“Did you look at my note?” he asks, jamming his hands into his pockets.

  “Sorry,” she says, realizing she hasn’t. Her meeting with Antaris made her forget all about it. Not that it matters, as Everett hands her another before rushing off. This time, she opens it. It looks like a half-finished phone number.

  A blur of bright colors in the corner of her eye steals Veda’s attention. Quickly, she identifies the child-size ball of energy barreling toward her with a colorful jersey and cleats as August Sallant.

  “Miss Thorne! Miss Thorne! We won!”

  “Congrats, August!” Veda doesn’t have the heart to ask what sport, because he’s wearing a blend of uniforms. To keep the hyperactive boy occupied, August plays everything his dad can reasonably sign him up for. How he has energy to play in the dirt after school she’ll never know.

  “I played today!” He holds up two fingers, flashing a smile that shows off burgeoning nubs of front teeth that are growing back. Then he launches into the story of how he won the game, but it starts with him getting up that morning and what he ate for breakfast. It’ll be a minute, and the details will be convoluted and out of order. He retells parts of it in great detail and omits others entirely. “Then I scored two goals by myself!”

  Goals narrows down the list of sports, but she gets her answer when Gabriel, his dad, approaches in a Proud Hockey Dad sweatshirt, looking every bit like someone whose last drop of energy was spent getting his son out of the house. He’s barely brushed his red beard. Despite August’s endless energy, Gabriel walks at a leisurely pace, carrying three reusable bags. He’s always smiling and cheerful, greeting a couple of women as they pass by. They stare at him with interest when his back is turned.

  “. . . sparkling flowers poofed. It was so cool!”

  Veda has no idea how they got to that point in his story, but she’s happy for him. His dad, on the other hand, looks exhausted. “You okay, Gabriel?”

  “Been busy on the case.”

  He and his partner, Francisco, inherited the Botanist case a few years ago, after it bounced around the department when no one wanted it. They were the first to link the murders, and they found Veda’s home invasion by accident while searching keywords in the other Botanist files. She told them what she remembered, but spinning facial features and the smell of raw magic still make her queasy.

  Eyeing her empty bins, Gabriel asks, “Need help carrying these?”

  Veda considers declining, but the desire to get everything to the truck in one trip overrides her need for independence. After signing the table and chairs back in with the farmers’ market coordinator, they gather everything and leave. August leads the way to the park’s exit, making up nonsensical lyrics to a familiar song.

  “Everything okay?” Gabriel asks.

  She avoids his questioning gaze, watching August beam at a passing couple, who grin back, enamored. His joy is contagious, but she is immune.

  “Are you sure about what you told me about the latest victim?”

  “We are, but she’s different than I originally thought.”

  “I’m scared to ask.”

  “She sent me a stone message before she died. I haven’t reported it to my superiors, and I don’t think I will.”

  Veda has trust issues for a long list of reasons, but Gabriel is as by the book as an investigator can be. His doubt is concerning. “Let me guess, you distrust your department as much as I do?”

  “No . . . Well . . .” Gabriel shrugs. “My superiors have turned a blind eye to our investigation, so I don’t want to introduce anything that might pique their interest.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got something.”

  “I might, I think.” Gabriel looks around as if there’s someone eavesdropping. “Do you know anything about trickster pendants?”

  “Aside from the basics, I know they don’t conceal cursed marks.”

  Fissures bloom bloodred, and a trickster wears the face of a friend.

  Clinton’s words can’t be a coincidence. “You suspect the Botanist has one. Meaning . . .”

  “The Botanist could look like anyone.” Gabriel sounds excited, but all Veda feels is stony resolution. Distrusting everyone has never felt more justified. Still, validation tastes like bile. Memories yank her back to the night she was cursed. She shuts her eyes, head moving as if she’s scanning the pages of a book, only they’re her memories. Clouded from panic-induced adrenaline, fractured from flashes of pain, heavy from the pressure of a heart beating too fast. Veda turns inward to pull herself free, but instead sinks into the floodwaters of emotion. Absorbed in finality, she chokes on hopelessness, grasping for anything to drag her to safety.

