Sight unseen, p.3
Sight Unseen, page 3
“Do you know what she meant?”
“No,” Hiram answers, still distracted after picking apart how time changed her voice. Paranoia and secrecy drive Seers to weave their visions in riddles to make interpretation harder and protect themselves from laws that prohibit them from speaking plainly. Hiram has a feeling they haven’t shown the stone to anyone else, which means this conversation is unapproved and off the record. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“A lot,” Gabriel admits. “Grace also wrote a note that came with her stone, which was how we found this house and, ultimately, you. She said that we needed to find her old pin that conceals a true face. Do you know what she’s talking about?”
“The only thing I can think of is her trickster pendant,” Hiram says, noting the second glance the two men give each other. “Grace has the only one that’s not hanging in a museum. Well, had. She lost it not long after I met her.”
Francisco cocks his head. “Lost or stolen?”
Hiram shrugs. “She said she was out with friends and realized on her way home that it was gone.”
“What does the pendant do?” Gabriel asks.
“It can change the appearance of the person who puts it on. I don’t know what the trickster pendant truly looks like, because its appearance depends on who’s wearing it. The pin looked like a cat when Grace wore it, but the one time I touched it, it turned into a wolf. It was a family heirloom, passed down from her grandmother. Odd that she told you to find something she lost years ago in New York City.”
“Unless she knew something. Can we speak to her son about the night she was killed?” Francisco asks.
Hiram’s expression hardens. “Absolutely not.”
“Grace is the most solid lead yet. Her murder is an aberration. We need to figure out why the Botanist targeted her. Perhaps, with her son’s statement, we can put the pieces together. If anyone else was there, where they went. Anything will help. There are a lot of families that need answers and want justice.”
“I said no.”
Gabriel and Francisco exchange glances before the former tags himself in. “As a father myself, I understand your concern. I know this is difficult, but her son was found at home, and there was evidence of a struggle. Why Grace left the house, we don’t know, but she was found nearly a quarter mile away. Her son—”
“Her son is also my son,” Hiram snaps. “He hasn’t spoken since she was found, anyway, so you’re wasting your time.”
“There are other ways to interview him—”
“I’m more concerned with protecting him from the trauma you’re asking him to revisit.”
“If we could just—”
“No.”
Hiram closes the door in their faces and returns to the pursuit of stability amid the chaos.
The Ellis name is complicated.
Hiram grew up sheltered and spoiled. As he caught glimpses of life beyond the carefully crafted confines of the Ellis way, he realized his identity was a python wrapped around his throat. The more he fought to unlearn the prejudiced lies taught as truths, the tighter his heritage constricted. College was Hiram’s first gasp of freedom. He traveled to places where no one had heard of his family, made a name for himself without the unseemly association, and dated without caring whether they were acceptable matches. Each year, he distanced himself further from his old life—until two months ago, when learning of his son’s existence sent him into a tailspin that ended with a phone call to his father and an invitation to come home and mend broken bridges. His confidence wavers now that he’s back in Proventia, where the weight of his name is heavier.
He’s in a children’s boutique downtown when the owner, Nancy, says he looks familiar and asks for his name. Hiram considers lying, but truth wins out.
“Hiram Ellis.”
Her face changes as she vehemently shakes his hand. “Ellis? Like the Ellis family?”
“Barrett Ellis is my father.” Unfortunately, he doesn’t add, despite the urge.
There are two types of people in Proventia: Mages who love his family, and Seers and sympathizers who don’t. There are no in-betweens. Fortunately, Nancy is one of the former. It makes things easier, but also far more uncomfortable.
“Oh, you’re that Hiram. Welcome back.” She clasps her hands together. “The town’s buzzing about your return.”
To his credit, Hiram manages to mask his disdain. “I need clothes for a six-year-old boy.”
“I’d be happy to help.”
