“The tattoo artist drew their vision on me. No explanation. I didn’t want to know.”

  She remains suspicious. “And Nénuphar?”

  “I’ve known about it since I was ten. I only told one person, and you know him. Peter Weston.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Peter knows too many people.”

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Veda,” Hiram drawls, extending a hand politely.

  She doesn’t accept. Instead, she scans the area. For witnesses or help, Hiram isn’t sure. She closes like a fist, and the chance for a surface-level conversation vanishes. “Who are you? How do you know me? Why are you following me?”

  Hiram’s reaction to her volley of questions sparks visible aggravation in Veda, which bleeds into his own frustration. “I’m not following you, but if I’d known you’d be so damn paranoid, I wouldn’t have said your name.”

  She recoils like one would from an exposed flame. She barely reaches his shoulders, but the magic wafting from her amulet feels immense. He’s never felt a regulated amulet this strong, which means it’s like his onyx amulet ring: illegal. “What’s your name?”

  “Why?”

  “Quid pro quo.”

  Hiram’s irritation stalls, and he can’t figure out why. “Hiram Ellis. Two L’s.”

  Veda’s scowl softens into cold suspicion. There it is: a spark of the sharp woman he remembers.

  “Ellis? Interesting.” His name rolls off her tongue like a curse. It’s not the first time he’s heard it said that way, but something about her scrutiny unsettles him in a way he can’t describe.

  “Just like it’s interesting that you’re walking around freely when the person who tried to kill you is still out there,” he retorts.

  It’s the wrong thing to say, and Hiram knows it. Proving him right, Veda’s amulet flares, its sapphire eye glowing brighter, poised to cut him down with a single spell. It’s unlike him to play with fire, but there’s pretense blazing in her eyes. She isn’t defensive, she’s frightened. Fear distorts the world, twisting caution into perceived threat. Hiram keeps this in mind when Veda puts distance between them, then turns sharply on her boots. She doesn’t run to her bike, but it’s a close thing. Without sparing a thought for the consequences to his own safety, Hiram follows.

  “They think the Botanist has a pendant that changes their appearance. Did you notice any of their features blurring? Were they wearing—”

  “I don’t remember anything.”

  Hiram doesn’t believe her. “Where did they enter your apartment? Your file lists the door and the window, but the door looks blown outward, and your window was broken. Yet the patio door, the only undamaged entrance, was unlocked.”

  Veda whirls on him, fury and fear erupting in tandem. “Oh, so you’re an investigator now? Tracking me down to interrogate me?”

  Hiram searches her face, his expression even. This wasn’t his plan, but each question births more. The most pressing of all rattles in his brain. “They say they have no leads. But they do. A survivor. You. There’s a reason you’re still alive.”

  Veda goes still for a moment, then hardens. “Stay out of my file and away from me, or else I’ll—”

  “If you were going to use magic on me, you would’ve already.” He grips her handlebar, forcing her to look at him. “We’re on the same side.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Hiram raises his hands. “I’ll leave the questions to the investigators if you’ll have a conversation with me. We have the same goal: catching the Botanist.”

  Before he can say another word, Veda shoves on her helmet, turns the key, and revs her bike. Her parting shot is a single raised middle finger.

  Five

  Since finding the spider lilies in the forest, everything that’s happened adds up to too much of a coincidence for Veda to ignore. She sits down with Dr. Simpson’s note, a pen, and a bowl of Ruth’s clam chowder.

  19114721919

  It irritates Veda that she can’t make sense of the riddle. Eleven digits. Not a phone number, but a message with too many combinations. She’s on her third attempt at decoding, about to give up, when she flips it over and stares at the numbers on the back.

  22541. BBEDA.

  Veda stops.

  Instead of reading the letters individually, she combines the first two.

  The twenty-second letter of the alphabet is V.

  Veda.

  Now she’s invested. She sits down at the table, making dozens of guesses, filling in letters until one finally forms a word she recognizes.

  19-1-14-7-21-9-19

  Sanguis.

