Chapter Eleven #2
“No,” Francisco mutters. “I keep trying to figure out what happened, but she shuts me down. I don’t know, it’s been three months, and she seems . . . different.”
“She doesn’t seem all that different to me.”
“That’s because you don’t pay attention—never mind .
. .” Francisco runs a hand through his hair.
“She usually hates birds and pastels, and likes it when I carry her bag. It’s heavy, used to bruise her leg because she’s not allowed to use anything beyond basic magic in public.
But I had to take it from her because she was about to cast a weightless charm without even thinking what would happen if anyone saw.
That’s mid-level magic and illegal for Seers to do in public. ”
“You’re just feeling the wrath of a woman who’s changed her mind .
. . and her style. My ex-wife changed her hair, clothes, and career.
Now she’s shooting a documentary on the effects of the Great Vanishing on Lewes, South Carolina, for the upcoming anniversary.
” Gabriel pats Francisco’s shoulder. “Look, it sucks. But take it from someone who fought his divorce tooth and nail: You can’t fight their choice. ”
Francisco’s frustration smooths into concentration, but Veda sees the storm still brewing behind the easygoing man’s dark eyes.
She watches Marlene and shrugs. “Maybe she’s stressed. She’s been pushing hard for a promotion. Barely hangs out with Khadijah.”
Gabriel’s brow raises. “Anything above scene analyst is management, and there are no Seers in management. Unless she’s trying to be the first. I guess if anyone can do it, it’s her.”
Veda purses her lips, deep in thought as Marlene finishes setting up. She puts on her mask in odd anticipation, having never seen a scene analyzed in person, only depictions on procedural television shows.
A hand on her shoulder makes Veda jolt and whirl around. It’s Hiram.
“You’re too close,” he murmurs, blue eyes sharp.
How ironic. That’s exactly how she feels about him.
“You need to be outside the ten-foot radius or your Imprint could tamper with the test.”
As if confirming, Gabriel waves them over. “Come on, you two. She’s starting.”
Veda shrugs Hiram’s hand off and walks to Gabriel’s side, aware that she’s being watched.
Marlene holds the hawk’s-eye above her head. “Etreal.”
The veins in her arms glow as the space around her darkens, warping.
Light bursts from her fingertips. Wind whirls in a tight vortex despite the still air outside the circle.
The sound of a cracking whip startles Veda.
Magic. Energy. A pulse ripples through the bubble where Marlene stands, her head tilted toward the spinning stone, her veins alight.
While Marlene’s suit sways, her head cover holds.
The stone rises higher, spinning faster.
Random flashes of light illuminate in spots around the Conclave.
Footsteps materialize, highlighting the paths of those who passed through.
Shapes and symbols form like clouds in the air.
Two sets of footsteps face each other. Nothing happens—then one attacks.
Blue and red flares: hexes and curses. The other remains white.
The attacker’s color shifts from blue to an eerie golden yellow, a haze spreading outward, settling where spider lilies now bloom.
A third figure appears from behind, glowing blue.
The attacker turns white, inert, and the victim’s steps move away.
It confirms Moab’s telling. The second clash is less clear.
Both sets flare with color, then flee in opposite directions.
Suddenly, everything within the circle is drawn toward the hawk’s-eye as if pulled by a black hole.
It spins and glows, absorbing every trace of what happened.
Marlene takes her eyes off it long enough to retrieve a small pouch from her bag with a curl of her finger.
At her command, the stone lowers slowly into the pouch.
When she seals it, the air clears. Veda removes her mask, reeling from what she’s witnessed.
The cleanup process is quick and efficient.
By the time Veda regains her bearings, Marlene is ready to leave, but she’s taking a few more pictures of the spider lilies.
“What did the gold mean?” Veda asks.
“Each color matches a spell type. Gold is Omnipresent magic.” Gabriel sounds tired.
“We already knew the spider lilies were Omnipresent, and possibly Everett’s curse, too.
If the same person’s behind both . . . Well, that’s worrying.
It’s cropped up for the second time in a month.
Our commander will likely call in Washington, DC.
The Oracle Council will be forced to cooperate, or risk disbandment. ”
“How long will that take?” Hiram’s question surprises Veda, as does how intensely he appears to be listening.
“Four to six weeks. It will take time for the call to be made, answered, and for the staffing to be arranged.”