The more questions Hiram asks about the magical enhancements in the clothing, the more suggestions Nancy makes. The more clothing he picks out, the friendlier she becomes. Hiram is choosing between two bow ties when Nancy stands too close. He’s been so focused, he hasn’t realized he’s made himself prey. She’s figured out his status as a single father and joked that her beagle is the longest relationship she’s ever had. Hiram smoothly puts space between them to inspect a pack of socks spelled to always find their mates. Judging by her surprise, this isn’t the typical chat and number exchange Nancy expects. He understands why. With her tall, slim figure, blond hair, green eyes, fair skin, and freckles partially concealed by bronzer, she’s attractive, decently witty, and clearly used to getting what she wants.
“We have other accessories you might be interested in. Bow ties are old-fashioned, but imbued animal pendants are in style. They can either protect your child from a spell being cast on them or act like an amulet and absorb the cost of a spell cast. Most on the market can absorb up to ten low-level spells, but these only do five. Child Mages don’t pay for magic like teenagers and adults. What is your son’s favorite animal?”
Hiram doesn’t know, but he’ll never admit it. “It changes every week.”
“Oh, well, we have one that changes to their favorite each day, if you’re interested.”
The pendant is expensive, but Hiram agrees and follows Nancy to the counter while she totals everything up and removes the antitheft gemstones from the tags.
“Also . . . if you’re interested in refamiliarizing yourself with Proventia, I’m available.”
She’s bold, Hiram will give her that. “I’ll pay with cash.”
Her smile fades. Hiram pays, grabs the four bags, and heads to the car. His next stop is Fallen Oak Apothecary for potions and elixirs to stock his medicine cabinets. Hiram is reaching for the doorknob when three enforcer patrol cars with lights on screech to a halt near his sedan. The talisman atop the door pulses and jingles when Hiram enters. Lavender and thyme are choked out by the scent of confrontation.
“Don’t move!” A short, older woman points toward an aisle, shouting accusations of theft and illegal magic use. Hiram can’t see the accused, but the older woman glances at him. “We’re closed.”
“The sign says otherwise.”
The back door bursts open. “Enforcers! Slowly walk to the front!”
The standoff devolves into raised voices and shoes pounding on wood. Hiram sighs. They must have used the alley to access the back.
“Very well,” a woman replies, bleeding defiance as she steps out of the aisle with a box and an enforcer at her back, his amulet badge aglow in warning. Hiram recognizes the tall, dark-skinned woman with white braids halfway down her back. Khadijah Desai.
“I picked up the box you dropped, and this is the thanks I get.” She’s calm to the point of boredom as she slowly puts it down at her feet and raises her hands. “I don’t need to steal from you. The buffalo horns in the box are fake anyway.”
“That’s a lie, Seer.” The clerk spits the word like it’s acid. “You stole it, and you used magic on me to make me forget!”
A Seer using magic in public is an arrestable offense, but Khadijah remains unbothered, tilting her head at the enforcers. “Make you forget? Not only is that absurd, but that’s not how Seer magic works. Do they teach you all anything other than stereotypes and misinformation? Don’t answer that. A Sensitive can easily tell if I’ve cast anything. There’s at least one here—I know your protocol.”
As a Sensitive, Hiram knows a fresh spell can smell like anything, but there’s always an undercurrent of ozone that he doesn’t detect here. He clears his throat, alerting everyone to his presence. “Apologies for intruding, but do you have any proof of theft? Video? Anything on her person?”
The stream of questions flusters the clerk. Her justification for calling the enforcers fades into the background when Khadijah’s gray-green eyes find him. They sharpen in recognition and narrow as if he’s an invasive species she needs to eliminate. Hiram expects nothing less from his best friend’s wife. Bad blood never does run clean.
“Sir,” one of the enforcers says, “unless you’re an advocate of this Seer, you should leave.”
Hiram isn’t, but doesn’t have all day for them to figure out what he already knows for a fact. He pulls out his license and offers it to the closest enforcer.
“As a registered Sensitive, I can confirm there’s no spell residue in the air. There are no cameras on the premises, because sound-emitting talismans, like the one above the door, interfere with the feed.”
