“What do you mean?”
“He barely notes the types of curses and their results, but details everything about the curser, right down to their blood pressure and temperament. What they eat. What activities they do prior to each experimental curse. He even details what they do after.”
Veda is deeply disturbed. “What was he trying to learn?”
“Take a look.” Hiram flips back to the first page and shows her the file. She moves to his side to read.
Sight extraction—Sight Unseen.
“I’ve seen this ritual twice, scrambled in books,” Hiram says. “Grace’s book on oddities and one from the library. Both had scrambling hexes over what the ritual does, but Clinton told me as much as he knows about it.”
As Hiram shares his conversation with Clinton, Veda’s terror eclipses her anger. “Phillip Ellis is a bigot. Why would he want Sight?”
“It’s a defense mechanism.” Hiram angles his body toward hers, folder between them like a barrier. “It’s easy to convince yourself that you don’t want what you can’t have, or that having what you want is wrong.”
She mutters, “I thought you’d saypower.”
“Not everyone wants power. It is human nature to want to feel like we have some measure of control.” Hiram crosses the room to the boxes, tilting his head curiously when something catches his eye. In the groove of the box is an envelope. He pulls it out, reads it, then shows her the word hastily scrawled:Botanist.
“What does he know?” Veda’s voice is hushed.
“I need to find out.” He opens the envelope and pulls out a picture. “I think we can assume one of these girls is our Botanist.”
Veda looks at the photograph. There are five girls. Different races, heights, and sizes, linked by their hands. None are smiling, but they look like a unit, bonded by trauma and circumstance. Veda recognizes the one standing next to a brunette with blue eyes.
“I think I’ve figured out why Ruth has been refusing to help. They’re protecting someone they care about. We need to talk to hernow.”
Hiram’s already on the phone. “She owes me a favor. It’s time to collect.”
Ruth agrees to meet in a public place in half an hour.
With such a short window and Peter busy, Veda watches as Hiram grabs a small go bag for Antaris that looks like Italian leather and is worth more than her motorcycle. He packs it with snacks and books while Veda guides Antaris along without causing unnecessary anxiety. She’s already getting into Hiram’s car before she realizes what she’s done, and he’s starting it with his Imprint before she can argue.
The ride is quiet. Veda speaks only to announce upcoming turns and once to joke about the insufficient tint on the windows, since Antaris is squinting in the sunlight. Hiram removes his sunglasses and hands them to his stunned son. Veda steals a glance in the back seat at Antaris with his khakis, white shirt, and bow tie, nonchalantly gazing out the window with his father’s oversized glasses perched on his face.
They arrive with ten minutes to spare. Sanctuary is a community center for troubled Seers located in Hope Park in the middle of Panoramic. With schools out and the weekend in full force, the nice weather has drawn people outside in droves. Live music. People grilling by the gazebos, and food vendors selling everything from ice cream to gyros. Walking through the crowd as a unit, even with his father’s sunglasses on, Antaris looks overwhelmed, squeezing Veda’s hand tightly. She steers him toward the community center.
The entrance is painted a similar shade of green to Antaris’s bedroom; a pleasant calm separates the inside from the chaos outside. The grip on her hand loosens slightly. A teenager, Indica, with tanned olive skin that makes her blond hair seem even brighter is manning the front desk, her automatic smile turning genuine when she sees them.
“Hi and welcome! Ruth’s waiting for you in room two.” She points toward the closed double doors. “Go through there, past the kitchen, and down the second hall. Before you ask, what you’re smelling is mint. Helps ground the littles. Some don’t handle the transition well.”
Indica’s eyes drop to Antaris, head tilting slightly. “I think there’s something in the main auditorium that’ll interest you. Your fascination with the stars has only begun.”
Veda’s heart drops. She can practically feel Hiram’s coils twist tight.
“Don’t stress, little one,” Indica says. “You’ll speak again in time.”
Antaris leans against Veda as they pass through the doors and down the first hallway.
“She obviously attends Clinton’s School of Cryptic Shit,” Hiram mutters.
Blessedly, Antaris doesn’t seem to hear the comment. He steps behind them, looking around in awe. Veda covers her mouth so as not to laugh while passing the kitchens, where two rows of students are having cooking lessons taught by Ami, one of the Council members.
“Today, I’ll teach you how to make sad pie ...”
Hiram tries to watch, curious, but Veda clears her throat, which makes him move. “Sad pie?”
“Does baking not help when things aren’t going your way? You’re a great cook, but I bet if you’re angry enough, you’ll be spectacular,” she says.
