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.”

  Six days later, five boxes appear on Hiram’s doorstep with a note attached in his father’s slanted scrawl. He trashes it after a cursory glance. Unfortunately, the information isn’t imbued into stones. The boxes are packed with manila folders stuffed with papers. He checks each one, skimming for keywords.

  He glances at his watch, then cracks his knuckles, eyes on his target. He has time. A moderate weightless charm should do.

  “Sine pondere.”

  The onyx amulet on his ring flashes purple. The boxes lift, bobbing off each other like listless balloons. He guides them into an empty room and leaves for his next destination. The drive to the FCD is longer than usual thanks to morning traffic. After checking in and ignoring the suspicious look from the old Seer at the security desk, he goes up to the fourth floor.

  Hiram is unprepared for the chaos.

  Investigators and enforcers crowd the lobby, talking with varying degrees of panic. An acrid scent drenches the room. From fragments of conversation, he picks up: Breach. Stone. Investigation. Compromised. Oracle Council.

  In the middle, Hiram spots Seren juggling two conversations while also on the phone. Impressive. Her brow rises when she notices him. She holds up a finger, finishes her call, then waves him over. The closer he gets, the more flustered she looks. The door opens with a curl of her fingers as more investigators stream in, carrying bags of broken stones, ready to report the damage. Seren casts a levitating charm on a particularly heavy stone, the spell not quite enough to activate her bird amulet. Hiram wonders if she’s hurt with how flushed her cheeks are, only a shade lighter than her birthmark.

  Not that she notices. “Hey, we’re dealin’ with a minor crisis. Why don’t you come back in a few hours—”

  Gabriel emerges from the sea of officers.

  “Oh! I was just telling Mr. Ellis to come back later.”

  “Please call me Hiram,” he quickly interjects. She nods.

  “It’s okay,” Gabriel tells Seren. “I can take it from here.”

  She nods. “Nice seein’ ya again.”

  Gabriel leads the way to the office he shares with Francisco, though he’s not there when they enter. Once the glass door closes behind them, Gabriel exhales.

  “What’s all that?”

  “A real shit show. Stone data breach. Fifty hawk’s-eye stones full of evidence from an array of crimes were broken either magically or physically. Most already have Seers in custody, but without the evidence, they’ll be released, which is why they’re blaming the Oracle Council.”

  “That’s a stretch.” Hiram scoffs. “Spells can’t be cast from a great distance, and no one from the Council would willingly set foot in here.”

  “Clinton has. He bails out Seers who get entangled with enforcers. If it’s not Khadijah he’s bailed out, she usually drives him. Aside from that, no Seers come within a mile of this place.” Gabriel frowns. “But no one wanted to hear logic.”

  “Are any of your cases missing?” Hiram asks.

  “The Conclave testing Marlene did and two others from the Botanist investigation. Not the worst of it, but some major cases were part of the breach.” He pauses, eyes widening. “We must’ve found something.”

  “If that’s the case, then you need to consider the possibility of a mole.”

  “You sound like Veda,” Gabriel says. “That’s why she won’t come here.”

  Hiram recalls her haunted expression the other night, still fresh in his mind. “Paranoia isn’t paranoia if there’s even a bit of truth, no matter how small.”

  “Francisco is trying to explain to our commander why our analysis requests were with the ones that were destroyed, because they weren’t signed off on.” Gabriel grabs his half-empty bottle of water and pours it into a lavender plant on the windowsill. Wincing, he adds, “Don’t tell Seren I did that. She hates when I use stale water.”

  Hiram is no magibiology expert, but he doubts stale water is fatal to plants.

  “If Veda is right, let’s talk outside.”

  At the end of the hallway are the stairs. Gabriel uses his Imprint to open the back door to the parking lot. They walk to Hiram’s car, where he presses his thumb to the door; the film obscuring the interior vanishes.

  “Any leads on someone to unscramble Grace’s book?”

  “My father is certain Clinton’s capable. He also sent me boxes of research.” At Gabriel’s puzzled look, Hiram adds, “It’s a long story. I left them at my house for now, and good thing. Did you find anything about the blocked Imprint?”

  “Commander Bishop called us into his office and told us not to keep digging into it.”

  “That’s not suspicious at all.”

  “Right?” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “So I went on an expedition on why someone would have their Imprint blocked from the record. Whatever they did, it’s top secret, likely horrific, and important people want to keep their identity a secret.”

  “Murder?”

  “Worse.”

  “What’s worse than murder?”

  “Plenty. Child marriages. Human exploitation and experimentation. Vanishings. Eugenics. Slavery. Corruption.”

  Hiram glances up to see Seren at the back door, waving frantically. “Looks like you’re being summoned.”

  Gabriel holds a finger up to Seren. “We’ll find the Botanist.”

  “You’re confident.”

  “Of course I am.” Gabriel smiles. “Their Imprint may be blocked, but we know one thing—if they’re in Proventia, they’re hiding in plain sight.”

  Hiram opens the first box, barely managing to pull out a file before his talisman hums. Someone is here. Irritated, he covers the box and leaves the empty room, closing the door behind him. By the time he rounds the corner, his parents are already inside, permission granted by the talisman.

  “Once again, I’d prefer you call before walking into my house.”

  “I did call. You did not answer,” his mother replies, removing her shawl and handing it to his father. Her silk saree, the color of turmeric, gives her a warm, inviting look, but there are cracks beneath her facade. She’s upset. Probably with him. “I would like for us to talk.”

  Definitely him.

  He could easily avoid the impending conversation, but decides not to give her more ammunition to make his day worse. They convene in the great room. His mother sits on the sofa, while his father stands by the window, glancing out. The clink of Hiram’s glass on the kitchen island is the bell that starts the match.