The clerk deflates as spell-happy enforcers look around with a new awareness.
One asks, “Ma’am, is that true?”
“Yes, but—”
“Now that we’ve established that nothing happened,” Hiram interrupts with a cold glare, then smiles politely, “please release Mrs. Weston and move the patrol cars blocking me in.”
“As I’ve told you before, it’s still Desai.” Khadijah doesn’t spare him a glance when she leaves, but Hiram watches until she’s safely out of sight.
The next morning, Hiram finds what he’s looking for outside.
His son sits in the grass, hugging his knees while staring past the trees at the calm lake, lost in thought. Hiram grabs the bag on the table and joins him. Clearing his throat to announce his presence startles the boy, but before he can flee, Hiram joins him on the cold, dewy grass. His khakis will stain, but he doesn’t care. They watch the clouds gather and roll over the water, which reflects the sky. A chill shrouds the air, heavy with unfamiliarity.
“Morning.”
He doesn’t expect a response.
Watching unabashed is something Hiram does often. Mostly in disbelief that he’s a father responsible for not fucking his kid up, but sometimes, like now, Hiram watches to see if he can figure out which key will unlock the mystery of his son. So far, none have worked.
The first few weeks, Hiram remained calm and logical, but he’s grown desperate. Being with a child who barely meets his eyes, can’t stand his touch, and has nightmares that trigger magical reactions has left Hiram frustrated to the point of uncharacteristic self-pity. He’s being beaten by a meticulous child who gels his own hair, is always dressed on time for school, and never lets anyone so much as touch the knitted bow tie he’s worn since Hiram met him. He has plenty of different-colored bow ties, yet only wears black.
The color of mourning, but it’s deeper than grief. Black was Grace’s favorite color, an odd affinity for someone so colorful.
His son’s hands are clasped tightly, as if the only comfort he can find is in himself. Instinct makes Hiram reach out, but his attempt is rebuffed when the boy shifts away. The reaction isn’t new. Still, it stings more than he’ll admit.
“Do you like it here?”
More silence. He’s trying not to get used to it. Life with a kid is supposed to be a challenge, and grief complicates even the simplest matters. He wonders if he’s doomed to fail.
His son dips his head in the smallest nod, eyes on the water.
His hope floats once more. “I do, too.”
This earns him a slow, hesitant look. Hiram uses the moment to awkwardly offer a gift bag, watching the cautious boy pull out the gold animal pendant he purchased. In his hand, it changes from a bear to a dog to a horse before settling on a cat. Unbearable silence forces words out. “I had your name engraved on the back.”
At this, the boy turns the pendant, a small finger tracing each letter as if a mystery lingers in the metal.
Antaris.
Time creates order within chaos. Constant and elusive, its passage is noticed most by those standing still long enough to witness the change. Hiram doesn’t care about time’s limitations, convinced it’ll bend to compensate if he pushes hard enough. Like a strategist, he calculates the trajectory of each move. Armed with as many strengths as weaknesses, Hiram keeps his eyes on the parts that don’t fit. The pieces he can’t control.
One such piece is now at school. The other is Simran, his mother, waiting at his kitchen island with a newspaper. She dresses formally, even at home, but today wears a modest floral kurta. If she’s trying to convince him she’s changed, she’s failing. That she let herself in like the house belongs to her proves that. He’s disappointed but not surprised.
“I need to adjust the talisman to stop allowing in every immediate family member.” Carefully schooling his features into impassivity, Hiram passes her on his way to the kitchen. Without pots and pans, ignoring her over a meal isn’t an option.
“You will do no such thing.” Simran has the gall to act like he’s being unreasonable. “I thought we might talk. Over breakfast.”
In an instant, Hiram remembers exactly who she is. How she operates. What she wants. “We have nothing to discuss outside our original agreement: You take Antaris to school and pick him up. But if you want, we can talk about how you’ve been overstepping.”
