“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’tneedto 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 allanythingother than stereotypes and misinformation? Don’tanswer 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 thatnothinghappened,” 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’sstillDesai.” 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.”
