“I would not have requested this meeting had I not thought you were worthy.” At Veda’s visible tension, Simran continues. “Consider my approval a compliment, Miss Thorne.”

  Veda certainly does not.

  Simran gestures to the chair once more, clearly used to getting her way. “Please sit. I insist.”

  “I prefer to stand.”

  “Very well.”

  From Veda’s vantage point, observing Antaris and Simran comes naturally. Grandmother and grandson. Aside from the freckles, their features vastly differ. Simran’s are delicate and fawn-like, a contrast to her strong presence, while Antaris’s are rounder yet serious. The only resemblance Veda can find is that they both look through people, not at them.

  She catches Antaris staring at her amulet.

  “Is he Sensitive?” Veda asks.

  Like oxygen, magic is omnipresent, but Sensitives are naturally able to feel or smell residual magic after a spell has been cast. Or when it has been imbued into objects like her necklace. Sensitivity is found only in Mages. Along with wealth, it’s used to define social hierarchy, with wealthy Sensitives at the top.

  “His father and grandfather are, but Antaris is not.” Simran doesn’t disguise her tinge of disappointment. “There will be no need for accommodations, if that is why you are asking.”

  It isn’t, but Veda doesn’t probe further. Despite working at a school, she finds teenagers and babies easier to manage than children old enough to talk yet young enough to lack the filter of common sense developed by experience. Veda glances at Peter, her patience slipping along with her manners. “Not to be rude, but why exactly am I here?”

  “Simran wanted to discuss something with you.”

  The woman in question moves to stand at the end of the desk. “I take it Peter did not inform you about my visit.”

  “He didn’t.”

  Simran assesses her further before nodding. “You will do as a tutor for my grandson.”

  Antaris looks more confused than Veda.

  “Isn’t he—” She refuses to keep talking about him like he isn’t there, turning to the boy. “Aren’t you in year one?”

  “Yes, he is,” Simran replies.

  Irritation spikes, but Veda suppresses the unproductive emotion. “Typically, their curriculum—”

  “Is not my concern. Tutor him for two hours a day following dismissal. I intend for him to be ready for testing to gain admittance into a respectable school.”

  From the corner of her eye, Veda catches Peter shifting his weight.

  “Weston Academy is an excellent school,” Veda says.

  “It is. I can hardly tell it is an integrated school. The teenage Seers are well behaved and polite.”

  “They are no different than Mage teenagers.” Veda glances at Peter, who pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are you aware he is a Seer?”

  “Peter is not like the others.”

  It’s not a compliment, responding is futile, but Veda can’t leave well enough alone. “Why are his parents not here having this discussion?”

  “My son is new to fatherhood, having only discovered his existence a mere two months ago. As a mother, I am better suited to guide Antaris’s path.”

  Is he a commodity or a child?

  Veda notices Antaris’s pinched, wounded expression. “Have you had a tour of the grounds?”

  This grabs his attention. His response is a quick shake of his head, but it’s Peter’s and Simran’s surprise that leaves her puzzled. “Peter, will you show him around?”

  He’s already on his feet midway through her request, gesturing for Antaris to follow. The boy appears hesitant, but one stern look from his grandmother makes him comply. Once they’re out the door, Veda excuses herself and follows. Antaris is already out of sight, Peter several steps behind.

  She sharply whispers his name. Peter turns. “What?”

  “Is she paying full tuition?”

  “She is, and has made a sizable donation.”

  “Be that as it may, her being here is absolutely insane.” When he offers no explanation, she glares. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “I’ll tell you more when you check your judgment at the door.”

  He’s gone before she can argue. Seething, Veda returns to find Simran sitting in Peter’s chair.

  “Is there something wrong?” The tone implies she knows the answer. “Or did you need a moment to fuss at Peter for not preparing you for our intrusion?”

  The room feels smaller, congested. Veda takes the seat Antaris left. “I was letting him know who was at the barn to help with the tour.”

