Chapter Eleven #3
“Dr. Simpson isn’t a danger. He may be going mad, but he wanted to warn me, to protect me, and it looks like he helped Moab escape. As for the Botanist, I’d ask how you know they’re a danger to me, but your answer is going to piss me off, so I won’t bother.”
“I put the pieces together that I was given.” At her dirty look, he amends, “Fine, the pieces I took without permission. I’m an attorney, so I’m nosy and I know how to keep a secret.
It doesn’t matter how I know. What matters is, you’ve come face-to-face with the Botanist three times. Of course you’re in danger.”
“You’re not wrong.”
He tilts his head. “It looks like we’ve gone over a hundred words without arguing. A record.”
Veda rolls her eyes. “Good to know. I’ll go back to being a pain in the ass.”
“Glad you’re acknowledging it, at least to me.” A car slows down, eager for their spots. Hiram waves them off. “Don’t act like you’re not hot and cold. Last time I saw you, I nearly fell into a fountain trying to apologize, but now you’re willingly speaking to me.”
“Blame it on how I’m feeling.”
“Right. After that . . . staring episode you just had. You’re fine, of course.”
Something about his voice, an odd mix of sardonic and warm, unsettles her. Fist tight against her side, warm and irritated, she hates feeling nervous like this. Hiram is an abstraction Veda shouldn’t notice, much less acknowledge. “I’ll be back to normal next time.”
“Next time?” Hiram’s brow waggles suggestively, earning him an unimpressed look that makes him raise both hands in surrender. “Then I should use this rare opportunity to ask why Antaris is now drawing X’s on the plants in the yard before you’re back to being angry at my existence.”
Veda ignores the tinge of embarrassment. Last time they spoke, Veda was one day out from being blown off the porch, up all night with insomnia, and in a terrible mood. Unfortunately, she can’t call him unreasonable. “He’s protecting the plants.”
“Oh,” Hiram mutters, surprised by her direct response. “Let’s see if we can extend this streak of cooperation. Have a good evening.”
“You were right,” Veda says, albeit reluctantly. “We do need to talk, if only to admit I don’t trust your involvement in this. Antaris’s mother sends a message to Gabriel that leads him to you. Then you to me. My amulet is on your arm. You illegally search my file and—”
“It doesn’t make sense,” he interrupts. “Every window was locked. How did they get in?”
“It was like someone dropped a bomb on the apartment. I keep trying, but the first thing I recall is running. I don’t even remember how I got out.
Sometimes, I get flashes—my staring episode was me remembering—but it never lasts.
I never see the full picture.” Admitting this makes Veda itch to throw on her helmet and flee to the safety of home, but more truths spill before she can leave.
“The Botanist cursed me that night. Sanguis Curse.”
Hiram goes still. “That curse is—how are you still alive?”
“Blood curses have to be cast perfectly or they fuck everything up. After I got out, they cursed the blood in the apartment and sent it to find me, but their blood was mixed in, too. My blood treated it like a foreign invader, creating a cyst on my side, trapping it there. I barely made it to Proventia, to Peter. He arranged for Seers along the bus route to use healing spells to keep me going at each stop, and when I made it, Khadijah forced the curse into dormancy.”
“That doesn’t sound legal.”
“It’s not.”
“How long will it sleep?”
“No one knows because I’ve passed the point where an ordinary curse would wake.” Veda looks away. “Peter and Khadijah have done everything to get it out safely, but I’m on borrowed time. They haven’t given up, but—”
“You have.” He tsks. “That’s a damn shame.”
Anger sparks from the pity wafting from him. “Don’t act like you care.”
“As long as you don’t pretend you’re not terrified.” Hiram studies her closely, something unreadable in his eyes. “Maybe it’s fear that makes you so different from how I remember you.”
She stiffens. “What are you talking about? W—”
“I saw you at Peter’s graduation party. Arguing with three idiots. You never backed down.”
Veda can’t react because he’s too close. The topic is too personal.
“Where’s your fight, Veda?”
The bitter urge to run from his pointed, painful question makes her head swim. “I know what I’m up against. The odds aren’t in my favor. This curse has been growing inside me, and now with the Botanist knowing where I am—” She shakes her head, trying to control her mounting anxiety.
“You’re one blocked Imprint from having a name. Gabriel and Francisco finally have a direction and pieces to put together. It may be a clusterfuck, but it’s not over.”
“I wish that were true. What I know is that the Botanist’s blood is trapped in me. It’s as cursed as mine. The moment it’s free, I can use the same incantation to have their blood find them like it found me. They will suffer as I have and die as I will. The Botanist won’t kill anyone else.”
“Or you could extract the curse.”
Frustration crawls up her spine. “I told you. We’ve tried. Eight times, to be exact.”
Hiram cards his fingers through his hair. “Peter said you needed all the help you could get. Now I understand why.”
Veda rolls her eyes. “His optimism remains delusional.”
A dark, determined look overtakes Hiram’s expression. “Then let me try the ninth time. What do you have to lose?”
Veda stares, stunned. “You’re an attorney. Not a healer, doctor, or medic. What could you possibly do for me?”
“I’m an Ellis, and while that’s everything you hate, the name comes with the privilege of connections. I can throw a wider net for your curse.”
“We’ve looked up everything that’s been published.”
“Then I’ll start with what hasn’t.” In the face of her skepticism, he lifts his hands. “All legal and aboveboard, of course.”
“Why would you help me?”
Hiram shrugs. “My son is attached to you. I’d rather he not lose anyone else.”
It’s one thing to have these errant thoughts when she’s alone, and another to hear it said out loud by someone who will have to pick up the pieces when she’s gone. Not a thought anymore but tangible with the power to shape reality.
“More than that,” he adds quietly, “you can pretend all you want, but we both know you’re not ready to die.”
Hiram’s smirk grows the longer she doesn’t rebut.
“That’s what I thought.” He extends his hand. “Be prepared to be sick of me.”
She smacks it away. “I already am.”
“It’s mutual.” He’s unfazed, smug yet serious. Weirdly charming. “You’ll live. I’ll see to it.”
“Sounds like you’re about to overpromise and under-deliver on—”
“I have a high success rate of making good on promises.”
Veda snatches her helmet and puts it on. “Well, aren’t you a smug asshole?”
“I am.” He leans in, determined eyes set on her. The corners of his lips twitch. “I’m also more than that. You’ll see.”