Alex curled into the window seat at the Hutch, and Dawes brought her a cup of hot chocolate. She’d placed a gourmet marshmallow at the top, the kind that looked like a rough-hewn stone yanked from a quarry.

“You went to the underworld,” said Dawes. “You earned a treat.” “Not all the way to the underworld.”

“Then give the marshmallow back.” She said it shyly, as if afraid to make the joke, and Alex cradled her cup close to show she was playing along. She liked this Dawes, and she thought maybe this Dawes liked her.

“What was it like?”

Alex looked out over the rooftops in the late-morning light. From here she could see the gray gables of Wolf’s Head and part of the ivy-tangle backyard, a blue recycling bin leaning tipsily against the wall. It looked so ordinary.

She set aside her bacon and egg sandwich. Usually she could eat at least two herself, but she could still feel the water pulling her under and it was messing with her appetite. Had she really crossed over? How much was illusion and how much was real? She described what she could and what the Bridegroom required.

When she finished, Dawes said, “You can’t go to Tara Hutchins’s apartment.”

Alex picked at her sandwich. “I just told you about communing with the dead in a river full of golden-eyed crocodiles and that’s what you have to say?”

But apparently a taste of adventure had been enough for Dawes. “If Dean Sandow finds out what you did to Salome to get us into the temple—”

“Salome may bitch to her friends, but she’s not going to bring in the big guns. Offering us access to the temple, stealing from Scroll and Key, it’s all too messy.”

“And if she does?”

“I’ll deny it.”

“And you want me to deny it too?”

“I want you to think about what’s important.”

“And are you going to threaten me?” Dawes kept her eyes on her cup of cocoa, her spoon circling around and around.

“No, Dawes. Are you afraid I will?”

The spoon stopped. Dawes looked up. Her eyes were a warm, dark coffee, and sunlight caught in her messy bun making the red in her hair glow brighter. “I don’t think I am,” she said, as if she was surprised by the fact herself. “Your reaction was … extreme. But Salome was in the wrong.” Dawes with the ruthless streak. “Still, if the dean learns you made a deal with a Gray…”

“He won’t.”

“But if he does—”

“You’re afraid he’ll call you out for helping me. Don’t worry. I won’t snitch. But Salome saw you. You might have to keep her quiet too.”

Dawes’s eyes widened and then she realized Alex was kidding. “Oh.

Right. It’s just … I really need this job.”

“I get it,” said Alex. Maybe better than anyone else who had ever sat beneath this roof. “But I need something that belonged to Tara. I’m going to her apartment.”

“Do you even know where she lived?” “No,” Alex admitted.

“If Detective Turner figures out—”

“What’s Turner going to find out? That I went halfway to the underworld to talk to a ghost? I’m pretty sure that doesn’t count as witness tampering.”

“But going to Tara’s apartment, going through her stuff—that’s breaking and entering. It’s interfering with an active police investigation. You could be arrested.”

“Only if I get caught.”

Dawes gave a decisive shake of her head. “You’re crossing a line. And I can’t follow if you’re going to put both of us and Lethe at risk. Detective Turner doesn’t want you involved and he’ll do whatever he has to do to protect his case.”

“Good point,” Alex said, considering. So maybe instead of going around Turner, she should just go through him.

Alex wanted to hide at the Hutch and let Dawes make her cups of cocoa. She

wouldn’t have minded a little mothering. But she needed to go back to Old Campus, to renew her grasp on the ordinary world before the things that really mattered slipped away.

She left Dawes in front of the Dramat, but not before she’d asked about the name she’d heard—or thought she’d heard—spoken in the borderlands. “Jean Du Monde? Or maybe Jonathan Desmond?”

“It doesn’t ring a bell,” said Dawes. “But I’ll do a few searches and see what the library has to say once I’m back at Il Bastone.”

Alex hesitated, then said, “Be careful, Dawes. Keep your eyes open.” Dawes blinked. “Why?” she said. “I’m nobody.”