  “Peter reminds me of myself,” Simran says. “He moves in silence, not letting one string know how it fits with the others until they are all entwined.”

  That is Peter in a nutshell. Veda rests her hands on her lap. “What strings are we?”

  “I do not know. My current concern is for my grandson. His mother recently passed on, as you probably know.”

  “No, I didn’t.” Nausea rises with the guilt of judging her absence.

  “Antaris has been in the country for less than two weeks, and we have much to do to acclimate him.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “London,” Simran replies.

  “That’s not the moon. It shouldn’t take much for him to—”

  “Cosmos only knows what his Seer mother taught him before her death. Antaris was homeschooled and did not complete proper testing. We had a comprehensive Sight panel done yesterday, and blessedly, he tested at a zero.”

  Stifling her growing anger is all Veda can do in the face of such bigotry. “Those tests are not accurate. Most Mages have the potential for Sight. How it manifests is a matter of genetics and chance.”

  “The chance, according to the test, is zero.”

  Veda smothers her original comment, amending it to something softer. “I’m struggling to see why it’s so dire that I take him on.”

  “Antaris does not speak.”

  Once again, Veda silently apologizes for assuming he was being spoken over. “Can he speak?”

  “He has not always been silent, according to his mother’s stepfather, who helped raise him.”

  “Then he’ll speak again, I suppose.” Veda shrugs. “I’m not a child therapist.”

  “Be that as it may, from the moment you spoke, Antaris paid attention. You are the first adult outside of our family to gain his attention and response without prompting. I need him to speak again. No proper school will take him as he is now.”

  “I can’t make him talk.”

  “Perhaps not.” Simran’s jaw is tight as she stands and crosses the room to the table to pick up her purse. After producing a collection of folded papers, she hands them to Veda. “This contract includes payment information, guidelines, and an ideal time frame. There is also a stipulation for time bonuses, should you get him speaking before August. All you need to do is sign.”

  It’s not that simple.

  When Simran realizes Veda isn’t accepting the contract, she places it on the desk. “It appears you have already made a choice. Had you planned to accept my terms, this conversation would have gone differently.”

  “It would have.”

  Confirmation of Veda’s decision deflates her. She sits back down, suddenly less rigid. “Are you going to tell me why you denied my request?”

  “No is a complete sentence.” Veda stands and dusts her jeans. “But since you’re curious, I manage the grounds. Spring and summer are my busiest times of year. I won’t have the time to tutor anyone.”

  Confusion flashes across Simran’s face, but she remains composed. “I have been told you tutor Investigator Sallant’s son.”

  The extent of Peter’s association with Simran is a curious juxtaposition. Veda wants to jump to a hundred conclusions. Instead, she holds her judgment until they can talk. She owes him that much. “I don’t tutor August, per se. He occasionally stays after school, plays in the dirt, chases the school’s livestock. It’s hardly educational. Peter should’ve known better. Wait, who is he to you? You’ve made it clear you don’t associate with Seers.”

  “I do not, but his mother was my housekeeper before starting Weston Academy. Peter was my son’s playmate until my son left for boarding school at twelve. From afar, I watched Peter grow into a respectable man. Sight notwithstanding.”

  “Ah, well, I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Veda extends her hand to shake, sighing when it’s rejected. “My denial isn’t personal.”

  Simran’s facade collapses, and something honest rises. “I am asking for one session.”

  “It’s best that you . . .”

  Movement catches Veda’s eye through the window. Antaris is at the top step of the deck, dubious in the face of Peter’s welcoming smile and warm gestures. He turns, almost searching. Their eyes meet through the glass. Veda’s list of excuses is long, but self-awareness lingers. In time, her curiosity will grow louder, resolute and insistent that this melancholic child needs help. Her help. Rationalizing that it’s best she answer that call just this once, she looks back at Simran.

  “Fine. One session.”

  Two

  Hiram isn’t impulsive.

