Chapter Eleven
Eleven
Veda has a shadow named Antaris.
He walks ahead, trails behind, veers off course, but never strays far from her side while roaming the greenhouse.
Content without purpose, he explores every corner, touching nothing, and marveling at everything.
Veda follows leisurely, happy to bask in the peace of watching him.
The gloves she brought for him are bright yellow, and when he tries them on, they reach his elbows.
The addition of goggles earns her a perplexed look.
“Follow me.”
Veda leads him to the berries, pointing to the ripening blueberry bushes. “Look for the dark-blue ones. They’ll fall into your hand easily.”
Antaris follows instructions well, but the first berry he picks is his last. Initially confused, Veda kneels beside him, ready to help, until she sees him cradling the blueberry in both hands.
“My mom used to tell me to thank the earth when I picked my first fruit. You don’t have to speak to say thank you.
Just close your eyes and say the words in your head.
” She demonstrates, and when she opens her eyes, Antaris is doing the same.
When he finishes, before she can tell him to rinse it, he eats it, brightening at the sweetness.
“Good?” He nods. Veda smiles and draws an X on the side of the terra-cotta pot holding the bush. “The X is a mark of protection. It’s superstitious, but my mom swore by it.”
He draws an X, not on the pot but on the back of her hand.
“You think I need protection?”
His expression sobers, then he leans against her. Not a hug, just a moment of shared space.
“Come on, let’s pick some fruit for you to take home.”
He picks two of everything: grapes, blackberries, strawberries, tangerines, and lemons.
Veda adds more to the basket to wash later in the kitchen.
By the time they finish, the basket is half full.
She doesn’t think twice about carrying it, but is amused when Antaris keeps hold of the handle.
He’s helping. They’re nearly out when he stops at the last in a row of young olive trees, looking up.
Everything in the greenhouse teems with life, but this tree has no leaves.
“It was sick not long ago. Normally, we’d uproot it, save our energy for the stronger ones, but I think it can be saved.
It just needs extra care.” Veda puts down the basket and brings him closer, pointing at tiny buds.
“Even if you can’t see it, there’s life in there.
As long as the tree keeps fighting, I won’t give up on it. ”
Just as she will never give up on him.
“Do you know about olive trees?”
Antaris shakes his head.
“They mean peace.” Veda touches the branch again. “It may be sick, but disease or drought will never kill it. I could cut it down, even burn it, and still it would heal and grow back.”
Antaris traces an X at the base of the tree. Even indestructible things need care and hope.
When their time is nearly up, Veda sends Antaris to water the flowers along the edge of the fence.
She sneaks glances as he stops at each plant, stoops to its level, and traces shapes on a petal before watering it.
After, they sit on the bottom step of the school.
Veda peels a tangerine and offers him a slice. “You deserve it.”
Instead of eating, Antaris offers it back to her, eyes insistent.
“I deserve it?”
He nods. They split the slice in compromise. Antaris puts on his school jacket and book bag. She expects him to retreat before Simran’s arrival, as usual, but today, he’s distracted by a note in his hand. Consternation makes him look older than six.
“I can read that for you.”
Antaris looks up. She expects him to tuck it away, keep it hidden and protected.
Instead, he offers it with slow hesitation.
Veda unfolds it with the same care he gives everything, and they look at it together.
The penmanship is legible enough to know it’s not meant for her eyes.
Only his. She considers giving it back, but Antaris is watching her, waiting, hopeful that she can help him learn about the father he wants to know.
“It says . . .” She’s struck by his father’s written words of devotion. “You’re the best choice I’ve ever made.”
Veda rides to the bridge over Dalneau River to clear her mind.
She parks her bike and leans on the railing.
It’s grounding, watching the water pass under the bridge and emerge on the other side.
The river ebbs in some spots, flowing in others, painting the surface with tide pools and currents more stunning than any brushstrokes could capture on canvas.
Her phone rings, breaking the silence. She digs it out of her pocket and answers.
“Where are you?” Khadijah’s voice is low and frantic.
“At the river.”
“Alone?”
“Yeah . . .”
Khadijah’s relief is audible. “Okay. I called Gabriel, and he’s on the way here. Moab was attacked leaving the bank in Panoramic.”
“Is he . . .”
“He escaped. All I got out of him was that someone intervened so he could get away. He ran to my clinic, and I pulled him in. He lost consciousness from whatever curse he was hit with, but he’s stable now.”