“You’re Lethe and you’re alive. You’re somebody.”

Dawes blinked again, like clockwork waiting for a cog to turn, for the right wheel to click so she could continue moving. Then her vision cleared and her brows knitted together. “Did you see him?” she said in a rush, staring at her feet. “On the other side?”

Alex shook her head. “North claims he isn’t there.”

“That’s got to be a good sign,” said Dawes. “On Wednesday we’ll call him back. We’ll bring him home. Darlington will know what to do about everything.”

Maybe. But Alex wasn’t going to bet her life on waiting.

“Do you know much about the Bridegroom murders?” Alex asked. Just because she knew North’s name, she didn’t have to make a habit of using it. It would only strengthen their bond.

Dawes shrugged. “It’s on all of those Haunted Connecticut tours along with Jennie Cramer and that house in Southington.”

“Where did it go down?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t like reading about that kind of stuff.”

“You chose the wrong line of work, Dawes.” She cocked her head. “Or did it choose you?” She remembered Darlington’s story about waking in the hospital at age seventeen, with an IV in his arm and Dean Sandow’s card in his hand. It was something they had in common, though it had never really felt that way.

“They approached me because of the topic for my dissertation. I was well suited to research. It was boring work until—” She broke off. Her shoulders hitched like someone had yanked on her strings. Until Darlington. Dawes brushed at her eyes with her mittened hands. “I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

“Dawes—” Alex began.

But Dawes was already hurrying back toward the Hutch.

Alex looked around, hoping to see the Bridegroom, wondering if the gluma or its master knew she had survived, if an ambush would be waiting around the next corner. She needed to get back to the dorm.

Alex thought of the passage the Bridegroom had quoted from Idylls of the King, the sinister weight of the words. If she remembered right, that passage was about Geraint’s romance with Enid, a man driven mad by jealousy though his wife had remained faithful. It didn’t exactly inspire confidence. Rather die than doubt. Why had Tara chosen those lines for her tattoo? Had she related to Enid or had she just liked the sound of the words? And why would someone from Scroll and Key share them with her? Alex couldn’t imagine one of the Locksmiths saying thank you for a particularly sweet high with a tour of the tomb and an education in its mythology. And even if Alex wasn’t making something out of nothing, how had dealing weed to a few undergrads turned into murder? There had to be something more at play here.

Alex remembered lying on her back at that intersection, seeing through Tara’s eyes in her last moments, seeing Lance’s face above her. But what if hadn’t been Lance at all? What if it had been some kind of glamour?

She swerved down High Street toward the Hopper College dining hall. She longed for the safety of her dorm room, but answers could protect her better than any ward. Even though Turner had warned her off Tripp, it was the only name she had and the only direct connection between the societies and Tara.

It was early yet, but sure enough, there he was, seated at a long table with a few of his buddies, all of them in loose shorts and baseball caps and fleeces, all of them rosy-cheeked and wind-buffed despite the fact she knew they must be nursing hangovers. Apparently wealth was better than vitamin injections. Darlington had been cut from the same moneyed cloth, but he’d had a real face, one with a little hardness in it.

As she approached, she saw Tripp’s friends turn their eyes to her, assess her, discard her. She’d showered at the Hutch, changed into a pair of Lethe sweats, and combed her hair. After being shoved into traffic and drowning, it was all the effort she owed anyone.

“Hey, Tripp,” she said easily. “You got a minute?”

He turned her way. “You want to ask me to prom, Stern?”

“Depends. Gonna be a good little slut for me and put out?” Tripp’s friends whooped and one of them let out a long Ohhhh shit. Now they were looking at her. “I need to talk to you about that problem set.”

Tripp’s cheeks pinked, but then his shoulders squared and he rose. “Sure.” “Bring him home early,” said one of his buddies.

“Why?” she asked. “You want seconds?”

They whooped again and clapped their hands as if she’d landed an impressive put.

“You’re kinda nasty, Stern,” Tripp said over his shoulder as she trailed him out of the dining hall. “I like it.”

