Alex was glad he’d never had the sense to ask.
Where do we begin to tell the story of Lethe? Does it begin in 1824 with Bathsheba Smith? Perhaps it should. But it would take another seventy
years and many more disasters before Lethe would come to be. So instead
we point to 1898, when Charlie Baxter, a man with no home and of no
consequence, turned up dead with burns to his hands, feet, and scrotum, and
a black scarab where his tongue should be. Accusations flew and the
societies found themselves under threat from the university. To heal the rift
and—let us speak frankly—to save themselves, Edward Harkness, a
member of Wolf’s Head, joined with William Payne Whitney of Skull and
Bones, and Hiram Bingham III of the now-defunct Acacia Fraternity, to
form the League of Lethe as an oversight body for the societies’ occult
activities.
From these earliest meetings rose our mission statement: We are charged
with monitoring the rites and practices of any senior societies trafficking in
magic, divination, or otherworldly discourse, with the express intent of
keeping citizens and students safe from mental, physical, and spiritual harm
and of fostering amicable relations between the societies and school
administration.
Lethe was funded by an infusion of capital from Harkness and a
mandatory contribution from the trusts of each of the Ancient Eight. When
Harkness tapped James Gamble Rogers (Scroll and Key, 1889) to create a
plan for Yale and design many of its structures, he ensured that safe houses
and tunnels for Lethe would be built throughout the campus.
Harkness, Whitney, and Bingham drew on knowledge from each of the
societies to create a storehouse of arcane magic for use by the deputies of
Lethe. This was added to significantly in 1911, when Bingham traveled to
Peru.
—from The Life of Lethe: Procedures and Protocols of the Ninth House
4
Last Fall
“Come on,” Darlington said, helping her to her feet. “The illusion will break any minute
and you’ll be lying in the front yard like a noon drinker.” He half-dragged her up the stairs to the porch. She’d handled the jackals well enough, but her color wasn’t good and she was breathing hard. “You’re in terrible shape.”
“And you’re an asshole.”
“Then we both have hardships to overcome. You asked me to tell you what you were
getting into. Now you know.”
She yanked her arm away. “Tell me. Not try to kill me.”
He looked at her steadily. It was important she understand. “You were never in any danger. But I can’t promise that will always be the case. If you don’t take this seriously,
you could get yourself or someone else hurt.”
“Someone like you?”
“Yes,” he said. “Most of the time nothing too bad happens at the Houses. You’ll see things you’d like to forget. Miracles too. But no one completely understands what lies beyond the Veil or what might happen if it crosses over. Death waits on black wings and
we stand hoplite, hussar, dragoon. ”
She placed her hands on her thighs and peered up at him. “You make that up?”
“Cabot Collins. They called him the Poet of Lethe.” Darlington reached for the door.
“He lost both his hands when an interdimensional portal closed on them. He was reciting
his latest work at the time.”
Alex shuddered. “Okay, I get it. Bad poetry, serious business. Are those dogs real?”
“Real enough. They’re spirit hounds, bound to serve the sons and daughters of Lethe.
Why the long sleeves, Stern?”
“Track marks.”
“Really?” He’d suspected that might be the issue, but he didn’t quite believe her.
She straightened and cracked her back. “Sure. Are we going in or not?”
He bobbed his chin toward her wrist. “Show me.”
Alex lifted her arm, but she didn’t shove her sleeve back. She just held it out to him, like he was going to tap a vein for a blood drive.
A challenge. One that he suddenly didn’t want to accept. It was none of his business.
He should say that. Let it go.