  Blind to everything except her destination, Veda runs out the door. Trees dwarf her on all sides, casting odd shadows in the setting sun. The air is charged with an electric expectancy. She stumbles, trying to catch her breath and ease the burn in her chest, but doesn’t stop until she clears the tree line outside Weston Academy.

  Sunset makes the world look peaceful, but Veda is not as she searches each barn and animal unit until she finds Dr. Simpson. He’s kneeling, checking a sheep’s hoof, but her arrival brings him to his full height. “What are you doing here?”

  “I decoded your note,” Veda replies, stone-faced and breathing heavily. “What the hell do you know about Sanguis?”

  Everett tenses, then picks up his bag and leaves the sheep pen. Veda steps back, more so when he rubs his neck, choosing his words carefully. “I know the Sanguis Curse is in you.”

  “How?”

  “Your marks. The potions Everly brews. She can’t always find living sheep’s horn powder, so she asks me. I . . .” He points to her, starts to say more, but shudders instead, fists curling at his sides. “Curses of the blood are difficult to cast, easy to contaminate, and difficult to cure. But nothing is impossible.”

  Hope sparks where resignation once reigned. Still skeptical, torn between listening and leaving, she stays rooted. “How do you know this?”

  “Mine is incurable. It looks nothing like yours.”

  Veda recoils. “You’re cursed?”

  “Something like that,” Everett replies cryptically. “There’s no name for what was done to me. Not a curse, not a malediction, more like a cage. The closer I get to telling a certain truth, the further I descend into madness. Truth is both my liberator and captor.”

  Horrified, Veda wants to ask who did this to him, but she’s sure he can’t answer. “Can it be undone?”

  “No.” He winces, dropping his bag and clutching his side. “I can’t say more.”

  “Does anyone else know?”

  “You . . . and the person who cursed me.” Everett dry heaves, covering his mouth, eyes flashing red before he closes them tight.

  “Your eyes.” Veda steps back. “Is that part of the curse?”

  “Yes,” he replies shakily. “I Saw their real face in a vision. I found them. They promised to turn themselves in, but I woke up cursed.”

  “You could run.”

  “That’s what they wanted me to do, but I can’t. I’ve Seen what’s coming. I’ll never be free until everyone knows the truth.” He wipes his bleeding nose, bitterly murmuring, “Past. Present. Future. Birth. Life. Death. They don’t care for natural order and disrespect the rules of Sight.”

  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but you should go to the FCD and—”

  “No,” Everett snaps. “The sheep is a wolf.”

  She has no idea what that means. “I don’t trust many people, but Gabriel and Francisco can help you. I can call them now, and we can meet outside the department.”

  “Not yet. Tell them if you must, but I have a few last things to do.”

  Veda can’t imagine what could be more important. She pulls out her phone, only for Everett to tense. “What is it?”

  “The one who cursed you is trapped and does not yet know it. You are their answer and also their downfall.” Everett drops to his knees, head hanging as blood drips onto his shirt. The shift in him is alarming. His shoulders stiffen, veins appear, sweat beads at his hairline. He pants and trembles violently.

  “Are you—”

  “I’m fine!” he explodes suddenly, head jerking, eyes burning red.

  Veda backs away until she hits the wall.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Everett rasps. “I . . . You need to know. The trickster flies.”

  Dr. Simpson is gone by the time Gabriel and Francisco arrive.

  “One second he was there, and the next, I was alone.” Veda paces from one side of the barn to the other while Gabriel writes down everything she remembers from her conversation with Everett. Peter and Khadijah, having just finished searching the grounds with Francisco, approach, shaking their heads.

  “Gone,” they say as one.

  “I doubt he’ll come in tomorrow,” Peter adds, looking around once more. “I have his personnel stone in my office. The information is up to date.”

  The walk inside is quiet until Peter hands over the stone.

  “Thank you,” Francisco says. “If he turns up, call us, but don’t approach him yourself.”

  Gabriel leans against the wall. “We need to talk about the Oracle Council. They’re ignoring my inquiries.”