“Come here,” she said. She led him up the stairs, past the stained-glass windows of plantation life that had survived the name change of the college from “slavery is a positive good” Calhoun to Hopper. A few years back a black janitor had smashed one of them to bits.

Tripp’s face changed, eager mischief pulling at his mouth. “What’s up, Stern?” he said as they entered the reading room. It was empty.

She closed the door behind her and his grinned widened—like he actually thought she was about to make a move.

“How do you know Tara Hutchins?” “What?”

“How do you know her? I’ve seen her phone logs,” she lied. “I know just how often you were in touch.”

He scowled and leaned on the back of a leather couch, folding his arms. The sulk didn’t suit him. It pushed his round features from boyish sweetness to angry infant. “You a cop now?”

She walked toward him and she saw him stiffen, tell himself not to back up. His world was all about deferral, moving in sideways patterns. You didn’t step to someone directly. You didn’t look them in the eye. You were cool. You were fine with it. You could take a joke.

“Don’t make me say I’m the law, Tripp. I’ll have trouble keeping a straight face.”

His eyes narrowed. “What is this about?”

“How stupid are you?” His mouth fell open. His lower lip looked wet. Had anyone ever spoken to Tripp Helmuth this way? “It’s about a dead girl. I want to know what she was to you.”

“I already talked to the police.”

“And now you’re talking to me. About a dead girl.” “I don’t have to—”

She leaned in. “You know how this works, right? My job—the job of Lethe House—is to keep entitled little shits like you from making trouble for the administration.”

“Why are you being such a hard-ass? I thought we were friends.”

Because of all the beer pong we played and the summer we spent in Biarritz? Did he really not know the difference between friends and friendly?

“We are friends, Tripp. If I wasn’t your friend I’d have taken this to Dean Sandow already, but I don’t want hassle and I don’t want to make trouble for you or for Bones if I don’t have to.”

His big shoulders shrugged. “It was just a hookup.” “Tara doesn’t seem like your type.”

“You don’t know my type.” Was he really trying to flirt his way out of this? She held his gaze and his eyes slid away. “She was fun,” he muttered.

For the first time, Alex had the sense he was being honest.

“I bet she was,” Alex said gently. “Always had a smile, always glad to see you.” That’s what dealing was about. Tripp probably didn’t understand that he was just a customer, that he was a pal as long as he had cash on hand.

“She was nice.” Did he care that she was dead? Was there something more haunted than a hangover in his eyes or did Alex just want to believe he gave a damn? “I swear all we ever did was fuck around and smoke a couple of bowls.”

“You ever meet at her place?”

He shook his head. “She always came to me.”

Of course figuring out her address couldn’t be that easy. “You ever see her with anyone from another society?”

Another shrug. “I don’t know. Look, Lance and T were dealers; they got the best weed I’ve ever had, like the lushest, greenest shit you’ve ever seen. But I didn’t keep track of who she hung out with.”

“I asked if you saw her with anyone.”

He lowered his head more. “Why are you being like this?”

“Hey,” she said softly. She squeezed his shoulder. “You know you’re not in trouble, right? You’re going to be fine.” She felt some of the tension ease out of him.

“You’re being so mean.”

She was torn between wanting to slap him or put him to bed with his favorite binky and a cup of warm milk.

“I’m just trying to get some answers, Tripp. You know how it is. Just trying to do my job.”

“I feel you, I feel you.” She doubted that, but he knew the script. Regular guy, Tripp Helmuth. Working hard or hardly working.

She gripped his shoulder more firmly. “But you need to understand this

situation. A girl died. And these people she ran with? They aren’t your friends and you aren’t going to stay hard or not rat or any of that crap you’ve seen in movies, because this isn’t a movie, this is your life, and you have a good life, and you don’t want to mess it up, yeah?”

Tripp kept his eyes on his shoes. “Yeah, okay. Yeah.” She thought he might cry.

“So who did you see with Tara?”