  He has never been the sort to make any major purchase without careful analysis and consideration of all consequences.

  Until now.

  The house is a five-bedroom blank slate of trendy renovated features: neutral colors, boring finishes, and an open concept on Lake Arnez. While stripped of character and identity, it’s move-in ready, with more than enough space for two people. Hiram’s steps echo on the oak floors as he examines the cleaners’ work. It’s leagues better than his sterile Los Angeles apartment and more spacious than the downtown hotel suite they’re in now. Brick and wood, held together by nails and plaster, constructed into a dwelling. Not a home, but it’s his job to make it one. Now he needs to figure out how.

  Hiram is a loner who knows exactly how to get what he wants, but everything has changed. He’s spent the last six weeks overthinking and overwhelmed as he navigates the silence of his traumatized son. He exists on a precipice. One miscalculation away from disaster. One wrong move from failing a child he doesn’t know. Hiram needs to regain control, and the first step is accepting he might fail. He’s still working on that. The second step? Establishing stability. Taking a hiatus from his law career, navigating reconciliation with the parents he abandoned at eighteen, and dropping his life in Los Angeles to buy a house in his hometown is a good enough start. He hopes. If not, it’s too late to turn back.

  As soon as he finishes his inspection, the home’s built-in talisman alerts him of the moving crew’s arrival. Time blurs as they unload boxes, set up beds, install appliances, and place furniture. Once they leave, he opens the windows for the breeze to dilute the smell of cleaning products and freshen the stale air. There are six hours before he needs to be at his parents’ house to pick up his son, per their visitation agreement. It’s enough time to set up the necessities and work up a sweat.

  On the back porch, he cools down, noting that this is another blank that needs work, but the views of the cloudy skies and crystal-blue waters of Lake Arnez urge him to pause planning. Willows and cypress trees dot the sloping lawn until the grass transitions to the rocky shore. The wooden pier and shed look recently built, but the cobblestone path connecting them is old. The quiet here is a silence without a need for possibilities.

  Peace is disrupted by a hazy orange glow encasing his property, alerting him to someone else’s arrival. He isn’t expecting visitors. Hiram leaves the back porch to check the peephole. An odd pair of men stand on the front stoop, looking around and muttering words Hiram can’t hear. One is dressed like a lumberjack—short and burly, with pale skin, curly red hair, a beard, and far too much plaid. The other is a tall man with dark eyes and wavy black hair, dressed in jeans, a white shirt, and a suit jacket. When Hiram opens the door, they put on professional expressions and flash silver Federal Crime Division badges adorned with tiger’s-eye amulets.

  “Mr. Ellis? I’m Investigator Francisco Padillo, and this is Investigator Gabriel Sallant.” The taller man’s Northeastern accent is strong. “We’re with the FCD. Do you have a moment to speak with us?”

  Their badges glow gold at their touch, confirmation they are who they claim to be. Investigators are glorified federal enforcers who handle cold cases, ritual and serial crimes, and any cases involving Seer or interstate activity. They don’t usually make house calls, which sparks Hiram’s curiosity as to why they’re here. With a family of more attorneys, business owners, and politicians than he can count, Hiram knows better than to let them in, but he’s also aware of the shit he can start by not complying.

  “What is this about?” He folds his arms with practiced ease.

  Gabriel pulls out a stone no bigger than the palm of his hand. “This messenger stone was sent to me months ago. I thought it was a mistake until I received Grace Fowler’s case file.”

  Although Hiram remains cool and composed, dread pools in the pit of his stomach. “Case file? She died fighting off a burglar.”

  “The burglary was a cover story. Our British counterparts conducted a two-month inquiry and concluded what we suspected.”

  “Which was?”

  “Are you familiar with the Botanist serial-killer case?” Francisco asks, but when Hiram maintains his blank expression, he continues. “Well, I wouldn’t expect you to be. Despite our efforts, it hasn’t been widely covered because the victims are Seers.”

  “How many?”

