“You sound like Veda,” Gabriel says. “That’s why she won’t come here.”
Hiram recalls her haunted expression the other night, still fresh in his mind. “Paranoia isn’t paranoia if there’s even a bit of truth, no matter how small.”
“Francisco is trying to explain to our commander why our analysis requests were with the ones that were destroyed, because they weren’t signed off on.” Gabriel grabs his half-empty bottle of water and pours it into a lavender plant on the windowsill. Wincing, he adds, “Don’t tell Seren I did that. She hates when I use stale water.”
Hiram is no magibiology expert, but he doubts stale water is fatal to plants.
“If Veda is right, let’s talk outside.”
At the end of the hallway are the stairs. Gabriel uses his Imprint to open the back door to the parking lot. They walk to Hiram’s car, where he presses his thumb to the door; the film obscuring the interior vanishes.
“Any leads on someone to unscramble Grace’s book?”
“My father is certain Clinton’s capable. He also sent me boxes of research.” At Gabriel’s puzzled look, Hiram adds, “It’s a long story. I left them at my house for now, and good thing. Did you find anything about the blocked Imprint?”
“Commander Bishop called us into his office and told us not to keep digging into it.”
“That’s not suspicious at all.”
“Right?” Gabriel rolls his eyes. “So I went on an expedition on why someone would have their Imprint blocked from the record. Whatever they did, it’s top secret, likely horrific, and important people want to keep their identity a secret.”
“Murder?”
“Worse.”
“What’s worse than murder?”
“Plenty. Child marriages. Human exploitation and experimentation. Vanishings. Eugenics. Slavery. Corruption.”
Hiram glances up to see Seren at the back door, waving frantically. “Looks like you’re being summoned.”
Gabriel holds a finger up to Seren. “We’ll find the Botanist.”
“You’re confident.”
“Of course I am.” Gabriel smiles. “Their Imprint may be blocked, but we know one thing—if they’re in Proventia, they’re hiding in plain sight.”
Hiram opens the first box, barely managing to pull out a file before his talisman hums. Someone is here. Irritated, he covers the box and leaves the empty room, closing the door behind him. By the time he rounds the corner, his parents are already inside, permission granted by the talisman.
“Once again, I’d prefer you call before walking into my house.”
“I did call. You did not answer,” his mother replies, removing her shawl and handing it to his father. Her silk saree, the color of turmeric, gives her a warm, inviting look, but there are cracks beneath her facade. She’s upset. Probably with him. “I would like for us to talk.”
Definitely him.
He could easily avoid the impending conversation, but decides not to give her more ammunition to make his day worse. They convene in the great room. His mother sits on the sofa, while his father stands by the window, glancing out. The clink of Hiram’s glass on the kitchen island is the bell that starts the match.
“Are you not going to offer us tea?”
Hiram sighs. “Would either of you like tea?”
Barrett declines, but Simran accepts—peppermint, steeped five minutes, no honey or lemon, one cube of sugar. Hiram delivers exactly what she wants, then sits in the armchair and braces for the next phase of this ambush. From years of experience, he knows how this will go. They’ll circle each other with metaphorical fists raised to protect their faces, take a few practice jabs until one gets brave enough to take the first swing. Hiram never strikes first. For him, verbal sparring is about strategy, not force. He needs to figure out the source of her discontent and get out unscathed.
Simran sets down her tea and clears her throat. “We were in the area and decided to stop by for a talk while Antaris is at school.”
“A talk about what?”
“Your father went to Medina. After some prodding, he admitted it was for you. Boxes that you requested.” Her tone is one he’s familiar with. She’s being gentle for information-gathering purposes.