When Tripp was done talking, Alex leaned back. “Tripp?”

“Yeah?” He kept staring at his shoes—ridiculous plastic sandals, as if summer never stopped for Tripp Helmuth.

“Tripp,” she repeated, and waited for him to raise his head and meet her eyes. She smiled. “That’s it. We’re done. It’s over.” You don’t ever have to think about that girl again. How you fucked her and forgot her. How you thought she might give you a good deal if you made her come. How it got you off to be with someone who felt a little dangerous. “We good?” she asked. This was the language he understood.

“Yeah.”

“I’m not going to let this go any further, I promise.”

And then he said it and she knew he wouldn’t tell anyone about this conversation—not his friends, not the Bonesmen. “Thank you.”

That was the trick of it: to make him believe he had more to lose than she did.

“One last thing, Tripp,” she said as he made to scurry back toward the dining hall. “Do you have a bike?”

Alex pedaled across the green, past the three churches, then down to State Street and under the highway. She had about two hundred pages of reading to do if she didn’t want to fall behind this week, and possibly a monster hunting her, but right now she needed to talk to Detective Abel Turner.

Once you were off campus, New Haven lost its pretensions in fits and starts—dollar stores and grimy sports bars shared space with gourmet markets and sleek coffee spots; cheap nail salons and cell-phone hubs sat next to upscale noodle shops and boutiques selling small, useless soaps. It left Alex uneasy, as if the city’s identity kept shifting in front of her.

State Street was just a long stretch of nothing—parking lots, power lines, the train tracks to the east—and the police station was just as bad, an ugly, muscular building of oatmeal-colored slabs. There were dead spaces like this

all over the city, entire blocks of massive concrete monoliths looming over empty plazas like a drawing of the future from the past.

“Brutalist,” Darlington had called them, and Alex had said, “It does sort of feel like the buildings are ganging up on you.”

“No,” he’d corrected. “It’s from the French, brut. As in raw, because they used bare concrete. But, yes, it does feel like that.”

There had been slums here before, and then money had poured into New Haven from the Model Cities program. “It was supposed to clean everything up, but they built places no one wanted to be. And then the money ran out and New Haven just has these … gaps.”

Wounds, Alex had thought at the time. He was about to say “wounds,” because the city is alive to him.

Alex looked down at her phone. Turner hadn’t replied to her texts. She hadn’t worked up the nerve to call, but now she was here and there was nothing else to do. When he didn’t answer, she hung up and dialed back again, and then again. Alex hadn’t been anywhere near a police station since after Hellie died. Not only Hellie died that night. But to think of it in any other terms, to think of the blood, the pale pudding of Len’s brain clinging to the lip of the kitchen counter, set her mind rabbiting around her skull in panic.

At last Turner answered.

“What can I do for you, Alex?” His voice was pleasant, solicitous, as if there were no one else he’d rather speak to.

Reply to my goddamn texts. She cleared her throat. “Hi, Detective Turner.

I’d like to speak to you about Tara Hutchins.”

Turner chuckled—there was no other word for it; it was the indulgent laugh of a seventy-year-old grandfather, though Turner couldn’t have been much over thirty. Was he always like this at the office? “Alex, you know I can’t talk about an active investigation.”

“I’m outside the police station.”

A pause. Turner’s voice was different when he answered, a bit of that jolly warmth gone. “Where?”

“Right across the street.”

Another long pause. “Train station in five.”

Alex walked Tripp’s bike the rest of the way up the block to Union Station. The air was soft, moist with the promise of snow. She wasn’t sure if she was sweaty from the ride or because she was never going to get used to talking to cops.

She propped the bike against a wall by the parking lot and sat down on a

low concrete bench to wait. A Gray hurried past in his undershorts, checking his watch and bustling along as if afraid he was going to miss his train. You’re not going to make that one, buddy. Or any of the rest.

She scrolled through her phone, keeping one eye on the street as she searched Bertram Boyce North’s name. She wanted a little context before she went asking the Lethe library questions.