  This time, it’s the pressure of Gabriel’s hand on her jacket, concern in his eyes.

  When she gasps, he asks, “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She waves him off. “I was just . . . Don’t worry about it.”

  He doesn’t listen to her. He never does. “Case aside, if you need to talk . . .”

  “I’m good. Go on.”

  After a pause, he does. “I suspect the victim knew it was stolen and possibly the culprit, just like I think she knew what was coming and planned accordingly.”

  “She knew she was going to die?”

  Gabriel shrugs. “I can’t imagine knowing that kind of thing and continuing to live like nothing is happening. I—”

  “Look, Dad!” August yells, pointing. “The poofies are still here! They’re almost as tall as me!”

  Veda looks past the gleeful boy. Her breath hitches. Spider lilies spring from the asphalt’s cracks. Unlike in the forest, these glow with an eerie, unnatural hue, brightening by the second. A timer ticking down.

  “Come here, August,” Gabriel calmly instructs.

  The boy’s joy vanishes as he throws a worried glance at his dad. A small crowd is already gathering. More people join, whispering.

  “It’s okay. You’re safe,” Gabriel assures his son, eyes flicking to a man reaching toward the long stamens. “No one touch anything.” His voice rises with authority. “Everyone, back away. This is Omnipotent magic. It’s erratic and highly volatile.”

  The man nearly falls over himself stumbling back in alarm. August rushes to his dad’s side. The last thing Veda hears before tuning out the world is Gabriel on the phone, calling for a team. It’s not hot, barbed terror that rises in her chest but cold confirmation. This is a warning. The shift in the Cosmos.

  Suddenly, Gabriel is in front of Veda. “I need to report this to my superiors, so you need to go. I can’t keep you out of this if you’re here when backup arrives.”

  “I want to stay—”

  “Your name is part of a report that is easily pulled if anyone looks hard enough. You don’t need to be here, and neither does August. Take him to Peter and Khadijah’s. I’ll meet you there and fill you in when I’m finished.”

  Veda wants to argue, but logic and one look at August simmer her fight. Before backup arrives to cast an Unbreakable Line around the spider lilies, she leaves.

  Four

  Hiram parks in front of his parents’ house. He was raised here, but it’s never been home.

  White brick. Black trim and shutters. Modern yet classic fixtures. Award-winning landscaping. He knows the aesthetic continues inside: clinical and impersonal. Portraits of a perfect family hang alongside expensive abstract art. Hiram knows every inch of this house, has climbed every tree, overturned every rock, and remembers the weakest points in their security talisman.

  He takes the stairs two at a time. The family talisman greets him with a green glow before the door creaks open. Hiram passes the grand foyer, entrance hall, and open-plan kitchen and living room, surprised Simran is nowhere to be seen. He ventures deeper, through the archway, passing the dining room and library.

  “You’re picking him up early today.”

  His father’s voice startles him. Hiram’s eyes scan three points before landing on the source in the adjacent sitting room. With broad shoulders, stern features, and the advantage of height, Barrett Ellis is the kind of man who makes everything around him look small. As a child, Hiram had hoped to surpass him, but fell three inches short. Despite his presence, Barrett is quiet by choice, not nature.

  Hiram follows his gaze to Antaris behind the glass wall in the sunroom examining each potted plant intensely without touching.

  “How long has he been at it?” Hiram asks.

  “An hour,” Barrett replies. “Your mother gave up trying to engage with him. I think it’s his favorite room.”

  “What do you mean by engage with him?”

  His father gives him a knowing look. “She talks to him at length, shows him Arcadia Academy pamphlets, and has now taken to giving him lessons on our family history.”

  Shit. “Where is she now?”

  “In her dressing closet, decompressing and changing for dinner. Are you still going to Los Angeles to complete your move?”

  “Yes, I fly out early in the morning and return the same evening. Everything’s set up, I just need to sign the last of my leave-of-absence forms from the firm and the paperwork for the movers.”

