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Instead of pressing, I pulled out my phone, showing him my wallpaper—Mom and me wearing aprons, grinning after our first big contract. “Before everything changed,” I said softly.

Keane studied the picture for a long moment. Long enough that I felt it.

We stayed there until the sky started to lighten, sharing stories of the people we’d been before Wickem. He told me about learning portal magic in his family’s library, and about Wisp appearing when his parents died—like he’d found a friend when he needed one most. I told him about Mom’s cleaning business, and about the weird things that used to happen around me that suddenly made sense when I’d come here.

Between stories, I kept noticing how he’d pause, squint slightly, like fighting against pain. Each time, the shadows in his magic would pulse stronger. If his uncle’s “therapy” was supposed to be fixing his portals, it was doing a crappy job.

And when I finally stood to leave, I hesitated, my fingers tightening around my empty mug. Something protective and fierce welled inside me—I didn’t just want to understand his magic anymore.

I wanted to save him.

28

Marigold

Professor Undergrove’s officefelt like stepping into another century—or maybe one of those stuffy antique shops where everything costs more than my mom’s monthly rent. Dark wooden shelves lined the walls, crammed with ancient texts and trinkets that set my collection-obsessed fingers twitching. A silver skull—larger than the pin on his lapel but clearly matching—sat on his desk beside neat stacks of papers. Scout immediately perked up, sensing something about the skull that I couldn’t quite read.

“Ah, Miss Grimley.” He looked up from his grading, gesturing to the chair across from him. “I was hoping you’d stop by before the trials.”

I settled into the leather chair, trying not to fidget. “You said you knew my father?”

“James was among the most talented colleagues I’ve had the privilege to work with.” He touched the skull pin absently. “Brilliant mind, especially when it came to theoretical applications of necromancy. The traditional Council families never quite understood his approach.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your father saw connections others missed. He believed necromancy could be used for more than just commanding the dead—that it offered insight into the very nature of magic itself.” Undergrove’s eyes grew distant. “His final research… well.” He cleared his throat. “That was a long time ago.”

“Was he really working with vampires?” The question burst out before I could stop it.

“Your father,” Undergrove said carefully, “was one of the few who truly understood vampire magic. He studied how they corrupted life force, how they turned clean magic sticky and wrong.” His hands trembled slightly as he closed his office door. “That’s why the accusations were so absurd to those who knew him. James spent his life trying to protect witches from vampire corruption, not help them spread it.”

“Then why did everyone believe he betrayed us?”

“Because he discovered something about how vampires interact with wellspring energy. Something that made powerful people very uncomfortable.” Undergrove’s voice dropped lower. “After that attack in Seattle… well, the patterns he documented are becoming harder to ignore.”

Undergrove’s expression tightened.

“Your father,” he said carefully, “was many things. But a traitor?” He shook his head. “The evidence at his trial was… convenient. Too convenient, some might say.”

Scout chittered softly, and the silver skull on the desk seemed to gleam in response.

“What was he researching?” I asked. “Before he…”

“Something about ancient magic. The old ways.” Undergrove’s voice dropped lower. “He spent hours in the restricted archives, studying texts about magical resonance and energy patterns. Said he’d discovered something vital about how magic actually worked.” He paused, choosing his words with obvious care. “The Council didn’t appreciate his questions about traditional practices.”

“Did he leave any notes? Research materials?”

“Nothing that was ever found.” But something in his tone made me think there was more to that story. “Though perhaps that’s for the best. Sometimes knowledge can be… dangerous.”

The dead things in the walls stirred uneasily, responding to something in his manner.

“Professor,” I started, but he held up a hand.

“I’ve already said more than I should.” He adjusted his jacket, the skull pin glinting. “Focus on your trials, Miss Grimley. Show them what a necromancer can really do.” His smile held sadness. “Your father would be proud of how far you’ve come already.”

As I stood to leave, he added quietly, “Be careful who you trust with questions about the past. Not everyone appreciated your father’s… innovative thinking.”

I paused at the door. “Professor? Do you think he was really guilty?”