Gabriel stares at the file before his jaw sets, hand moving to hover over the page. He shuts his eyes and murmurs, “Ostendo.”
The paper glows, hissing and screaming. Veda sits back hard, heart pounding, hands gripping the chair as the file tries to rip itself apart. “What in the hell are you—”
“Doing?” he shouts over the high-pitched scream as the file burns red hot, rising off the table. The edges smoke black, then white. “Oh, just something that will not only alert my superiors but might verge on illegal. Hypothetically speaking, do you think Hiram will represent me if I get arrested?”
Gabriel flashes a nervous smile as the file lands back on the table. Then he sobers, on alert. “The Imprints of the person who wrote up this file, submitted it, and reviewed it are concealed by law. The onlypeople allowed to reveal their names are those with the rank of superior or higher. I’m just an investigator, so yeah, illegal.”
“Why would you—”
“Because whoever altered your file worked for the FCD at the time this happened, and the only reason they would change your statement is—”
“To conceal the truth,” Veda interrupts. “I thought if I looked, I could jog my memory, but all I remember is the power. I’m not Sensitive, but I swore I felt it. Wild. Out of control.”
“Mages and the Unseen don’t have access to that kind of magic, and Seers are taught control from the moment we present,” Khadijah says. “I don’t know—”
“It’s working,” Gabriel says.
They wait for one minute. Then two. Veda’s vision blurs from staring so hard until Khadijah’s hand grips her shoulder, grounding her. Finally, a golden signature appears on the corner of the page.
They all lean forward to read the name, but it’s all too familiar.
“Blocked.”
Gabriel is smiling.
Veda swears. “Why are you so happy? We still don’t have a name.”
“No, but we’ve been blocked too many times.” Gabriel nearly vaults the table to get back into his seat. “They’re all connected.”
“What are you going to do?” Khadijah asks.
“Force my commander’s hand for resources and stay out of jail.”
“How exactly . . .”
Gabriel looks at Veda. “I think the Botanist and the person who wrote this are one and the same.”
Sixteen
Antaris spends most of Saturday listless, barely eating or making eye contact with Hiram, yet keeping the nameless kitten and the lantern Veda gave him close. He is a shell of the boy whose trust Hiram almost had.
Sunday’s tension is nearly nauseating. Hiram looks on while Antaris wanders during the day, a break in habit. Every attempt to talk ends with either avoidance or his son retreating, distrust radiating from him. By the evening, Antaris is looking at Grace’s photo album and crying. Hiram is sick with worry by bedtime, when he looks in on Antaris, only to find him staring at the lantern. He’s losing him.
Another day can’t pass without action. So he plans. Talks to John. Spends most of the night writing note after note, but none feel right. By midnight, his attempts at excuses are balled up and scattered around the trash can. Hiram doesn’t remember nodding off at the kitchen table, but wakes with a painful crick in his neck and ...
Antaris is staring at him, eyes wide and searching, with one of his failed attempts at groveling in hand. Hiram ignores his pounding head and focuses on his son. There are things more enduring than promises, more important than pride, and for the first time in his life, Hiram stops agonizing over details that don’t matter. The only thing that does is standing in front of him.
Hiram blurts out the first words that come to mind. “I’m sorry.”
Antaris doesn’t leave.
A lump forms in his throat as he conveys a remorse he struggles to express out loud. “Please forgive me.”
Antaris’s expression is more serious than it should be.
“I told you once that I would always come back, but Friday, I wasn’t there and it hurt you.” Hiram feels horrible all over again. It’s obvious being late didn’t hurt his son. It terrified him. “You didn’t think I was coming back.”
Antaris’s eyes fill with tears as he nods, covering his face with his small hands.