  “Ten—now eleven—over the last six years. We don’t know the exact cause of death because the Botanist uses a powerful wasting curse to rapidly degrade their Imprint and, with it, any physical evidence.” Every spell cast leaves behind residue, called Imprints. Like a fingerprint, a person’s Imprint is unique and identifiable but fades after a few hours. “The amount of magic being used leads us to suspect the Botanist is either a Seer or a Mage with a powerful unregistered amulet.”

  “How do you know it’s the same person if you don’t have physical evidence or their Imprint?” Hiram asks.

  “The victims’ bodies are all in the same position, splayed out like a sacrifice,” Francisco explains. “Also, according to Sensitives, the air at each scene smells like spoiled magic, indicative of a ritual gone wrong. Lastly, there are spider lilies in full bloom that burn when touched.”

  “Omnipotent magic,” Gabriel adds.

  Ritualistic magic is bad enough, but Omnipotent is magic that creates through sheer willpower. Just as likely to strip the ozone layer as it is to destabilize society, it’s banned because it invites the type of instability that can manifest in unknown ways. Murders aren’t uncommon, humans are the most dangerous predator, but a serial killer who disregards the fundamental magical laws keeping the world spinning on its axis is something else entirely.

  The public’s lack of interest signifies a recklessness he can’t reconcile. It reminds Hiram that history doesn’t repeat itself; it rephrases and rhymes. This has the makings of another Great Vanishing—the worst mass-casualty event in recent history. Hiram was in college when the first reports of inexplicable disappearances made the news. Dozens disappeared within the first week. Hundreds beyond that. It was declared a magical epidemic only when politicians, royalty, and the wealthiest, most influential figures began disappearing, too. Then one day, exactly a month after the first Vanishing, ten thousand people Vanished in broad daylight in various cities all over the world. Terror sent society into a free fall. Schools shut down, violence was rampant, rules ceased to matter, and the global economy crashed. When the source was apprehended, societal order returned, the incident swept under the rug. Rampant rumors about the source’s identity left the world assuming they were a Seer—no one else could’ve sustained the physical cost of such magic—which led to a massive change in global laws. In America, hysteria worsened the oppression of Seers and their separation from Mages. The tragedy became a marker in history and yet another incident bigots point to as an explanation for their hatred.

  “Grace was the only victim killed outside the country,” Gabriel says carefully.

  Hiram can tell when he’s being studied. He doesn’t like it. “And the others?”

  “The first was a healer in Philadelphia. The next two were found in California. One in Upstate New York. Two down in Florida while they were on vacation. The rest were scattered across Colorado and Texas. We don’t have a pattern yet—timewise, temporal, or otherwise. No motivation. No profile. No fresh scene . . . until Grace, and even then, there wasn’t an Imprint.”

  “The better question is: What do you know after investigating for six years?” Hiram asks.

  “When we were assigned this case three years ago, it was just one murder. As we investigated, we came across more cases from all over the country with too many similarities to be coincidence. We have unclaimed rewards for information, and a cooperative witness that doesn’t remember much. Now we have you.”

  “No, you don’t. Trust me—you don’t want me involved.” Seers, aside from Peter Weston, his best friend, hate Hiram Ellis. “How did you get this address?”

  “Grace led us here,” Gabriel replies.

  “Bullshit.”

  His annoyance simmers when Investigator Sallant whispers a spell over the messenger stone. “Nuntius.”

  Between the cracks of his fingers, the stone emits a hum, then flashes white. Gabriel opens his hands. The stone rises, spinning, until a distorted, familiar British accent he hasn’t heard in seven years emerges. “I am a dying star. I’ve Seen my end. I am not the last, but there is no fighting the end. The sun and moon spin out of orbit while Earth slumbers deep. Broken bonds form anew. You must compel the earth to live, the sun to shine, and the moon to show his face.”

  The stone fades, landing in Gabriel’s awaiting hand, the silence resounding.