Luckily, there was plenty online. North and his fiancée were celebrities of a kind. In 1854, he and his betrothed, the young Daisy Fanning Whitlock, had been found dead in the offices of the North & Sons Carriage Company, long since demolished. Their portraits were the first link under New Haven on the Connecticut Haunts site. North looked handsome and serious, his hair more tidily arranged than it had been in death. The only other difference was his clean white shirt, unmarred by bloodstains. Something cold slithered up her spine. Sometimes, despite her best efforts, she forgot she was seeing the dead, even with the gore splattered all over his fancy coat and shirt. Seeing this stiff, still black-and-white photo was different. He is moldering in a grave. He is a skeleton gone to dust. She could have what was left of him dug up. They could stand by the edge of his tomb together and marvel at his bones. Alex tried to shake off the image.

Daisy Whitlock was beautiful in that dark-haired stony-eyed way that girls of that time were. Her head was tilted slightly, only the barest hint of a smile on her lips, her curls parted in the middle and arranged in soft loops that left her neck bare. Her waist was tiny and her white shoulders emerged from a froth of ruffles, a posy of mums and roses clutched in her delicate hands.

As for the factory where the murder had taken place, parts of it hadn’t yet been finished at the time of North’s murder and it was never completed. North & Sons moved their operations to Boston and continued to do business until the early 1900s. There were no photographs of the crime scene, only lurid descriptions of blood and horror, the gun—a pistol North had kept in his new offices in case of intruders—still gripped in his hand.

The bodies had been discovered by Daisy’s maid, a woman named Gladys O’Donaghue, who had gone screaming into the streets. She’d been found nearly a half mile away, hysterical, at the corner of Chapel and High. Even after a calming dose of brandy, she’d had little information to offer the authorities. The crime seemed an obvious one; only the motive offered any kind of intrigue. There were theories that Daisy had been pregnant by another man but her family had hushed it up in the wake of the murders to avoid further scandal. One commenter suggested that North had been driven mad by

mercury poisoning because of the time he’d spent near Danbury’s hat factories. The simplest theory was that Daisy wanted to break off the engagement and North wouldn’t have it. His family wanted an infusion of capital from the Whitlocks—and North wanted Daisy. She’d been a favorite of the local society columns and known as flirtatious, bold, and sometimes inappropriate.

“I like you already,” murmured Alex.

Alex scrolled past maps to both Daisy’s and North’s graves and was trying to zoom in on an old newspaper article when Turner arrived at the station.

He hadn’t bothered with an overcoat. Apparently he didn’t intend to stay long. Even so, the man could dress. He wore a simple, staid charcoal suit, but the lines were sharp, and Alex saw the careful touches—the pocket square, the thin lavender stripe on the tie. Darlington had always looked good, but effortlessly so. Turner wasn’t afraid to look like he tried.

His jaw was set, his mouth a pinched seam. It was only when he spotted Alex that his mask of diplomacy dropped into place. His whole bearing changed, not just his expression. His body went loose and easy, unthreatening, as if actively discharging the current of tension that animated his form.

He sat down beside her on the bench and rested his elbows on his knees. “I need to ask you not to show up at my place of work.”

“You didn’t answer my texts.”

“There’s a lot going on. I’m in the middle of a homicide investigation as you know.”

“It was that or go to your house.”

That live-wire tension sprang back into his body, and Alex felt a jolt of gratification at being able to rile him.

“I suppose Lethe has all of my particulars on file,” he said. Lethe most likely did know everything from Turner’s Social Security number to his tastes in porn, but no one had ever offered Alex a look at the file. She didn’t even know if Turner lived in New Haven proper. Turner checked his phone. “I have about ten minutes to give you.”

“I’d like you to let me talk to Lance Gressang.” “Sure. Maybe you’d like to run his prosecution too.”

“Tara wasn’t just connected to Tripp Helmuth. She and Lance were dealing to members of Scroll and Key and Manuscript. I have names.”

