Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Promises made, now Hiram has to deliver.
He gathers patience before making calls to several of his father’s contacts. No one answers, but he doesn’t think much of it until his phone rings.
Barrett skips the greeting. “The last time you called this many of my friends, it was for rushed paperwork, genetic and Imprint testing, and a custody hearing for Antaris. Anything I should know?”
“No,” Hiram replies, tapping his finger. “I need information.”
There is a pause. “You could have called me.”
“I doubt you’d want to be involved.”
“Try me.”
“I need access. Peter mentioned trying and failing to obtain research on the Sanguis Curse: unpublished articles, unsanctioned extraction attempts, survival rates, everything hidden under the bureaucratic rugs. I called Uncle Phillip because he’s the silent partner of a curse research institute in Atlanta, and likely the reason that research is guarded. ”
Phillip is a well-connected figure in magical research—a fanatic believer of Mage supremacy, a mad scientist, and a raging bigot all wrapped up in one terrifying human being.
He believes magic is the answer to the “Seer problem.” Eugenics.
Scientific dogmatism. Sterilization in families with high Seer birth rates.
All of it. Odd views for someone with a dozen illegitimate children he refuses to claim.
“How do you know this?” Barrett murmurs.
“It wasn’t hard. There are Seer-interest groups tracking bigots with too much money and influence. They make sure they’re boycotting the right places.” From what Hiram’s gathered, these groups monitor the entire family, but Barrett and his brothers get special attention.
“Smart.” Barrett offers the rare compliment, but Hiram doesn’t trust it. “I’ll handle my brother.”
“Why?”
“He’s become paranoid. Calling after years of silence will only fuel his fire.”
“I get it,” Hiram says.
“Besides, I don’t need to talk to him to get what you need. He uses his house in Medina as overflow for whatever he does. I have access, and he has an extensive organization system. This shouldn’t take long.”
It sounds too good to be true. “If you do this, what do you want?”
“Nothing.”
Hiram isn’t convinced, but won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. “Fine. Can you also point me to someone who can reverse a scrambling hex? Unofficially, of course. It’s for an investigation.”
“I did not realize you’d started consulting,” Barrett replies, as casually as if he were commenting on the weather. “Commander Bishop only mentioned you visiting the FCD.”
“Your informant is correct.” Of course his father is watching him. “Like I said, it’s unofficial. A favor of sorts, but keep that to yourself. Or do I need your permission—”
“I was checking up on you, Hiram. Your mother is concerned with how secretive you have been. You only provide the bare minimum, so we look for other ways to connect with you. How are we to fix things when you hardly visit and never call?”
“Not as fun when the tables turn, is it?”
Barrett sidesteps the topic. “What sort of case is it?”
“One you disagree with morally. It involves Seers. A murder case.”
“The Botanist killings.”
Hiram frowns. “How do you know about it?”
“I make it my business to know about cases that could lead to another mass Vanishing.” Barrett falls silent. “You should not get involved in these things. It is dangerous, and you have Antaris to think about.”
“Too late,” Hiram says flatly. “What do you know?”
“The monsters we create are an extension of us, our fears and desires. We fit them with our entitlement and tell them they deserve what they have not earned. But in the end, nature has a way of balancing wrong into right, if not immediately, then eventually.”
Hiram doesn’t like how this sounds. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“A lot, but I will bring you what you need to know.” His father pauses.
“As for the scrambling hex, they are nearly impossible to undo—you must have a grasp of the language as well as talent. I would normally suggest your cousin Francis, but no. Ask former Congressman Desai. I have never seen anyone decode like he can.”
Hiram is surprised. “How do you know him?”
“When he was elected to Congress, I was in my third term. Your grandfather was finishing his last in the Senate. There was a firestorm when he first arrived; some refused to be in the same room with Desai, let alone serve on the same committee. They had to translate everything into braille. Someone always sent his official correspondences with a scrambling hex, thinking it would stop him, but he was always on time, prepared. Your grandfather could not stand it . . . or him, for that matter.”
Not a single insult. If anything, his father sounds impressed. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Did you participate?”
“No.”
“But you did nothing to stop it.”
“No.”
“I see.” Apathetic avoidance is the pitfall of a peacekeeper. Discomfort leaves Hiram feeling uneasy. “I’ll ask Clinton for assistance.”
