It hurt like hell to learn he hadn’t earned the trust he’d given her so easily. But Hiram isn’t angry. Just determined to prove her wrong.
“I’m fine. I’d rather hear your ideas about keeping my mother at bay.”
Peter snorts. “No, you wouldn’t. Because I’ll tell you that keeping the peace is easier than preparing for war, yet sometimes, war is necessary to find peace.”
“Smart-ass.” Hiram lets the sage comment marinate.
“Come on, let’s see if I can find anything to help with nightmares.” Peter leads the way into the storage room full of potions, ingredients, and student creations organized on three and a half walls of floor-to-ceiling shelving, complete with a rolling ladder.
While Peter searches, Hiram whistles low, spotting a dark jar labeledluminescent moss.“Let me guess, you’ve arranged everything alphabetically, by state of matter, and purpose.”
Peter’s scowl tells Hiram everything he needs to know. He chuckles and returns the jar to its place.
“Surely you came to do more than vent and ask for a tonic you could have bought from an apothecary,” Peter says, holding out a vial. “This was made by our brewing instructor. One drop a night works wonders on Mages.”
In places like Proventia, there’s always one person who knows more than most. Peter has made it his business to fill that role, even among upper-class Mages who dismiss Seers. Hiram decides to try his luck.
“What ever happened to your friend from college? What was her name again?” He snaps his fingers, pretending to think. “Veda, right? I saw her at your grad party and asked her name to look her up. You said she was dating someone ...” Hiram trails off, rolling his hand as if trying to prompt Peter’s memory.
One blond brow rises. “Veda? Well, yeah. I still talk to her, obviously. You know she’s—”
“This FCD investigators asked me some questions about Grace’s case. Apparently, Grace was a victim of a serial killer called—”
“The Botanist,” Peter finishes. “Did Grace ever come to Proventia?”
“Not that I know of. Why? What does this have to do with Veda?”
“Tell me what happened at the FCD.”
Hiram frowns. “Investigator Sallant keeps the Botanist files on his desk,” he explains. “When he stepped out of the room, I happened to see one of them. I thought it would be Grace’s file, since she’s the latest victim, but it was a report from a home invasion six years ago. Veda’s. Did you know about that?”
Peter blinks as if Hiram has done something horrible. “I did, but let’s circle back tohappened to see. You were breaking the law by looking at confidential investigation files on a serial killer that’s been on the loose for six years.”
“Details.” Hiram waves him off. “Did you know that two days after she witnessed the first Botanist killing, the killer broke into her apartment and she fought them off?”
“It’s more complicated than that, but that’s her story, not mine.” He pats Hiram’s shoulder. “Soon enough, you’ll know everything ...”
It doesn’t take Hiram long to choose the shape and finish of his desk. On the way back to his car, he’s too preoccupied with deciding what to order for dinner to pay much attention. Head down, he walks withoutlooking. The first two times he hears approaching footsteps, he glances up. The third, he doesn’t. Disoriented, he stumbles.
A bike helmet hits the pavement. Apologies tumble out as he stoops to pick it up. “Pardon me, I wasn’t paying—”
“Sorry.”
Hiram blinks, needing a second to confirm what he instantly knows. Of course it’s Veda.
Much like at Nénuphar, she looks strikingly different, but this time he’s close enough to see her properly. Dark jeans, a plain red shirt, black leather jacket, and riding gloves. Unremarkable for the season, yet there’s a coldness to her, a fierceness like grazing steel. He spies her necklace; the amulet’s eye catches the light with a brief glint before fading. It’s strange seeing it outside of ink, but his artist did it justice. Most amulets are made with diamonds or rubies, the hardest gemstones by magical standards, but hers is a sapphire. Seeing the imperfections up close makes it clear her amulet was crafted specifically for her.
Hiram knows he should walk away, but the urge to speak overrides common sense. “Do we know each other?”
He expects Veda to play along, as people do, but she surprises him. “I don’t know,do we?”
No recognition. Understandable. Peter’s party was years ago, and they were never introduced. What’s more puzzling is that she doesn’t seem to recognize him from the cave—at least, not his face. Veda takes her helmet from his hand, her cautious annoyance disarming. Equally dismaying is the stark contrast between who she once was and who she appears to be now.
Honesty is the best policy. “I was the man swimming in Nénuphar.”
Veda tilts her head. “The one with my amulet tattooed on him.”
“The tattoo artist drew their vision on me. No explanation. I didn’t want to know.”
