Chapter 3
Three
Clouds cloak the sky in gray gloom.
Veda is restless, nauseous with anxiety and questions after her visit to Nénuphar was altered by a wet, half-naked stranger bearing an exact replica of her amulet tattooed on his arm.
She runs back to Weston, where Clinton Desai waits alone on a bench with a small radio on the table.
It’s turned down, but not off. There are two steaming cups of tea.
“You’re late,” Clinton’s voice rumbles quietly.
“Am I?” Veda quips. “I was looking for Peter.”
“I Saw.”
A blind man with Sight. The irony isn’t lost on Veda.
Clinton is strong, not overly tall, and doesn’t look a day over fifty, though he turned sixty late last year.
Deep-brown skin. Black hair. Strands of white in his beard.
The wrinkles at his eyes age him more than the scars he wears with pride like the decorated soldier he is.
Dressed in a plum blazer, cream linen shirt, and gray slacks, he looks ready to teach one final lesson for the day.
“Peter left for his meeting with the school board just as I returned from speaking on Khadijah’s behalf to the Oracle Council about what happened at the apothecary.”
Seers answer to their state’s Oracle Council, the governing body that addresses their community’s problems and intervenes when they break the Mage Protection Laws.
These laws forbid Seers from using magic on others, even accidentally or in self-defense.
Those who intentionally break Seer Laws or defy the Code—which prohibits using visions to alter the future, meddle with time, or interfere with life and death—are punished.
The Oracle Council strips them of Sight, leaving them as Unseen.
To a Seer, that fate is worse than death.
“Will they punish her?” Veda asks.
“I do not understand their paranoia, their caginess.” Clinton frowns. “There were no charges filed, yet I had to argue for leniency. It makes no sense.”
“Did you argue as her uncle, head of the Oracle Council, or former congressman?”
“All of the above.”
As the first Seer elected to Congress, Clinton is well known for standing firm in the face of outright hatred.
Once retired from politics, he moved to Washington state, arguably one of the worst states for Seers’ rights, returned to teaching, and has made headway fighting for Seers in his four years as head of the state’s Oracle Council.
There are still miles to go before progress takes hold.
“They believe missteps are a sign of trouble, but I disagree.” Clinton angles his face to the breeze. “Drink your tea, Veda. You’re rattled, more than usual. Tell me about Nénuphar.”
Hiding the truth from a Seer is fruitless. “There was a man there. I don’t—”
“Anyone in need of healing can find Nénuphar.”
“I know, but his arm was covered in tattoos, and one looked exactly like my amulet, right down to the imperfections.” She covers it with her hand. “It’s one of a kind, my dad made it by hand. No one should have a replica.”
“Unless you’re linked through the Cosmos.”
“I hope not.”
Clinton chuckles. “Describe him.”
“Well, he didn’t look like he needed healing.”
Tanned olive skin, a swimmer’s build. Taller than Peter. Undeniably attractive. Dark hair, striking blue eyes, and a shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. Veda can’t detail his tattoo sleeve, but she remembers his soaked hair clinging to his forehead. Funny how memories work.
“Some wounds live beneath the surface.” Clinton brings his teacup to his lips and blows on the steam. “I can’t read your mind, but I know you. I await the day your judgmental heuristics fail you.”
“I’ll be dead by then.” Veda’s dark humor neutralizes Clinton’s amusement.
“Peter told me about the spider lilies. Not every omen means you harm. Sometimes they can be helpful warnings.” Clinton turns off the radio and folds his mobility cane. “This fear you feel will change, in stages, and only when you reach beyond what you know.”
Veda tenses. “Is that something you’ve Seen?”
“Yes and no.”
It’s dangerous and illegal to speak a clear truth, but Seers and their doublespeak grate her unlike anything else.
“You are worried about the Sanguis Curse awakening before you learn whose blood is in that cyst. I know there have been attempts to drain and extract the curse, but cursed blood does not spill like normal blood.” He tilts his head, and a thoughtful hmm escapes.
“I do wonder if anyone has considered that blood curses are man-made and parasitic in nature. They flee once the host stops benefiting them.”
“You know Khadijah and Peter. They haven’t left a stone unturned.