“You’re welcome,” Barrett says. “Allow me to be delusional enough to believe you were going to thank me.”
Hiram will. Just once. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything else?” his father asks.
No. Yet the question burns, leaving Hiram choking on smoke. “Did you ever want to stand up for him?”
Barrett exhales. “The past is complicated. I did what I needed to get where I wanted to—”
“That wasn’t my question.”
His father is silent for so long that Hiram hunts for ways, short of just hanging up, to end it.
“Yes, I did,” Barrett finally confesses.
“Then why didn’t you?”
“It wasn’t my fight.”
The words rattle in Hiram’s bones.
Hazel eyes peer out from behind the armchair. Antaris picks up a children’s dictionary, flips through it while sitting, sets it on the table, and scoots to the end of the sofa.
Hiram sneaks glances during each part of his approach, hiding his amusement as a head of damp curls pops up at the edge of the kitchen island.
“Would you like to help?”
The answer is a decisive, enthusiastic nod and something odd: Antaris taps the table twice.
Hiram looks around the kitchen before finding a step stool that brings Antaris to a height fit to see everything.
“Your list has pasta and cheese,” he says, bending slightly to show him. He and Antaris are close but not quite touching. “I thought I’d make Alfredo with grilled chicken on the side.”
Antaris’s excitement dims. After cycling through reasons, Hiram thinks he’s found the answer.
“Did your mom make this for you?”
Antaris nods slowly.
“Ah, yeah. It was her favorite.”
Hiram feels strange saying it out loud. Antaris knows more about Grace than Hiram knows about him.
“I can make something else if you . . .” Antaris shakes his head. “Okay.”
Still a little blue, Antaris touches the bag of pasta, fingers lingering on the crinkled plastic.
“I usually like to make it from scratch,” Hiram admits. “I enjoy making something out of nothing, but if we want to eat before midnight”—he gestures to the clock—“this’ll do.”
He sets the water to boil, tossing in a generous pinch of salt. At Antaris’s inquiring look, he explains, “It helps it boil faster.”
Cooking has always been a solitary task for Hiram, quiet and focused. A time to challenge himself with balancing tastes and textures. He never had much time before, always working, but now, creating three meals a day for a picky eater has become more satisfying.
Strange how easily his life has changed. How quickly he’s adapted to Antaris’s presence. How naturally the words spill when his hands are busy.
“I was about your age when I learned to make eggs,” he says, measuring flour for the roux. “I burned them each time, but I never gave up.”
Antaris watches closely while Hiram makes the roux, seeming surprised when Hiram offers him the whisk.
“It’s mostly done, but it’s important to keep stirring while I add the ingredients.”
Antaris accepts the task with care, stirring slowly.
He freezes at Hiram’s suggestions and relaxes with each hushed word of praise.
They cook like this, with anecdotes from the parts of Hiram’s childhood that have nothing to do with his parents.
Antaris gradually unfurls. When the sauce is ready, Hiram offers him the first taste.
They move on to the chicken. Hiram demonstrates how to clean and slice the chicken breast; Antaris watches, fascinated.
“Now we season it. How many can you recognize?”
Antaris points to the salt and pepper. Hiram nods and lets him sprinkle both on the chicken. More here, less there. It goes offtrack when Antaris starts pointing to random spices on the rack: dill, cinnamon, star anise.
“That’s not how it works,” Hiram explains.
“We season to make food taste better.” He lets Antaris taste each one, hiding a smile when his son grimaces after the first two and outright refuses the third.
“None of them taste good in this type of dish, so we try others until we find what works. Luckily for you, I already know.”
He picks out garlic and a few others from the rack, showing Antaris how to sprinkle them evenly. After the chicken has cooked and the pasta boiled, they sit at the table with their plates. Hiram’s anxiety spikes when Antaris stares at his meal, unmoving.
“Does it look good?”
Antaris bobs his head.
“Does it look like your mom’s?”
A second nod, this one slower.
“I can make it whenever you want. Just . . .” Hiram trails off, searching for something memorable. “Just bring me the pasta if you ever want to make it.”
Light returns to Antaris’s eyes.
“You should—”
Antaris picks up his fork and starts eating.
“Next time, I’ll show you how to cook something else like . . .” Hiram trails off again, taking in his son’s pleased expression at the prospect of next time. “Actually, anytime you want to help, you can. There’s so much I want to show you.”