Chapter 4 #3
“Why would they invite me? I’m an Ellis, one of the only self-aware ones who can say that my family members are some of the worst anti-Seers in the country. That hasn’t changed, and it’s not going to. There isn’t a Seer alive who should want me anywhere near them.”
Peter waves. “Excuse you, I’m right here.”
Hiram laughs. “You know what I mean. Everyone gives you shit for being my friend.”
“It is a thankless job.”
“Khadijah ready to forbid you from seeing me?”
“We’ve argued about you four times since you returned, and she’s only called you a danger to me once.”
“A record low,” he says. “Although I agree with her sometimes. You teeter too close to the line. My mother might begrudgingly like you, but—”
“I’m careful.” Peter gets up to make them peppermint tea. “Might need a lawyer down the road, if you’re up to it.”
Hiram doesn’t think twice. “I’ll start the process.”
“Good. As for the coin, my advice is either figure out why you were invited or keep getting accosted with more enchanted coins.”
“Fantastic.” Hiram rolls his eyes.
“Aren’t you curious?”
“No.”
Peter makes a small, throaty noise. “Then you’re accepting the status quo, but doing that only breeds complacency, which is a dangerous mentality given your proximity to your mother.”
Hiram rolls his eyes. “I’m not curious because I don’t have the bandwidth to give a damn about anything else.”
“That, and you’ve always hated the pressure that comes with being challenged. You know what’s right and what’s wrong, and hate expending the energy you need to hold people accountable.”
Peter isn’t wrong, and Hiram can’t stand it. Silence overtakes the room but doesn’t last.
“Do you have any remedies for nightmares? I have back pain from sleeping on Antaris’s floor.”
Peter tilts his head. “There’s a story here.”
“It’s been the only solution to keep his nightmares from spiraling out of control these past few nights.”
“What does his therapist say?”
“I shouldn’t expect improvement this soon.”
This earns Hiram his first sidelong glance from Peter. “What do you think?”
“I’m not sure,” Hiram admits.
“You’re the most decisive person I know.”
He isn’t wrong. Sighing, Hiram lets the first thought escape unchecked. “I’d fire Dr. Kidane just to spite my mother for hiring him. Is that the right decision? I’m not sure, but I do know he’s the highest-rated child therapist in the area.”
“But is he the best?” Peter presses. “They don’t allow Seers on those lists. I’ve mentioned Antaris to a few Seer therapists I know in the area. They’re interested in his case, if you change your mind.”
“You already know how my mother would react. I’m keeping the peace.”
“How peaceful is it, really, if your decision is at your son’s expense?”
Hiram winces. “Are you going to lecture me or tell me how he’s doing in school?”
“He’s struggling, but not academically.” Peter’s expression shifts. “You know, I’ve been meaning to apologize for how he ended up with a tutor.”
“Don’t worry about it. I trust you.”
“I can vouch for her. She—”
“Oh, I’ve heard,” Hiram says dismissively. “I’m giving my mother three strikes, and she’s already used one by overstepping with this tutor. I left her once, I can do it again.”
“Is that why your house looks like a staged listing?” Peter gives him a knowing look. “I don’t think I’ve asked how you are in all of this.”
No one has, but his feelings don’t matter. “My focus is on Antaris.”
“Grace meant something to you, too.”
“A long time ago.”
After meeting through mutual friends, Hiram can count on one hand how many conversations they had before sleeping together. Sporadically at first, then more often. After two years of casually dating long distance, he moved to New York City, hoping to build something lasting.
Obviously, it didn’t.
A world without Grace is nothing new; she’s been gone from his life longer than she was in it.
Still, her death was a shock. There was no guide to help him navigate how he felt in the aftermath.
Over the last few months, he’s wondered if she would have ever told him about Antaris.
But her stone message answered that. She’d planned to take his existence to her grave.
It hurt like hell to learn he hadn’t earned the trust he’d given her so easily. But Hiram isn’t angry. Just determined to prove her wrong.
“I’m fine. I’d rather hear your ideas about keeping my mother at bay.”
Peter snorts. “No, you wouldn’t. Because I’ll tell you that keeping the peace is easier than preparing for war, yet sometimes, war is necessary to find peace.”
“Smart-ass.” Hiram lets the sage comment marinate.
“Come on, let’s see if I can find anything to help with nightmares.” Peter leads the way into the storage room full of potions, ingredients, and student creations organized on three and a half walls of floor-to-ceiling shelving, complete with a rolling ladder.
While Peter searches, Hiram whistles low, spotting a dark jar labeled luminescent moss. “Let me guess, you’ve arranged everything alphabetically, by state of matter, and purpose.”
Peter’s scowl tells Hiram everything he needs to know. He chuckles and returns the jar to its place.
“Surely you came to do more than vent and ask for a tonic you could have bought from an apothecary,” Peter says, holding out a vial. “This was made by our brewing instructor. One drop a night works wonders on Mages.”
In places like Proventia, there’s always one person who knows more than most. Peter has made it his business to fill that role, even among upper-class Mages who dismiss Seers. Hiram decides to try his luck.
“What ever happened to your friend from college? What was her name again?” He snaps his fingers, pretending to think.
“Veda, right? I saw her at your grad party and asked her name to look her up. You said she was dating someone . . .” Hiram trails off, rolling his hand as if trying to prompt Peter’s memory.
One blond brow rises. “Veda? Well, yeah. I still talk to her, obviously. You know she’s—”
“This FCD investigators asked me some questions about Grace’s case. Apparently, Grace was a victim of a serial killer called—”
“The Botanist,” Peter finishes. “Did Grace ever come to Proventia?”
“Not that I know of. Why? What does this have to do with Veda?”