  “Have you told Antaris?”

  “No.” Hiram isn’t sure how to approach the conversation. “I’ll be back before he notices I’m gone.”

  Barrett says nothing. The television is muted, gray silk curtains drawn, lights dimmed. Although retired, his father dresses like he’s still the mayor: navy dress pants, white shirt, maroon tie, and leather shoes. His graying hair is slicked back, making his widow’s peak more prominent, his pale skin starker. His reading glasses are on the table next to a sweating glass of lemon water, though he prefers brandy. His quiet rebellion includes resting his feet on the coffee table, one of the many things Hiram’s mother has banned.

  Barrett gestures over his shoulder. “You have a few things you need to take with you.”

  Hiram didn’t notice the boxes and shopping bags filling the back corner. “I didn’t order—”

  “For your house.” Barrett looks like he’s swallowed salt water. “You mentioned needing kitchen and bathroom essentials. Charlotte was busy. I had time.”

  The significance slowly dawns on Hiram. His father pays for what he wants, money is no object, but he’s never had the patience to shop around.

  “Gift receipts are in the bags.” His gesture is not up for discussion. “I asked the housekeeper what you might need to be comfortable. She suggested silverware, dishes, cups, pots and pans, kitchen utensils, and dish towels. She also mentioned bath towels, floor mats, and facecloths. I do not remember your color preferences, so I kept my purchases neutral.”

  “Thank you.” It’s the first time Hiram has said it in over a decade.

  Barrett turns to him. “It is the only thing I can do. Fatherhood is . . . I cannot give advice on something I failed at.”

  Sitting with the part of himself that wants to reject the gifts and agree with his father is difficult, but Hiram waits until it’s buried under apathy. As a child, he studied his father’s cues obsessively, always watching from the outside in. The time for heart-to-hearts has long passed. He won’t soothe Barrett’s guilt with false platitudes. If Barrett believes he failed as a father, then he did. Years of evidence leave Hiram incapable of saying otherwise.

  “I need to go.”

  His father raises his glass. “Brandy before you leave?”

  It’s an invitation Hiram has never received. He stiffly accepts. “Make it a double.”

  Unsurprisingly, the brandy is smooth.

  “Your mother is desperate for you to spend more time here.”

  “I know.”

  The ensuing pause gives Hiram space to admit he’s torn. Despite years of silence, they still came when he needed them. No questions asked. Sometimes, he feels he owes them more of himself than he is willing to give.

  “Another?” His father taps the decanter.

  “No.” Hiram stands, dusts off his pants, and prepares to interrupt Antaris’s exploration.

  He’s at the sunroom door when Barrett says, “Your son will be fine. Children are resilient.”

  From experience, Hiram knows they’re not. Not always. He nods anyway.

  On the table by the door, he spots an envelope with his name on it and picks it up. There’s no sender information. Hiram holds it up, frowning. “Where did this come from?”

  “It was on the front step. Charlotte brought it in.”

  Curious, Hiram opens the envelope and unfolds the letter. The penmanship is neat and straight, despite the lack of lines. He scans the page, confused. There are only two words:

  BeeyardS rain.

  Dinner is a failure.

  Antaris picks at everything on his plate with a pointed frown, leaving most behind in favor of sitting in the center of the empty deck in pajamas and wild, curly hair, flipping through one of Hiram’s old lawbooks. He must have hauled it from the living room bookcase without Hiram noticing. It’s humid after the earlier rain. Dusk, but not dark enough for the deck lights to come on. Crickets chirp. Water laps against the shore of the lake. At first, Antaris doesn’t hear Hiram approach, but soon his cursory glance becomes a stare.

  “May I join you?”

  A small shrug is the only reply before Antaris resumes flipping the pages.

  “Do you want me to read it to you?”

  Antaris quickly nods. It’s not much, but he’ll take it. Hiram sits, noting the way Antaris tenses when he gets too close. He shifts slightly, creating space. Only then does his son relax. Both encouraged and disheartened, Hiram pushes aside his feelings and tells the kid-friendly version of the last case he used this book to win.