  “Are you not going to offer us tea?”

  Hiram sighs. “Would either of you like tea?”

  Barrett declines, but Simran accepts—peppermint, steeped five minutes, no honey or lemon, one cube of sugar. Hiram delivers exactly what she wants, then sits in the armchair and braces for the next phase of this ambush. From years of experience, he knows how this will go. They’ll circle each other with metaphorical fists raised to protect their faces, take a few practice jabs until one gets brave enough to take the first swing. Hiram never strikes first. For him, verbal sparring is about strategy, not force. He needs to figure out the source of her discontent and get out unscathed.

  Simran sets down her tea and clears her throat. “We were in the area and decided to stop by for a talk while Antaris is at school.”

  “A talk about what?”

  “Your father went to Medina. After some prodding, he admitted it was for you. Boxes that you requested.” Her tone is one he’s familiar with. She’s being gentle for information-gathering purposes.

  “Yes.”

  “I have also heard troubling news that you have been seen around town with investigators, particularly the pair that handles Seer crimes. I do not think it is wise to involve yourself with Seers, let alone help with their cases. You should be focused on Antaris. Is it true? Are you assisting them?”

  He expects her to wield his son like a weapon. She’s been doing it from the start. Yet it still cuts. “Yes, I am. If you must know, Antaris’s mother was murdered by the suspect in one of their cases.”

  Simran looks between him and Barrett, then back. “That is all the more reason not to involve yourself.”

  “He’ll need answers.”

  “He needs his father. And you need to leave this matter to the professionals. Perhaps it is time that you return to your career.”

  It takes most of his restraint not to snap. Hiram looks to his father to say something, but he remains silent. “What kind of man would I be if I stood by and did nothing?”

  “If Seers are indeed being murdered, maybe it is punishment for the power they wield,” she says.

  “The irony of anyone in our family saying that isn’t lost on me.”

  Simran gives Barrett a concerned look. “Dear, you look tense.”

  “It’s nothing,” he mutters. “We should go. Let him find the answers he needs.”

  But his mother doesn’t budge. “Since we are here, and you refuse to listen to us or make yourself available, I would like to discuss another topic we have been unable to speak with you about.”

  Hiram crosses his arms as his mother pulls out a paper. “Go on.”

  “We want to file this request to become Antaris’s legal guardians should anything happen to you. I know that you appointed Peter godfather, and as much as I like him, he is unfit to care for Antaris in your absence.”

  Volcanic rage is ready to spew molten emotions, but on the surface, Hiram is calm. Rage is anger not caught in time, and he’s not eighteen anymore. A dull, humorless chuckle escapes. Simran’s expression shifts to alarmed.

  “Do what you want. You’re going to anyway.”

  “Hiram—”

  “I’ve walked into your web once again. I should’ve stayed away, but I was overwhelmed after finding out about Antaris and needed help, a home, and my family’s support. Did I believe you would change? No. But I thought I could tolerate it. I was wrong.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I came here with the plan to leave the moment I got Antaris to a version of okay where I could get away from you both again.”

  For the first time, his father’s expression shifts from blank to something wounded.

  His mother’s eyes flash with fury. “I cannot believe you are planning to leave.”

  “I don’t know why you’re surprised. I left once. Why not again?” His words land like a blow. Simran flinches. “You pushed your ambitions so far down my throat that I suffocated on your expectations. I did everything you wanted, at my own expense, and was ignored the rest of the time. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let you control me through my son.”

  “That is not what I said.”

  “It’s what you meant,” Hiram snaps. “I have your letters begging me to come back, promising that you’d fix what you broke. But now I’m here, and it’s clear you don’t give a fuck about me.”

  Simran rises, tucking the paper back in her bag. “That is not true. You know what my life was before I met your father. I push, I demand. I was hard on you to make you strong, not because I do not care. Everything I have ever done, all I have ever wanted, is the best for you.”

  “And still you look me in the face and tell me what I’ve already set in place is not to your liking. You overstep. You want more and more from me—well, that’s not true, you just want control. You’ve earned your third strike. If you file that, I’ll see you both in court.”

  Barrett tries to placate him. “Hiram—”

  He turns on his father. “I almost forgot you were here. Good on you for joining the conversation. Fascinating that you’ve decided to vocalize a single original thought.” Silence rings in Hiram’s ears. Anger finally crests. He stares at his father, the weight of Veda’s words echoing in his mind, her frustration with his silence. The truth of it makes him ill.

  “I’m just like you,” he admits in a whisper.

  Barrett stiffens.

  “But that’s about to change,” Hiram continues. “Because I’m finished.” He turns to his mother. “Consider your access to me and my son revoked.” Then he faces his father. “I don’t want anything from either of you.”

  “Hiram,” Simran tries. “Be reasonable—”

  “This is me being reasonable,” Hiram says, cold and final. “Get out.”

  Thirteen

  Beneath a bright, cloudless sky, Antaris watches cows and sheep graze in the pasture behind the school while Veda marks his growing fascination with every little gasp and smile. Only when Peter arrives with a tiny guest does he finally tear his eyes away. The moment it’s placed on the blanket, the kitten wobbles over to Antaris, who scoops it up with a grin.

  “He seems to be gaining weight properly. We’ve been feeding him gruel,” Peter says, kneeling beside Veda’s outstretched legs. “The mom was probably feral, but I don’t think any of the barn cats will take him in. I’ll keep him until we figure something out.”

  Veda nods silently.

  “What do you want to name him, Antaris?” Peter asks.

  He goes still, looking to Veda for permission.

  “You don’t have to decide today,” she assures. “When you’re ready, you can name him whatever you like.”