  “My uncle thinks they’re hiding something,” Khadijah says.

  Gabriel scoffs. “Obviously.”

  “We’ve tried to speak with them plenty of times during other investigations—the attacks on Seers, the false arrests, even when we told them about the Botanist. But it’s been crickets. I’m surprised Clinton wants to help.”

  “Can you blame them?” Khadijah asks. “Seers haven’t had a reason to trust the FCD since its inception. The wounds run deep. Despite my uncle’s efforts to bridge the gap, the Council prefers to handle things internally.”

  “You need to change their minds, especially now that we have clear signs of the Botanist being here. There wasn’t a body with those spider lilies, but after what Dr. Simpson said, I’m convinced they were a warning. The Council needs to get on board, preferably before another member is killed.”

  This perks Veda up. “Every victim was on the Council?”

  “The last few tried to scrub themselves from existence, but yes. All of them, except the one in London. She had no ties to Washington state.”

  “Then you should assume she had a tie to the Botanist.”

  Francisco sighs. “We’re still combing through her friends. There are a lot, and I’m not finished. So far, they’ve agreed to help. Based on what Everett told you, I know you’re going to decline, but I think you should consider protection.”

  “I’d sooner invite the Botanist to my house for dinner.” Veda folds her arms. “I trust Gabriel mostly, you partly, and the FCD not at all.”

  “Partly?” Francisco sulks. “I thought we were better than that.”

  “You don’t curse, and you’re too calm,” she replies. “Not cursing is inauthentic, and calm men are suspicious. Well, except Peter, who internalizes everything. I don’t make the rules.”

  Peter doesn’t dignify Veda with a response, while Khadijah snickers.

  “I have dozens of young nieces, nephews, and cousins who repeat everything,” Francisco argues. “Also, someone has to balance out Gabriel. He’s either too patient with suspects or too friendly with witnesses.”

  A fair point.

  Gabriel stands straighter. “How did I get dragged into this?”

  They ignore him.

  Francisco checks his watch. “We’ll examine the personnel stone, get what we need, and go to Dr. Simpson’s house tonight. If he doesn’t answer, we’ll talk to his neighbors and family. How long has he been working here?”

  “A year,” Peter replies.

  “His mom plays bingo with Ruth, from the Oracle Council,” Veda recalls.

  The investigators exchange a look.

  “Another link,” Gabriel mutters. “We need to talk to him ourselves—quietly. He already doesn’t trust us. He hasn’t done anything wrong, so the last thing we need is this getting out and the commander sending the entire FCD after a Seer cursed to go mad if he tells a truth we don’t yet know.”

  “And a lot of spell-happy investigators and bigots who’d love finding him,” Francisco adds, then turns back to Veda. “Think about my offer.”

  “I won’t.”

  Veda spends the next morning harvesting, the afternoon assembling orders for wholesale customers, and every spare minute in between completing payroll. She can’t risk idleness; it’s a one-way trip to anxiety. The Botanist’s arrival means years of wondering what will happen to her are finally approaching a conclusion. Good or bad, at least it’ll be over.

  Before she knows it, the school day is ending, and it’s time to find Antaris. He’s in an empty classroom, staring at a piece of paper that looks like it’s been folded and unfolded multiple times.

  “Hi.”

  Antaris jolts, quickly shoving it into his pocket. Veda pretends not to notice. It’s their fifth session, and she’s learning more about him each day. He prefers the outdoors, always carries the same note, rarely eats his packed lunch, and usually finishes his workbook assignments before the school day ends.

  He also likes choosing what they do. Today, he opts to sit on the steps and watch the chickens scuttle about in the pasture. It’s hard to decipher his mood, so Veda watches for signs of distress.

  “How was your day?” she asks.

  He startles again, as if he’s forgotten something. After rummaging through his pockets and the book bag between them, he finds the folded paper. Up close, Veda sees it’s fraying, but he covets it nonetheless. Antaris catches her looking and puts it back in his pocket.