“Go on.”

“They’re not something I can disclose.”

Turner’s face was still impassive, but she could feel his resentment

building with each moment he was forced to indulge her. Good.

“You come to me for information but you’re not willing to share yours?” he asked.

“Let me talk to Gressang.”

“He is the chief suspect in a murder investigation. You understand that, right?” A disbelieving smile had crept up his lips. He really thought she was stupid. No, entitled. Another Tripp. Maybe another Darlington. And he would like this version of her better than the one he’d met at the morgue. Because this version could be intimidated.

“All I need is a few minutes,” she said, adding a whiny note to her voice. “I don’t actually need your permission. I can make the request through his lawyer, say I knew Tara.”

Turner shook his head. “Nope. As soon as I leave this meeting I’m calling him and letting him know there’s a crazy girl trying to insert herself into this case. Maybe I’ll give him a look at the video of you running around Elm Street like some kind of fool.”

A bolt of shame shook Alex as she thought of herself writhing in the middle of the road, cars swerving around her. So Sandow had shared the video with Turner. Had he shared it with anyone else? The thought of Professor Belbalm seeing it made her stomach churn. No wonder the detective was doubly smug with her today. He didn’t just think she was stupid. He thought she was unhinged. Even better.

“What’s the big deal?” Alex said.

Turner’s fingers flexed on the immaculately pressed legs of his suit. “The big deal? I can’t just sneak you in there. All visitors to a jail are logged. I have to have a good official reason to bring you there. His attorneys have to be there. The whole thing will have to be recorded.”

“You’re telling me cops always follow the rules?”

“Police. And if I bent the rules and the defense found out, Lance Gressang would get away with murder and I’d lose my job.”

“Look, when I went up to Tara’s place—”

Turner’s gaze snapped to her, eyes blazing, all pretense of diplomacy gone. “You went to her house? If you crossed that tape—”

“I needed to know if—”

He shot to his feet. This was the real Turner: young, ambitious, forced to dance to make his way in the world and sick of it. He paced back and forth in front of the bench, then pointed a finger at her. “Stay the fuck away from my case.”

“Turner—”

“Detective Turner. You are not going to mess with my case. I see you anywhere near Woodland, I will fuck your life so hard, you’ll never walk straight again.”

“Why are you being such a hard-ass?” she whined, cribbing a line from Tripp.

“This isn’t a game for you to play. You need to understand how easy it would be for me to take your life apart, to find a little stash of weed or pills on you or in your dorm room. Get that.”

“You can’t just—” Alex began, eyes wide, lip wobbling.

“I’ll do whatever I have to do. Now get out of here. You have no idea the line you’re walking, so do not press me.”

“I get it, okay?” Alex said meekly. “I’m sorry.” “Who did Tripp say he saw with Tara?”

Alex didn’t mind sharing the names. She’d meant to from the start. Turner needed to know that Tara had been dealing to students who weren’t in her phone logs, using a burner or a phone Lance had hidden or destroyed. She looked down at her gloved hands and said quietly, “Kate Masters and Colin Khatri.”

Kate was in Manuscript but Alex barely knew her. The last time she’d spoken to her had been the night of the Halloween party, when she and Mike Awolowo had begged her not to tattle to Lethe about drugging Darlington. She’d been dressed as Poison Ivy. But Colin she knew. Colin worked for Belbalm and he was in Scroll and Key. He was cute, tidy, as preppy as they came. She could imagine him relaxing with an outrageously expensive bottle of wine, not hotboxing with town goods. But she knew from her time at Ground Zero, appearances could be deceiving.

Turner smoothed his lapels, his cuffs, ran his hands over the clean sides of his head. She watched him put himself back together, and when he smiled and winked it was as if the angry, hungry Turner had never been there. “Glad we had this chat, Alex. You let me know if there’s anything at all I can do to help you out in the future.”

He turned and marched back toward the hulking form of the police station. She hadn’t liked whimpering in front of Turner. She hadn’t liked being called crazy. But now she knew what street Tara had lived on, and the rest would be easy.

