what you might have discovered at the morgue.”
She remembered Sandow sitting across from her at the Hutch, his teacup perched on his knee, telling her that her power had brought on the gluma attack, that she was to blame for it, for Tara’s murder. “You told me it was my fault.”
“Well, you weren’t meant to survive. I had to say something.” He sounded so
reasonable. “Darlington knew you would be trouble. But I had no idea how much.”
“You still don’t know,” said Alex. “And Darlington would loathe everything about
you.”
“Darlington was a gentleman. But this isn’t a time for gentlemen.” He picked up his pipe. “Do you know the terrible thing?”
“That you murdered a girl in cold blood so some rich kids can build a fancy clubhouse?
Seems pretty terrible.”
But he didn’t seem to hear her. “It didn’t work,” he said, shaking his head, his steepled
brows creasing his forehead. “The ritual was sound. I built it perfectly. But no nexus appeared.”
“So Tara died and you’re still screwed?”
“I would have been if not for you. I’m advocating for Manuscript to be stripped of their
tomb. St. Elmo’s will have a new home by the next school year. They’ll get what they want. I’ll get my money. So the question is, Alex, what do you want?”
Alex stared at him. He was actually trying to negotiate with her. “What do I want? Stop
killing people. You don’t get to murder a girl and disappear Darlington. You don’t get to use me and Dawes and Lethe because you want to live in a nice neighborhood and drive a
nice car. We aren’t supposed to be walking that tightrope. We are the goddamn
shepherds.”
Sandow laughed. “We are beggars at the table. They throw us scraps, but the real magic, the magic that makes futures and saves lives, belongs to them. Unless we take a bit
of it for ourselves.”
He lifted his pipe, but instead of lighting it, he tapped the contents of the bowl into his
mouth. It glittered against his lips—Astrumsalinas. Starpower. Compulsion. He’d given it to Blake to use on Alex that night at Il Bastone. The night Sandow had sent Blake Keely
to kill her.
Not this time.
Alex reached out to North and, with a sudden rush, felt him flood into her, filling her
with strength. She launched herself toward Sandow.
“Stay right there!” said the dean. Alex’s steps faltered, wanting only to obey. But the drug had no power over the dead.
No, said North, the voice clean and true inside her head.
“No,” said Alex. She shoved the dean down into a chair. His crutches clattered to the
floor. “Turner is coming. You’re going to tell him what you did. There isn’t going to be
another tomb for St. Elmo’s. This isn’t all going away with fines and suspensions. You’re
all going to pay. Fuck the societies, fuck Lethe, and fuck you.”
“Alexandra?” She and Sandow turned. Professor Belbalm hovered in the doorway, a
glass of champagne in her hand. “What’s going on here? Elliot … are you all right?”
“She attacked me!” he cried. “She’s unwell, unstable. Marguerite, call campus security.
Get Colin to help me subdue Alex.”
“Of course,” said Belbalm, the compulsion taking hold.
“Professor, wait—” Alex began. She knew it was futile. Under the influence of
Starpower, there would be no reasoning with her. “I have a recording. I have proof—”
“Alexandra, I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Belbalm said with a sad shake of her
head. Then she smiled and winked. “Actually, I know exactly what’s gotten into you.
Bertram Boyce North.”
“Marguerite!” snapped Sandow. “I told you to—”
“Oh, Elliot, stop.” Professor Belbalm shut the door behind her and turned the lock.
31
Early Spring
Alex stared. It wasn’t possible. How was Belbalm resisting the Starpower? And could she
somehow see North?
Belbalm set her champagne on a bookshelf. “Please, won’t you sit, Alex?” she asked with the gracious air of a hostess.
“Marguerite,” said Sandow sternly.