amulet badge aglow in warning. Hiram recognizes the tall, dark-skinned woman with white braids halfway down her back. Khadijah Desai.
“I picked up the box you dropped, and this is the thanks I get.” She’s calm to the point of boredom as she slowly puts it down at her feet and raises her hands. “I don’t need to steal from you. The buffalo horns in the box are fake anyway.”
“That’s a lie, Seer.” The clerk spits the word like it’s acid. “You stole it, and you used magic on me to make me forget!”
A Seer using magic in public is an arrestable offense, but Khadijah remains unbothered, tilting her head at the enforcers.
“Make you forget? Not only is that absurd, but that’s not how Seer magic works.
Do they teach you all anything other than stereotypes and misinformation?
Don’t answer that. A Sensitive can easily tell if I’ve cast anything.
There’s at least one here—I know your protocol. ”
As a Sensitive, Hiram knows a fresh spell can smell like anything, but there’s always an undercurrent of ozone that he doesn’t detect here. He clears his throat, alerting everyone to his presence. “Apologies for intruding, but do you have any proof of theft? Video? Anything on her person?”
The stream of questions flusters the clerk.
Her justification for calling the enforcers fades into the background when Khadijah’s gray-green eyes find him.
They sharpen in recognition and narrow as if he’s an invasive species she needs to eliminate.
Hiram expects nothing less from his best friend’s wife. Bad blood never does run clean.
“Sir,” one of the enforcers says, “unless you’re an advocate of this Seer, you should leave.”
Hiram isn’t, but doesn’t have all day for them to figure out what he already knows for a fact. He pulls out his license and offers it to the closest enforcer.
“As a registered Sensitive, I can confirm there’s no spell residue in the air. There are no cameras on the premises, because sound-emitting talismans, like the one above the door, interfere with the feed.”
The clerk deflates as spell-happy enforcers look around with a new awareness.
One asks, “Ma’am, is that true?”
“Yes, but—”
“Now that we’ve established that nothing happened,” Hiram interrupts with a cold glare, then smiles politely, “please release Mrs. Weston and move the patrol cars blocking me in.”
“As I’ve told you before, it’s still Desai.” Khadijah doesn’t spare him a glance when she leaves, but Hiram watches until she’s safely out of sight.
The next morning, Hiram finds what he’s looking for outside.