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