  For a time, Hiram has Antaris’s undivided attention. He recounts the case of a Seer accused of kidnapping their own child, a claim made by their spouse’s bigoted family. The case seemed unwinnable, with the family testifying that their Seer nature made them a danger to their child. But Hiram found an amended law in that book, allowing him to interview the child privately; that testimony ultimately changed the outcome.

  In retrospect, it’s a boring story full of legal jargon Antaris won’t understand. Still, having his attention feels incredible until the story concludes. That’s when the lights go out in Antaris’s eyes. He retreats, staring blankly at the pages, while Hiram crashes from the high of a rare normal moment between them. He waits in the never-ending silence, but nothing changes. This is the end of the road for today.

  Hiram showers, trying to ignore his mounting frustration. It is progress, he tells himself, but the chasm between them feels deeper than ever. He’s hyperaware of how badly he wants to close the distance before it’s too late. When he returns, changed and dried, Antaris still sits on the deck. Ready for their nightly ritual.

  Antaris wanders every night. When anxious, they’re out here for hours. When upset, he sobs while Hiram looks on, helpless, unable to soothe the root of his sadness. When withdrawn, he wraps himself in a blanket that covers everything except his eyes. Hiram has several theories about the source of his son’s nocturnal wanderings, but none of them are comforting. The worst scream at him when Antaris starts looking. Under the deck. Around the bushes and trees. Behind the trash bins. Out over the water. Searching. It’s as if he’s trying to find what’s missing. His mother.

  Hiram knows the wandering is ending when Antaris slows enough for him to catch up. Each night, Hiram offers his hand. Each time, it’s met with hesitation, never acceptance.

  Back inside, Hiram checks his trip itinerary, folding it neatly. The earlier conversation with his dad lingers as he knocks on Antaris’s bedroom door. Antaris is already in bed, squeezing a battered stuffed rabbit, cotton spilling out, one ear gone, a button eye barely holding on. He won’t let anyone fix the unfortunate thing. Hiram stopped trying two weeks ago.

  Tonight, he offers the folded piece of paper. Antaris looks confused, but Hiram nudges him to take it. “It’s for you.”

  Antaris unfolds the note, blinking at the paper.

  “While you’re at school, I’ll be away. I’m flying to Los Angeles to finish a few things. This is when I leave, and when I will return. You can keep track of me with this, and I’ll know where you are because of a spell I cast on it.”

  To Hiram’s shock, Antaris reacts. Face flushed, breathing ragged, he hyperventilates as the hands of the clock on his nightstand spin wildly—a warning of an imminent magical accident. Hiram hesitates twice, then rests his hand on the bed.

  “I’m coming back.”

  He has to say it three times before Antaris lifts his head, still on the verge of tears.

  “I promise.”

  Still, it’s not enough. Antaris looks away, rocking and hugging his rabbit tighter, his eyes distant. The clock spins out of control, and Hiram finds himself just as lost. How does he even begin to approach the topic of his mother, who left and never returned?

  “I know it’s not much, but . . .”

  Fumbling for a pen, Hiram scribbles a note. A written oath he vows to never break.

  I’ll always come back.

  Hiram keeps his promise by making it home with hours to spare, but his head is spinning from the chaos of the day.

  Finalizing the shipping of his belongings was far easier than handling the last signatures to officially begin his hiatus. He reached the airport with plenty of time, only to be bombarded with calls from his uncle Robert. Apparently, Simran told him Hiram was in town, and he wanted to discuss an opportunity at the family’s firm. When Robert brought Antaris into it, advising that moving firms would benefit his kid the most, Hiram told his uncle he’d rather be disbarred. Now, back home, Hiram deletes his mother’s voicemails on the way to the mailbox.

  The only thing inside is a card. Gabriel Sallant. Investigator.

  Hiram almost tears the card in half before the address catches his eye. Moments later, he’s en route to the investigator’s downtown office. He flashes his identification at security and shows the card to the building receptionist, who mumbles, “Fourth floor,” and points to the elevator.