  “It’s not my business unless you want me to see.” Veda offers her finger. “I have something I need to do. Want to help me?”

  Antaris taps twice. Yes.

  She leads the way to the kitchens. Antaris looks around in awe. She offers him a strawberry as a test and is surprised when he accepts. While he eats, Veda gets an idea.

  “What else do you like?” she asks. “Will you show me?”

  The hesitance Antaris always carries is present, but after a reassuring thumbs-up, he explores the kitchen, not touching anything, only pointing, eyes wide, glancing at Veda. He’s asking for help.

  As it turns out, Antaris likes a lot of food.

  Veda finds a pen and paper to make a list, but from what she gathers, he enjoys fresh fruit, crunchy vegetables, and sandwiches with no crusts. Unsurprisingly, he has a sweet tooth, but is more curious about candy than familiar with it. She hides a smile when he makes faces at food that touches, even incidentally. He’s not the only child who dislikes anything mashed or is picky about meat, but his squinty side-eyes make it hard to not laugh.

  With each nod, Antaris’s list grows alongside her spirits. It’s strange how time with him has become a balm after long days. Stranger still is how quickly the lights dim in his eyes when his grandmother arrives. Veda hands the list to Simran, ready to share the success of the day, but Simran simply skims the paper, makes a dismissive noise, and pockets it. It might have been a thank you.

  Veda watches them leave, frowning all the way to the greenhouse. The image of a stone-faced child glancing back at her once before climbing into the car plagues her until a voice cuts through the quiet.

  “I thought you’d be out here.”

  Thoughts scatter in all directions. She whips her head to Peter. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry,” he says, sheepish. “I saw Simran leave with Antaris and thought you’d come back here. After last night, I’d suggest taking the day off, because I can tell you didn’t sleep, but you’ll ignore me. Or cuss me out . . . again.”

  She considers both options but is too tired for either. “My thoughts are loud today.”

  Peter steps back as she stands up. “Come with me.”

  “The last time I followed you, I ended up with a mentee.” Still, she dusts off her hands on her jeans and follows him into the pasture.

  “Everything going okay with Antaris?”

  “Each day I learn something new,” Veda replies, rattling off what she’s learned, including the food list and how he likes being read to. “He was the only one who actually sat and listened during story time.”

  “There’s no doubting genetics.” When she gives Peter a funny look, he adds, “His dad was that way, too, always had his nose in a book. He shipped his entire library separately when they moved here. I think he values it more than his clothes.”

  “Is he involved?”

  “With Antaris? Yes. He has primary custody.”

  Veda frowns. “I’ve only seen Simran with him.”

  “They have an agreement. She does pickups and drop-offs. He’s with Antaris the rest of the time. He’ll appreciate that list.”

  “We went through so many options. I could tell whether he liked or hated something just by his expression. I’d say he’s unfurling like a cat. Keeps watching me like one.”

  “Anxiety?”

  “Definitely. He’s in therapy, right?”

  “Yeah, but that’s a topic for another day.”

  Veda nods, eyes on the path ahead. “He draws sometimes.”

  Peter perks up. “What does he draw?”

  “Doodles on his workbooks and scrap paper. I think one was a cat. Another might have been a flower. A tree and a boat. A house?”

  Peter appears amused. “Noted.”

  The days are getting longer, but a cloudy gray sky hides the sun. Their decision to leave the school grounds is silent and easy. The forest, lush and green, grows increasingly narrow. Veda considers turning back, not for herself, but for Peter, who is dressed in nice pants and a gray shirt, his white tennis shoes unsuitable for walking in the forest.

  “Tomorrow marks six years since Khadijah bound my curse.”

  Peter’s apprehension resurrects every bit of tension Veda temporarily freed herself from in the greenhouse. “I should make a not-dead-yet cake, but that’s morbid, even for me.”

  “Not if it’s vanilla.” His smile belies his otherwise somber demeanor. “They haven’t found Everett,” he continues. “I was thinking about your file and—”