Chapter 30
Thirty
Hiram wakes late in the morning to the sound of the shower running. The space beside him is empty.
Five minutes pass. Then ten. By fifteen, he is curious enough to test the waters after what happened last night.
He abandons the warmth of the bed and walks into the bathroom, greeted by a wave of steam.
Veda’s bathroom is modest, the shower’s curtain drawn but clear.
She stands under the showerhead, eyes closed, looking lost in thought.
They snap open when Hiram pulls back the curtain and joins her.
“Good morning.”
“Hey.”
Awkwardness tries to creep in, but Hiram doesn’t let it. Hot water cascades over their bodies as he kisses her, his hand caressing the side of her neck while one of hers rests on his chest.
“Everything okay?”
“You interrupted my mental breakdown.”
“How rude of me.”
“Exactly.” Veda runs fingers down his tattooed arm.
“Any regrets?” Hiram asks, fear in his throat.
“I tried to find a few, but couldn’t.”
“What a shame.” He pulls her flush against him, catching her interested brow raise when she feels him hardening against her. “Are you staying?”
“Yeah.”
They shower together, occasionally stopping for kisses or quips. Veda navigates his body in the light, and he does the same, watching black veins retreat from his touch. She yelps when he massages between her shoulder blades.
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s—I don’t think anyone has touched me there in years. I didn’t realize how sore it was.”
That’s how he ends up behind her, hands working across her back. She squirms beneath his touch, breathing hard, pained but relieved. The air thickens with steam and the scent of her lavender soap. Despite his best intentions, his thoughts turn.
The plan is to dry off and fall back into bed after such a late night.
Instead, they don’t make it past the bathroom counter.
Unlike the night before, it’s a race of wet skin and hair, digging fingers and deep strokes.
Veda’s legs are spread wide, head thrown back and lips bitten as she grinds against him, chasing her release.
In no time, she’s clawing at him, gasping for breath.
One sharp rake of her nails down his back is all it takes for him to catch up.
He shudders, the edge of pain tipping him over.
Pressing his mouth to her shoulder, he muffles a groan as release crashes through him.
Even in the aftermath, all he can think about is how much he wants her again. And again.
For now, they kiss until the fog of desire lifts. After a quick rinse, Hiram dries off and dresses while Veda tackles her hair. When she winces while brushing through it, he takes over, eventually braiding it into the single French braid she likes after she moisturizes it.
“Where’s your salve?”
She meets his eyes in the mirror, then hands him the container. The scent is less than pleasant, but as he applies it, the dark veins fade and the redness settles. He kisses her temple and leaves her to get dressed.
Hiram makes pancakes, the quickest option, and by the time she appears in her usual long-sleeved, fitted shirt and jeans, the last one is nearly done.
“Breakfast, too? You’re setting impossibly high standards,” she teases. “You’ve got to go soon, don’t you?”
He does, but checks his phone only to find a message from Gabriel.
“Oh, Gabriel is taking Antaris to August’s T-ball game.
He said he’ll bring him home after. They had a good night.
No nightmares.” He glances at Veda. “Looks like we’ll have a little more time after all.
Not that I was planning on leaving you alone to spiral about last night. ”
“Is that so?”
Hiram steps closer, boxing her in against the counter. “I miss your cold feet.”
Veda cracks a smile that turns into a chuckle. “Just for the weekend.”
What’s left of the morning passes in a haze.
Veda’s cottage is devoid of food, and pancakes for lunch aren’t nearly as appealing, so they return to Hiram’s house for leftovers. She waits until he finishes eating, then straddles him.
“Haven’t had enough?” he teases.
“No.”
They make use of the quiet house, taking their time to learn each other’s preferences. Veda’s is simple: him.
It’s hard to slip from her side as she dozes, but he manages, catching sight of the dead amulet she’s been holding on to more and more these past few days. Hiram puts on shorts and wanders into the living room, making the most impulsive call of his life.
Clinton answers on the first ring, smug as ever. “Ah, Mr. Ellis. You’re finally ready.”
He rolls his eyes. “I guess I am.”
“Veda’s pride would never allow her to ask for help with the amulet, but your love for her will,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“Death is not the end. Nothing that dies is ever truly gone. It returns to the Cosmos that bore it, waiting to be called back. Then the endless cycle begins anew. Do you know how amulets are made?”
“You shape each gemstone and pour magic into it until it activates.”