“Then we better figure it out ourselves,” Veda says. “The Council—”
“I’m still trying to gather info on all the members and anything special that transpired during their years of service,” Gabriel cuts in. “Everett’s still out there, and all you remember about the Botanist is their blurred face.”
Hiram folds his arms. “So it’s safe to assume this was the Botanist? Not an impostor?”
“It’s never safe to assume anything, but it’s likely.”
“And the person who saved Moab?”
Francisco steps back, looking over his shoulder at the spider lilies. “Has to be Everett, based on what he said to Veda. Marlene, how long will it be before the analysis is ready?”
Veda turns, not realizing Marlene is standing behind her until she replies, “I’ll put a rush on it.”
Francisco’s gaze hardens. “With the Registration embedded in each stone, you don’t need to put a rush on anything to give a preliminary report on whether Seers are involved.”
“I know that.” Marlene’s tone raises everyone’s eyebrows. “Apologies for assuming you’d want a comprehensive report.”
“In February, you told me that a comprehensive report is worthless if the stone is compromised at some point during processing.”
“I did . . . fine.” She pulls out the stone and casts a spell. Smoky symbols rise, one after another. Green. Orange. Red. The stone glows, spinning first clockwise, then counter. A white symbol emerges. The pieces separate and reform into a name.
Everett Simpson.
“He’s the one who intervened?” Veda asks.
“Yeah,” Gabriel replies. The stone keeps spinning and flipping before another symbol emerges, splitting and shifting into the second name. Moab. The victim.
“Now, the Botanist,” Francisco murmurs, impatiently tapping his foot as the stone spins longer than before.
Just when Veda thinks it’ll fade, confirming their aggressor isn’t a Seer, it flashes.
The glow intensifies, flaring as if about to burst into flames.
Then it splits to reform into the name they’ve all been dreading or hoping to see.
What appears causes a silence to fall like a shroud, a purring, meditative stillness, before Veda blurts out:
“The name is locked?”
Veda’s past is like a hot stove. She knows damn well it’s going to burn, but she touches it anyway. She has to.
Home alone. Music in the air. Wine numbs her pain. The streetlight outside remains lit when the apartment suddenly goes dark. Startled, Veda sets down her glass. The upbeat melody doesn’t falter, but she does.
“Veda?”
Memories and reality intertwine, weaving a messy tapestry that leaves Veda momentarily incapable of distinguishing the two. She’s on a street corner. She’s okay. She’s also not alone.
Hiram is stone-faced in front of her, yet his eyes brim with a kind of concern she can’t handle. “Are you okay? You look—”
“I’m fine.” Veda studies the ground. “I’m leaving.”
The sun barely crests the nearby trees. Cars and bikes pass. People mill about, wandering in and out of restaurants in Panoramic, enjoying the start to a pleasant evening. Some shoot concerned looks at Veda, which she pointedly ignores. Others glare at Hiram instead.
“Did you hear what I said?” Hiram asks, reaching, but she steps back.
“What?”
“Marlene left. Francisco is calling Commander Bishop about the blocked Imprint, and Gabriel is inside with Khadijah and Moab. I was about to leave when I saw you still standing here dazed.” His gaze darts around before settling back on her.
“Look, it’s normal to feel off, especially if you’re not used to witnessing magical testing.
My first time was in law school—it’s a requirement.
I was cocky and didn’t wear a mask. Big mistake. I was sick for days.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Exhaustion hits Veda like a freight train, leaving her weary.
Hiram’s skepticism is loud; she lacks the energy to argue.
Instead, she gestures in the direction of her bike.
His offer to accompany her is silent, but his presence is not.
The breeze brings her back to complete awareness, leaving Veda regretful of leaving her jacket at home.
Her strength doesn’t return until Hiram stops at a food truck, buys two bottles of water, and steps in her path, ignoring her protests until she accepts.
When he’s no longer looking, she ravenously gulps it down as if she’s emerging from a desert.
Hiram’s eyes are still elsewhere when he asks, “Better?”
Veda coughs. “Fuck off.”
By the time they reach her bike, she’s back to herself. The helmet is still on the seat, and the double-parked car is still there. No ticket. What a shame. She should have taken the tire caps when she had the chance.
“Ah, you’re next to me.”
Veda rolls her eyes. Of course it’s his car. Hiram scans the area like he’ll find the Botanist hidden behind a tree or blending into the crowd.
“You shouldn’t be out in the open. Not with Dr. Simpson and the Botanist around.”