Chapter 19
Nineteen
Antaris chooses green.
Not forest or sage, but mint, and remains steadfast, refusing all other options Hiram offers until he realizes decisiveness must be an inherited trait.
That’s why they have mint-green paint and supplies ready when Veda arrives.
She hangs back while Hiram carefully takes everything off the walls and casts a charm for the brushes to start painting. His onyx ring flashes with each stroke.
Fascinated, Antaris sits cross-legged, elbows on his thighs, watching the brush move up and down the wall while the kitten plays with a toy. Hiram is the first to leave him to it, shaking his head with amusement.
Veda follows.
It’s her third time over in the last week, her first visit where she isn’t here for dinner, sign language lessons, or watching Antaris fail at a second brewing attempt.
Today, she’s here to study. Boxes of books are stacked everywhere, all opened, in Hiram’s makeshift office, which now has two chairs and a new bookcase.
“Unpublished research we’ve needed to get to for a couple of weeks now,” Hiram says, taking a seat and putting on his glasses. “Where do you want to start?”
“Actually, we need to start with BeeyardS Rain.”
“Gabriel told you?”
“He let me take a crack at the anagram, and honestly, with everything that’s happened, it slipped my mind until last night. I never figured out the code, but I remembered the name he mentioned, and it fit the anagram. Ariadne Byers. Gabriel said you vaguely knew the name. Clinton, too.”
“Yeah,” Hiram says.
“It’s not looking like one of those coincidences, is it?”
“Not at all.”
“I wonder what else Everett knows. The handwriting is the same as the note he gave me.”
Hiram looks grim. “I have a feeling we won’t find out in time.”
“Then we should get started with something we can figure out. What have you found so far?”
“Not much, but I’ve sorted some.” He points to one stack.
“That’s information on general curses, but I think you’d be more interested in this.
” He moves to the next. “Blood curses. How they’re created, how they can survive while dormant, and several unconventional and dangerous ways they’ve been expelled from the body. ”
Veda skims the top file. “This is more of what I know. Only thing I need to know is whether there’ve been any successes using unconventional extraction methods.”
“A few, but all of them have one thing in common. The blood in your veins must stop. Death will lead it out. I read that in a book.”
“The healer at the hospital said he’d seen my curse before, in another patient. It didn’t leave until she died. I think . . . Where are the reports of the tests that were run to extract the curse?”
Hiram flips through files, finds it, and hands it over. Veda reads it until words begin jumping out at her. “Didn’t leave until . . . death will lead it out . . .” An idea strikes like lightning and rolls like thunder. She paces the width of the room twice, deep in thought. “Like a parasite.”
“I wonder how long it takes to be expelled after death. We’ll need to try something that mimics death. Poison?”
“I’ve never seen one that’s both powerful enough while also slow-acting enough to do what we want it to do. Hmm . . . another option might be something that tricks the body into thinking it’s dying.”
“We can figure something out.”
Veda glances at him, slow and reflective. He didn’t misspeak. Wandering to the boxes lined against the wall, she asks, “What’s in here?”
“From what I gathered, curse studies,” Hiram replies, visibly uncomfortable. “My father said that everything I need to know is here, but I’m not sure how this applies.”
“Sounds like some illegal shit.”
“Probably. I’d turn it in to Gabriel for the hell of it, but they’re spelled to burst into flames if they leave the custody of a blood relative.” At her raised brow, he shrugs. “My uncle is bizarre, even for an Ellis. Paranoid, apparently. Likely for good reason.”
“Are the subjects Seers?” Veda asks, already scanning for the answer herself.
“Not sure.”
She doesn’t get far before a more pressing question arises. “The subjects are all different, all Mages paid handsomely, but all the casters’ names are redacted. Why?” Veda frowns. “Actually, better question, why didn’t they redact their ages? One caster was fifteen!”
“Check the others,” Hiram says.
He calls out dates and hands Veda the files to arrange chronologically.
He starts from the beginning; she begins at the end.
The more Veda reads, the more disturbed she becomes at the thought of teenagers casting serious curses under instruction.
Soon, they’ve gone through an entire box of case studies.
“Says here that the curse studies were cut short because the school was shut down. There’s an article listing Phillip Ellis as the lead science teacher .
. . basically the person running these studies.