Simran’s jaw tenses. “I see Peter told you about the tutor.”
“He’s my best friend and Antaris’s godfather. Of course he told me.”
“Then I suppose there is nothing to discuss.” She clasps her hands. “Give me a tour of the house, darling.”
Simran has as many complaints as comments. According to her, the kitchen, living room, and great room are a good size, but the furniture is too casual. Hiram doesn’t mention that he chose pieces Antaris took more than a passing glance at when they walked through the furniture store. From there, Simran laments the too-small owner’s suite.
“It’s only me.”
The lack of whimsical decor in Antaris’s room and bathroom.
“I hardly know Antaris, but whimsical isn’t a word I’d use to describe him.”
The halls that are too narrow and plain.
“Does it matter?”
There are no guest rooms, despite there being three spare bedrooms.
“We haven’t had guests.”
Hiram thinks the backyard will go uncriticized, but apparently the potential for the lake drying up is worth mentioning.
“There are a hundred and fifty rainy days a year.”
Simran is tenacious when she wants something, a trait he’s inherited. What she wants now is for Hiram to be within reach. To accomplish this, she’ll sow seeds of doubt and leave him questioning his decisions. It’s a wash, lather, rinse, repeat of a childhood Hiram spent torn between craving her hard-earned approval and wanting to tell her to fuck off . . . respectfully.
“I believe you were far too hasty purchasing this home.” Simran returns to her seat in the kitchen. “You should have moved home for—”
“Reconciliation will fail if we’re under the same roof.”
Momentarily deterred, she reorients by laying out a breakfast prepared by her housekeeper. “I made sure to bring your favorites.”
Hiram has always preferred eggs, toast, and coffee. The plate of sausages, ham, and French toast is a clear reminder of his mother’s consistent inattention and disregard of what he wants. The reminder burns in all the ways he hates.
“Your uncle asked about Antaris.” At his sharp look, she amends, “Cosmos, no. Not your uncle Phillip. He is too busy with his secret genetic case studies in Atlanta. I discourage your father from associating with him. I meant Robert.”
The safer uncle, as far as Hiram is concerned. Robert’s more focused on planting Ellises in as many political offices as possible than he will ever be on discovering Antaris’s roots. “What did he ask?”
“General questions. He wanted to know about his mother, and I made an excuse. I also gave my spiel about his Sight test coming back zero, but I know they will grow curious as he gets older.”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”
“Your carelessness will not be the reason I am shunned from a family I spent years in, clawing up the ranks. They finally see me as a pillar. A matriarch. Not an outsider who married into their family. Joining the firm will earn you respect. Your father has a seat on the board he would gladly give you. You can rise to a level where the family will not question you, and it will keep you here. It could even further your career into politics. You can run for mayor of Proventia.”
“I’m not interested.”
Simran makes a small, disbelieving noise. “Think of your son.”
“I am.” Every move he makes feels wrong, but her suggestions are worse.
“Are you?” As if sensing his rapidly souring mood, she pats his hand. “I am trying to help, but you remain obstinate.”
He’s not stubborn. He simply refuses to fall back into old habits, changing himself to fit her expectations.
“I want Antaris to be one less worry for you, which is why I found him a tutor. You had tutors and a proper education. He needs the same. I want him to be a respectable Ellis. I believe extra attention will benefit him until he is ready to go to Arcadia Academy. Besides, Miss Thorne is a Mage sympathetic to Seers. I figured you would approve.”
Talking to his mother is the equivalent of running into a brick wall. Painful and futile. “I’m not sending him to boarding school.”
“Why not? Antaris is a legacy.” Simran frowns at Hiram’s silence. “This brings up another topic of discussion. His surname. Fowler is—”
“His name.”
Masterfully, she suppresses her irritation, but not fast enough. “Antaris should have had our name from the beginning. He is not related to the man whose name he carries.”
“Blood doesn’t make a family. John raised Grace after her father left and her mother died. She took his last name.”