“A simplistic explanation for a complicated task, but essentially correct,” Clinton replies. “You can do it, too.”
Hiram remembers Veda saying something similar once, in the library. It feels like a lifetime ago. “I don’t—”
“Stonemakers do, indeed, pour magic into each gemstone. It’s an act of love, for both the craft and the person who will receive it. Born out of love, stonemakers create something that benefits the world. I’ve heard you like to create, too. Here’s your chance to create something for her.”
Hiram stares down at the amulet resting heavy in his palm. “How?”
“It’ll never be what it was, but that’s okay.
This will be from you, reborn through your power and shaped anew.
All it takes is a bit of determination. Call to the Cosmos: the moon, the stars, the earth, the planets, the sun.
If an element does not answer, try another.
Do this each day until it comes to life.
It will require more than patience, more than strength and power. But you are ready.”
Hiram keeps his eyes on the softly glowing amulet. “I am.”
Clinton pauses, then continues, voice lower now. “But you can’t wear your amulet while crafting this. You cannot hide. You must show your true face.”
Hiram sits down for his monthly call with John, though it’s earlier than usual.
For the first time, he’s not alone. After the usual greetings and check-ins, Hiram puts the call on speaker and passes the phone to Antaris, who stares at it for a long moment.
Then, with a nervous tremor, he leans close to the mouthpiece and whispers, “Hi.”
John’s gasp is audible. “H-hi, Antaris. It’s . . . it’s so nice to hear your voice again.”
Antaris buries his face in Hiram’s shirt, and he gently strokes the back of his son’s head. “You did well,” he murmurs.
“You did,” John echoes. To Hiram, he asks, “When?”
“It’s been a few days.” Hiram adjusts as Antaris leans heavily against him, staring at the phone. “He has Sight. He’s had it since Grace . . . They think the stress of it manifesting early is why he stopped speaking.”
“I should have known.”
“I thought the same thing,” Hiram admits. “I missed a lot of signs, but that’s okay. We’re working with him now.”
“Oh, you’re not—”
“Going to take it from him? Never.”
“Good, good.” John pauses and asks, “Is he still there?”
“Yes.”
“Antaris . . . your mom is so proud of you.”
The boy clutches Hiram a little tighter, a little longer, even after the call ends. He wanders off to find Veda outside watering the herb garden.
Their tender little bubble of happiness bursts when Hiram’s phone rings again.
“Hiram, there’s been an incident . . .”
The hotel is on the edge of town. FCD investigators swarm the grounds, reporters are on-site, and the only reason Hiram isn’t turned away by a spell-happy enforcer, who looks fresh out of the academy, is Francisco calling him through.
“I thought you were in Portland,” Hiram says.
“I was, but Marlene said I needed to come back and get that bitch, so here I am.”
Hiram feels the same way.
Investigators part for them like the sea, granting them a narrow path to the shit show. Reporters close in at once, flinging questions he doesn’t hear, though the sheer volume of them confirms it’s bad.
Hiram starts mentally preparing—for what, he’s not sure. It doesn’t matter. Nothing could have prepared him for the scene.
For one harsh second, Hiram thinks his father is splayed across the driveway like a ritual sacrifice.
But the details—the clothes, the shoes, the lack of a watch—hold his grief at bay.
That, and the spider lilies pushing through the cracks in the concrete.
He hasn’t seen his uncle Phillip since childhood, but his mother used to say how much he resembled Barrett.
“Ariadne got to her father,” Francisco explains.
“Why is he here?”
“From what I’ve gathered, in my absence and with Gabriel on desk duty, our superiors found your uncle and brought him in to put him under protection. Somehow, she found him. They’re interviewing everyone who knew his location—”
“And the magic,” Hiram murmurs, staring. “I’ve never smelled anything like it.”
“The scene analysts believe she performed Sight Unseen again. But this time she didn’t bother to cover it up with a wasting curse or conceal her Imprint.” One grim thought ricochets in Hiram’s mind as the medics carefully cover the body in preservation sheets.
Ariadne has only one option left to get her Sight back. And she’s waiting at Hiram’s house.
“We need to call Gabriel.”
They get back in Hiram’s car to make the call, filling Gabriel in on what’s going on.
Dread settles in the depths of Hiram’s stomach.
There’s no telling if Ariadne learned something while she posed as Marlene, Seren, Everett, or even Veda and held on to it for the right moment. “We need a way to get ahead of her.”
“Let’s meet at your house. I have an idea.”