Alex was tempted to go directly to Woodland and find Tara’s apartment, but she didn’t want to try to do her snooping on a Sunday, when people would be home from work. It would have to wait until tomorrow. She hoped that whoever had sent the gluma after her thought she was still laid up at the Hutch—or dead. But if they were watching her, she hoped they’d seen her talking to Turner. Then they’d think the police knew what she knew, and there’d be no point to shutting her up. Unless somehow Turner is in on all of it.

Alex shook the thought from her mind as she pedaled back toward the Hopper gates. Cautious was helpful; paranoid was just another word for distracted.

She texted Tripp to let him know where she’d dumped his bike inside the gate and headed across Old Campus, turning over Tara’s ties to the societies. The gluma suggested the involvement of Book and Snake, but so far it didn’t look like Tara had been dealing to anyone in that society. Tripp connected her to Skull and Bones, Colin and that weird tattoo connected her to Scroll and Key, Kate Masters tied her to Manuscript—and Manuscript specialized in glamours. If someone had been dressed in magic that night, pretending to be Lance, Manuscript was probably involved. That could explain why Alex had seen Lance’s face in Tara’s memory of the murder.

But all of that also assumed Tripp’s information was good. When you were scared you’d say anything to get yourself out of a bad situation. She should know. And Alex had no doubt that Tripp would happily sell out whoever first came to mind to get himself out of trouble. She supposed she could take those names to Sandow, explain that Turner would now be hunting down their alibis, try to make him reconsider Lethe’s involvement in the investigation. But then she’d have to explain that she’d badgered the information out of a Bonesman.

Alex had to be honest with herself too. Something in her had shaken loose when the gluma attacked—the real Alex coiled like a serpent in the false skin of who she pretended to be. That Alex had snapped her jaws closed on Salome, bullied Tripp, manipulated Turner. But she had to be careful. It’s essential that they see you as stable, reliable. She didn’t want to give Sandow any more excuses to sever her from Lethe and her only hope of staying at Yale.

Alex felt a rush of relief as she climbed the steps to Vanderbilt. She wanted to be behind the wards, to see Lauren and Mercy and talk about work and boys. She wanted to sleep in her own narrow bed. But when Alex entered

the suite, the first thing she heard was crying. Lauren and Mercy were on the couch. Lauren had her arm around Mercy and was rubbing her back as Mercy sobbed.

“What happened?” Alex said.

Mercy didn’t look up and Lauren’s face was harsh. “Where have you been?” she snapped. “Darlington’s mom needed help with something.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. Apparently the family-emergency excuse was past retirement.

Alex sat down on the battered coffee table, her knees bumping Mercy’s.

Mercy had her head buried in her hands. “Tell me what’s going on.” “Can I show her?” said Lauren.

Mercy released another sob. “Why not?”

Lauren handed over Mercy’s phone. Alex slid unlock on the screen and saw a text string with someone named Blake.

“Blake Keely?” He was a lacrosse player, if she remembered right. There was a story about him kicking a kid from a rival team in the head during a game in high school. The player had been on the ground at the time. Every college had revoked his scholarship—every college but Yale. The lacrosse team had been Ivy League champs four years running, and Blake had landed a modeling gig with Abercrombie & Fitch. His posters were plastered all over the store’s windows on Broadway, giant black-and-white images of him emerging shirtless from a mountain lake, hauling a Christmas tree through a snowy wood, snuggling a bulldog puppy by a roaring fire.

You were hot last night. All the brothers agree. Come by again tonight.

There was a video attached.

Alex didn’t want to press play, but she did. The sound of raucous laughter blared from the phone, the thump of a bass track. Blake said, “Heyyyyy hey, we have such a pretty girl, something exotic on the menu tonight, right?”

He turned the camera on Mercy, who laughed. She was sitting in another boy’s lap, her velvet skirt hiked high on her thighs, a red Solo cup in her hand. Shit. Omega Meltdown. Alex had promised Mercy she’d go with her, but she’d completely forgotten.