I’ve been on every anticurse cocktail and potion known to man.
They’ve attacked it with spells, cleansed my blood and energy, and used every connection to get a consult with the leading curse breaker only for them to tell me that all the research on my curse is privately owned and they don’t share. Nothing works.”
“Failure does not mean defeat.” Clinton turns up the radio. More incoherent rage-baiting about protecting the masses from Seers. Veda cringes at the hate language.
“Why do you listen to this?” she asks.
“We are no longer cut off from magic, displaced and ripped from our families, but bigotry still thrives.”
“Trust me, I know. Peter enrolled a bigot’s grandson in school. The things she said, the way she dismissed Seers is—”
“Not uncommon.”
“Doesn’t it make you angry?”
“I won’t give anyone the satisfaction of becoming the danger they think we are.”
Fear brings out the worst in humanity.
“Your tea is cold,” Clinton tells her.
“I prefer it cold and—”
“Bitter,” he finishes, shaking his head slightly. “Not for taste but self-preservation.”
“It’s the best detection for poison.”
“An outdated evolutionary warning.” Clinton reaches for his cup and brings it to his lips. “The perfect poison is not strong or messy, it is quick and clean.”
Veda listens to the low hum of bees in the nearby apiary and accepts the mint candy he offers.
“It’s quiet,” he says after a moment.
“You know as well as I do saying the q-word invites chaos.”
He turns to her, his voice sharp as the wind. “I cannot say much, but fissures bloom bloodred, and a trickster wears the face of a friend. Roots hold truths and lies. Take hold. There is one way out. What lies in the dark will come to light.”
Veda’s blood turns to ice. Clinton’s visions are usually hints of feelings, vague until they draw closer to fruition. Although perplexing, this is the clearest riddle he’s given so far. He relaxes in his seat, and they sit together, watching the ever-changing world in flux.
“There was another victim a couple of months ago,” Veda says softly. “A woman in London. Gabriel said her body was found near her house, splayed open, blood everywhere, surrounded by spider lilies. Like the other victims.”
“You still remember the first. You carry him when you should not.”
But she must. His blood stains her hands, never to be washed clean.
Even the healing waters can’t drown the memories that torment her sleep.
She remembers finding Healer Lawson, his body carved, arms spread, glowing spider lilies blooming from blood-soaked hospital floors, turning to ash at her touch.
His attacker’s rapidly shifting face, the moment they noticed her frozen in place.
The surge of raw magic that fractured her memory.
They don’t know what’s coming, Healer Lawson had gasped as the light left his eyes.
Two days later, when his killer came for her at home, Veda understood.
Healer Lawson’s warning had been for her, too.
“Do you know why we meet like this, when you are most anxious?” Clinton asks.
“Typically, it’s against my will.”
He doesn’t hide his amusement, but his expression softens. “I’ve never been able to ignore someone who is struggling to catch their breath.”
Veda looks down at her hands, emotions forming an uncomfortable lump in her throat.
“I was a child when I lost my vision in a car accident. My Sight manifested as a result. It was a constant sensory overload that only eased when I had help learning to shut the world out and restore my strength. I learned that my answer wasn’t solitude, it was family and community. That is what I hope I’ve taught you.”
“I have a community: Peter, Khadijah, Gabriel, sometimes Francisco, and you.”
“But you need more. Isn’t it lonely with no one to tend to you?”
A childlike vulnerability emerges. Veda wants to hug herself for the comfort she pretends to never need. “Time isn’t on my side.”
“Time doesn’t take sides,” Clinton replies gently. “Don’t waste energy chasing it. It’s beyond your control. Use what you have wisely, and you will not walk through hell alone. Protect your strength. Open yourself to possibilities. What is meant to happen will.”
Veda feels worse than she did when she sat down. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“It’s not intended to.” He pauses. “Let yourself stand still, but do not stop.”
Veda shuts her eyes.
“What do you hear?” Clinton asks after a while.
“The bees. The breeze. The birds. The rustling trees. The incoming storm.”
“I hear disorder.”
Whether in her or in nature, he doesn’t say.
Weston Academy’s greenhouse is a marvelous mixture of magic and technology.