elaborate interior of the Scroll and Key tomb, the patterns of the tiles on the floor. The
night of the botched attempt to open a portal to Budapest, Colin had given her an excited little wave when he’d seen her, as if they were rushing the same sorority. “Darlington said
Colin was one of the best and brightest, doing graduate-level chem work as an undergrad.
Headed someplace prestigious next year. Stanford, I think.”
“He never showed at Scroll and Key last Thursday. He was at a party at a professor’s
house. Bell-something. A French name.”
She wanted to laugh. “Not a party. A salon.” Colin had been at Belbalm’s salon. Alex
was supposed to attend the next one … tomorrow? No, tonight. Her magical summer
working in the professor’s quiet office and watering her plants had never seemed more far
away. But had Colin actually been at the salon? Maybe he’d slipped away. Alex hoped that wasn’t the case. Belbalm’s world of peppery perfume and gentle conversation felt like a refuge, the reward she probably didn’t deserve but would happily accept. She wanted to keep it separate from all of this mess.
Alex felt her awareness drifting, that first bright burst of the basso belladonna letting go. She heard a beep that sounded too loud, then Turner talking over the radio, explaining
the damage at Lance and Tara’s apartment. Someone looking for drugs. He had pursued on
foot but lost the perp. He gave a vague description of a suspect who might have been male
or female in a parka that might have been black or dark blue.
Alex was surprised to hear him lying, but she knew he wasn’t covering for her. He didn’t know how to explain Lance or what he’d seen.
At last, Turner said, “We’re coming up on the green.”
Alex forced herself to sit up so she could direct him. The world felt red, as if even the
air touching her body was out to get her.
“Alley,” she said, as the dark brick and stained glass of Il Bastone came into view.
There were lights on in the parlor window. Be home, Dawes. “Park in back.”
Alex shut her eyes and released a sigh when the engine stopped. She heard Turner’s door slam and then he was helping her climb out of the car.
“Keys,” he said.
“No keys.”
She had a worried moment when Turner fumbled with the doorknob, wondering if the
house would let him in. But either her presence was enough or it recognized Centurion.
The door swung open.
Il Bastone made a worried rattle as she entered, the chandeliers tinkling. To anyone else
it probably would have felt like a truck rolling by, but Alex could feel the house’s concern
and it put a lump in her throat. Maybe it just disapproved of so much blood and trauma crossing its threshold, but Alex wanted to believe that the house did not like the suffering
of one of its own.
Dawes was lying on the parlor carpet in her lumpy sweatshirt, headphones on.
“Hey,” said Turner, and repeated, “Hey!” when she didn’t answer.
Dawes jumped. It was like watching a big beige rabbit come to life. She startled and cringed backward at the sight of Turner and Alex in the parlor.
“Is she a racist or just twitchy?” asked Turner.
“I’m not a racist!” said Dawes.
“We’re all racists, Dawes,” said Alex. “How did you even make it through undergrad?”
Dawes’s mouth went slack as Turner dragged Alex into the light. “Oh my God. Oh my
God. What happened?”
“Long story,” said Alex. “Can you fix me?”
“We should go to the hospital,” said Dawes. “I’ve never—”
“No,” said Alex. “I’m not leaving the wards.”
“What got you?”
“A very big dude.”
“Then—”
“Who can walk through walls.”
“Oh.” She pressed her lips together and then said, “Detective Turner, I … could you—”
“What do you need?”
“Goat’s milk. I think Elm City Market stocks it.”
“How much?”
“As much as they have. The crucible will do the rest. Alex, can you get up the stairs?”
Alex glanced at the staircase. She wasn’t sure she could.