“Take it in the other room,” said Lauren as Mercy wept.

Hurriedly, Alex entered her bedroom and shut the door. Mercy’s bed was unmade. That, even more than her sobbing, was a sure sign of distress.

In the video Mercy’s skirt was pushed up to her waist, her panties pulled down. “Jesus, look at all that bush!” Blake giggled, a high, giddy sound, his

eyes tearing with laughter. “It’s so straight. You doing good, hon?” Mercy nodded.

“Haven’t had too much to drink? You’re sober and consensual as they say?”

“You bet.”

Mercy’s eyes were bright, lively, alert, not glazed or heavy lidded. She didn’t look drunk or like she’d been roofied.

“On your knees, hon. Time for Chinese takeout.”

Mercy knelt, her dark eyes wide and wet. She opened her mouth. Her tongue was stained purple from the punch. Alex paused the video. No, not the punch. She knew that color. That was how those servants had looked that night at Manuscript. That was Merity, the drug of service, taken by acolytes to give up their will.

The door opened and Lauren slipped inside. “She won’t let me take her to the health center.”

“They’re rapists. We should be going to the cops.” They should be good for that at least.

“You saw the video. She told me she barely drank.” “She was drugged.”

“I thought so too, but she isn’t acting like it. She doesn’t look like it. Did you watch it?”

“Part of it. How bad does it get?” “Bad.”

“How many guys?”

“Just the two. She thinks he’s going to send it around to his boys if he hasn’t already. Why weren’t you with her?”

I forgot. Alex didn’t want to say it. Because, yes, a girl had been murdered and Alex had been attacked, but at the end of the day, Alex hadn’t spared a second thought for Mercy, and Mercy deserved better. She deserved a night out to have fun and flirt and maybe meet a cute boy she could kiss and take to a formal. That was why Alex had agreed to go to Omega Meltdown with her. She owed Mercy, who had been kind to her and helped with Alex’s papers and never pitied, just pushed her to do better. But she’d forgotten all about the party after the gluma attack. She’d gotten caught up in her fear and desperation and her desire to know why she was being hunted.

“Who did she go with?” Alex asked.

“Charlotte and that crew from upstairs.” Lauren’s voice was an angry growl. “They just left her there.”

If Mercy was under the influence of Merity, then she would have said she was fine, that they should leave, and they wouldn’t have known her well enough to argue with her. But if Alex had been there, she would have seen Mercy’s purple tongue. She could have stopped this.

Alex put her coat back on. She took a screenshot of the video and sent it to her own phone showing Mercy’s mouth open, her purple tongue out.

“Where are you going?” Lauren whispered furiously. “Does Darlington’s mom need some more help?”

“To fix this.”

“She doesn’t want us talking to the police.”

“I don’t need the police. Where does Blake live?” “The Omega house.”

Up on Lynwood, in the filthy frat row that had sprung up when the university had kicked the fraternities off campus years ago.

“Alex—” said Lauren.

“Just try to keep her calm and don’t leave her alone.”

Alex strode back out of Vanderbilt and across Old Campus. She wanted to go straight to Blake, but that would do no good. A group of Grays flickered in the corner of her vision. “Orare las di Korach,” she spat. Her grandmother’s curse felt good on her tongue. Let them be swallowed alive. All of her anger must have gathered in the words. The Grays scattered like birds.

And what about the gluma? If it was out there hunting, would it go running? She would have been glad for a glimpse of the Bridegroom, but she hadn’t seen him since their encounter in the borderlands.

Alex knew she shouldn’t have riled Detective Turner. He might have been willing to help if she hadn’t messed with him. It was possible he still would. Part of her believed he really was one of the good guys. But she didn’t want to rely on Turner or the law or the administration to fix this. Because the video would still be out there, and Blake Keely was rich and beautiful and beloved, and there was a big difference between things being fair and things being set right.