“Tell me what happened at the FCD.”
Hiram frowns. “Investigator Sallant keeps the Botanist files on his desk,” he explains.
“When he stepped out of the room, I happened to see one of them. I thought it would be Grace’s file, since she’s the latest victim, but it was a report from a home invasion six years ago. Veda’s. Did you know about that?”
Peter blinks as if Hiram has done something horrible. “I did, but let’s circle back to happened to see. You were breaking the law by looking at confidential investigation files on a serial killer that’s been on the loose for six years.”
“Details.” Hiram waves him off. “Did you know that two days after she witnessed the first Botanist killing, the killer broke into her apartment and she fought them off?”
“It’s more complicated than that, but that’s her story, not mine.” He pats Hiram’s shoulder. “Soon enough, you’ll know everything . . .”
It doesn’t take Hiram long to choose the shape and finish of his desk.
On the way back to his car, he’s too preoccupied with deciding what to order for dinner to pay much attention.
Head down, he walks without looking. The first two times he hears approaching footsteps, he glances up.
The third, he doesn’t. Disoriented, he stumbles.
A bike helmet hits the pavement. Apologies tumble out as he stoops to pick it up. “Pardon me, I wasn’t paying—”
“Sorry.”
Hiram blinks, needing a second to confirm what he instantly knows. Of course it’s Veda.
Much like at Nénuphar, she looks strikingly different, but this time he’s close enough to see her properly.
Dark jeans, a plain red shirt, black leather jacket, and riding gloves.
Unremarkable for the season, yet there’s a coldness to her, a fierceness like grazing steel.
He spies her necklace; the amulet’s eye catches the light with a brief glint before fading.
It’s strange seeing it outside of ink, but his artist did it justice.
Most amulets are made with diamonds or rubies, the hardest gemstones by magical standards, but hers is a sapphire.
Seeing the imperfections up close makes it clear her amulet was crafted specifically for her.
Hiram knows he should walk away, but the urge to speak overrides common sense. “Do we know each other?”
He expects Veda to play along, as people do, but she surprises him. “I don’t know, do we?”
No recognition. Understandable. Peter’s party was years ago, and they were never introduced.
What’s more puzzling is that she doesn’t seem to recognize him from the cave—at least, not his face.
Veda takes her helmet from his hand, her cautious annoyance disarming.
Equally dismaying is the stark contrast between who she once was and who she appears to be now.
Honesty is the best policy. “I was the man swimming in Nénuphar.”
Veda tilts her head. “The one with my amulet tattooed on him.”
“The tattoo artist drew their vision on me. No explanation. I didn’t want to know.”
She remains suspicious. “And Nénuphar?”
“I’ve known about it since I was ten. I only told one person, and you know him. Peter Weston.”
She rolls her eyes. “Peter knows too many people.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Veda,” Hiram drawls, extending a hand politely.
She doesn’t accept. Instead, she scans the area. For witnesses or help, Hiram isn’t sure. She closes like a fist, and the chance for a surface-level conversation vanishes. “Who are you? How do you know me? Why are you following me?”
Hiram’s reaction to her volley of questions sparks visible aggravation in Veda, which bleeds into his own frustration. “I’m not following you, but if I’d known you’d be so damn paranoid, I wouldn’t have said your name.”
She recoils like one would from an exposed flame. She barely reaches his shoulders, but the magic wafting from her amulet feels immense. He’s never felt a regulated amulet this strong, which means it’s like his onyx amulet ring: illegal. “What’s your name?”
“Why?”
“Quid pro quo.”
Hiram’s irritation stalls, and he can’t figure out why. “Hiram Ellis. Two L’s.”
Veda’s scowl softens into cold suspicion. There it is: a spark of the sharp woman he remembers.
“Ellis? Interesting.” His name rolls off her tongue like a curse. It’s not the first time he’s heard it said that way, but something about her scrutiny unsettles him in a way he can’t describe.
“Just like it’s interesting that you’re walking around freely when the person who tried to kill you is still out there,” he retorts.
It’s the wrong thing to say, and Hiram knows it.
Proving him right, Veda’s amulet flares, its sapphire eye glowing brighter, poised to cut him down with a single spell.
It’s unlike him to play with fire, but there’s pretense blazing in her eyes.
She isn’t defensive, she’s frightened. Fear distorts the world, twisting caution into perceived threat.
Hiram keeps this in mind when Veda puts distance between them, then turns sharply on her boots.
She doesn’t run to her bike, but it’s a close thing.
Without sparing a thought for the consequences to his own safety, Hiram follows.
“They think the Botanist has a pendant that changes their appearance. Did you notice any of their features blurring? Were they wearing—”
“I don’t remember anything.”
Hiram doesn’t believe her. “Where did they enter your apartment? Your file lists the door and the window, but the door looks blown outward, and your window was broken. Yet the patio door, the only undamaged entrance, was unlocked.”
Veda whirls on him, fury and fear erupting in tandem. “Oh, so you’re an investigator now? Tracking me down to interrogate me?”
Hiram searches her face, his expression even. This wasn’t his plan, but each question births more. The most pressing of all rattles in his brain. “They say they have no leads. But they do. A survivor. You. There’s a reason you’re still alive.”
Veda goes still for a moment, then hardens. “Stay out of my file and away from me, or else I’ll—”
“If you were going to use magic on me, you would’ve already.” He grips her handlebar, forcing her to look at him. “We’re on the same side.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Hiram raises his hands. “I’ll leave the questions to the investigators if you’ll have a conversation with me. We have the same goal: catching the Botanist.”
Before he can say another word, Veda shoves on her helmet, turns the key, and revs her bike. Her parting shot is a single raised middle finger.