I can’t believe this was at a school.” Revulsion is thick in her voice.
“Shit, this reminds me of the horror stories Ruth used to tell me. Seers were sent to boarding schools after their parents gave up custody once their Sight manifested. Since the schools were unregulated, the Seers were used for free labor or experimenting on their magic, then the schools covered up the horrific details to publish their results.”
Hiram doesn’t respond, so Veda looks up. He’s leaning against his desk, eyes glued to the document he’s reading. His expression shifts. “This isn’t about curses or experimenting on test subjects. This is about the fact that my uncle was a hypocrite.”
“What do you mean?”
“He barely notes the types of curses and their results, but details everything about the curser, right down to their blood pressure and temperament. What they eat. What activities they do prior to each experimental curse. He even details what they do after.”
Veda is deeply disturbed. “What was he trying to learn?”
“Take a look.” Hiram flips back to the first page and shows her the file. She moves to his side to read.
Sight extraction—Sight Unseen.
“I’ve seen this ritual twice, scrambled in books,” Hiram says. “Grace’s book on oddities and one from the library. Both had scrambling hexes over what the ritual does, but Clinton told me as much as he knows about it.”
As Hiram shares his conversation with Clinton, Veda’s terror eclipses her anger. “Phillip Ellis is a bigot. Why would he want Sight?”
“It’s a defense mechanism.” Hiram angles his body toward hers, folder between them like a barrier. “It’s easy to convince yourself that you don’t want what you can’t have, or that having what you want is wrong.”
She mutters, “I thought you’d say power.”
“Not everyone wants power. It is human nature to want to feel like we have some measure of control.” Hiram crosses the room to the boxes, tilting his head curiously when something catches his eye.
In the groove of the box is an envelope.
He pulls it out, reads it, then shows her the word hastily scrawled: Botanist.
“What does he know?” Veda’s voice is hushed.
“I need to find out.” He opens the envelope and pulls out a picture. “I think we can assume one of these girls is our Botanist.”
Veda looks at the photograph. There are five girls. Different races, heights, and sizes, linked by their hands. None are smiling, but they look like a unit, bonded by trauma and circumstance. Veda recognizes the one standing next to a brunette with blue eyes.
“I think I’ve figured out why Ruth has been refusing to help. They’re protecting someone they care about. We need to talk to her now.”
Hiram’s already on the phone. “She owes me a favor. It’s time to collect.”
Ruth agrees to meet in a public place in half an hour.
With such a short window and Peter busy, Veda watches as Hiram grabs a small go bag for Antaris that looks like Italian leather and is worth more than her motorcycle.
He packs it with snacks and books while Veda guides Antaris along without causing unnecessary anxiety.
She’s already getting into Hiram’s car before she realizes what she’s done, and he’s starting it with his Imprint before she can argue.
The ride is quiet. Veda speaks only to announce upcoming turns and once to joke about the insufficient tint on the windows, since Antaris is squinting in the sunlight.
Hiram removes his sunglasses and hands them to his stunned son.
Veda steals a glance in the back seat at Antaris with his khakis, white shirt, and bow tie, nonchalantly gazing out the window with his father’s oversized glasses perched on his face.
They arrive with ten minutes to spare. Sanctuary is a community center for troubled Seers located in Hope Park in the middle of Panoramic.
With schools out and the weekend in full force, the nice weather has drawn people outside in droves.
Live music. People grilling by the gazebos, and food vendors selling everything from ice cream to gyros.
Walking through the crowd as a unit, even with his father’s sunglasses on, Antaris looks overwhelmed, squeezing Veda’s hand tightly.
She steers him toward the community center.
The entrance is painted a similar shade of green to Antaris’s bedroom; a pleasant calm separates the inside from the chaos outside.
The grip on her hand loosens slightly. A teenager, Indica, with tanned olive skin that makes her blond hair seem even brighter is manning the front desk, her automatic smile turning genuine when she sees them.
“Hi and welcome! Ruth’s waiting for you in room two.” She points toward the closed double doors. “Go through there, past the kitchen, and down the second hall. Before you ask, what you’re smelling is mint. Helps ground the littles. Some don’t handle the transition well.”
Indica’s eyes drop to Antaris, head tilting slightly. “I think there’s something in the main auditorium that’ll interest you. Your fascination with the stars has only begun.”