“His family . . . ?”
“Jordan is at school in Montana. I called Forestry for Tawa, but he’s on shift in the Cascades and can’t get here for another few hours. Once Moab was stable, I started looking for witnesses and clearing the area so no one disturbs the spider lilies.”
“I’m on the way.” Veda hangs up before Khadijah can protest.
The ride to Panoramic is twenty-five minutes with traffic.
Veda makes it in twelve, rolling through yellow lights and weaving past slow vehicles.
The only available motorcycle spot is occupied by a double-parked, sleek black sedan adorned with the thin paneling typical of cars powered by magic and gasoline.
She considers taking the caps off their tires out of spite, but decides she doesn’t have time for pettiness.
At least, not today. Irritated, she parks in a no-parking zone at the end of the block and walks to the Conclave.
Spider lilies have followed Moab from the bank to the clinic, sprouting from pavement cracks.
Bloodred blossoms shimmer in the sun, their dangerous hue catching her eye as glowing specks float upward.
Khadijah emerges from the clinic next door, still in scrubs, looking ready to scold Veda.
She stops short when something else catches her eye.
Gabriel has arrived, and he isn’t alone.
Hiram is with him, ignoring the glares and stares of nearby bystanders. He wears black like it defines him. The color of power, elegance, and authority. Fitting. Unreadable blue eyes land on her; the quick set of his jaw means he knows an argument is coming.
He’s right, but the first jab doesn’t come from Veda. It comes from Khadijah.
“Why did you bring him here?”
Hiram barely reacts, but Gabriel flinches at her tone. “Hiram’s been helping with the investigation. This concerns him as much as it does Veda and the Oracle Council.”
“How?” she fires back.
“Not that I have to explain my presence to you,” Hiram interjects coolly, “but my son’s mother was a victim.”
Khadijah falls silent and excuses herself to check on Moab.
“Let me know when he wakes up,” Gabriel requests.
She salutes on her way inside.
Gabriel rubs the back of his neck and perks up as someone approaches.
Veda follows his gaze to Francisco and Marlene.
The former towers over the latter, carrying a large black bag.
His face is guarded, tighter, far from the poised, relaxed man Veda knows.
Marlene is tense, too. Her blue-black hair is pulled back into a thick bun at the top of her head.
Despite the ridiculous-looking puffy jumpsuit, half unzipped to reveal a pastel-blue shirt and her blue-jay pendant, she wears professionalism to blanket her features.
Veda notices the slight, skeptical twitch of Marlene’s brow when she spots Hiram, but after giving everyone a friendly wave, she offers him one gloved hand.
“I’m Scene Analyst Marlene Wells,” she offers in greeting. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Hiram Ellis.” He shakes her hand.
“You made it here quickly,” Gabriel comments. “Francisco was leaving to pick you up from the office.”
“I was nearby,” Marlene replies, then smiles at Veda. “How are you feeling after what happened at Lucinda’s?”
“A little sore but mostly better.”
“Good.”
Francisco sets the bag down, and Marlene immediately gets to work, retrieving masks for each Mage to protect them from the magical blowback Seers are immune to.
She crosses the promenade to take photos of the spider lilies from multiple angles.
When the flowers don’t burn after the shifting breeze causes them to touch her jumpsuit, a relieved exhale escapes along with a nervous smile. “Close one, yeah?”
Marlene mock-wipes her brow and pulls out her hawk’s-eye stone.
“So, in theory, what does this test do?” Veda asks.
“It shows what happened and lists the identities of everyone whose Imprint remains,” Francisco explains.
“Even the Botanist?”
“If they’re a Seer, the results appear instantly, thanks to the Registration being imprinted in each hawk’s-eye stone.”
Hiram frowns. “A test that could identify the Botanist. Why haven’t you used it before?”
“Imprints fade quickly. Three hours, max. Every victim before, we’ve arrived long after their attacks, and we’re only able to determine the type of magic used.
At Lucinda’s, Veda was there, but Lucinda had been dead for several hours before her arrival, and it doesn’t appear as if the Botanist used magic after casting a wasting curse to scrub the scene clean.
But with Moab, we’re within the window of his attack, and with nothing cast to clean their Imprint, residuals should be still present. We should get a match.”
Gabriel nudges his partner. “She still won’t talk to you?”