They’d made it down the street to the Hutch. Darlington leaned his head against the Mercedes. He should pay attention to what Alex was saying to Kate and Mike, but the metal felt cool and forgiving against his face.
Moments later they were getting into his car and he was mumbling the address for Black Elm.
Mike and Kate peered through the passenger window as the car drove off.
“They’re afraid you’re going to report them,” Alex said.
“Damn right I will. They’re going to eat a huge fine. A suspension.”
“I told him I’d handle the write-up.”
“You will not.”
“You can’t be objective about this.”
No, he couldn’t. In his head, he was kneeling again, face pressed to her thighs, desperate to get closer. The thought of it made him instantly hard again, and he was grateful for the dark.
“What do you want me to say in the report?” Alex asked.
“All of it,” Darlington muttered miserably.
“It isn’t a big deal,” she said.
It had been a big deal, though. He had felt … “desire” wasn’t even the right word for it.
He could still feel her skin under his palms, the heat of her against his lips through the thin fabric of her panties. What the hell was wrong with him?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was unforgivable.”
“You got wasted and acted a fool at a party. Relax.”
“If you don’t want to continue working with me—”
“Shut up, Darlington,” Alex said. “I’m not doing this job without you.”
She got him back to Black Elm and put him to bed. The house was ice-cold and he realized his teeth were chattering. Alex lay down beside him with the covers pulled tight
between them, and his heart hurt for the wanting of someone.
“Mike said the drug should be out of your system in about twelve hours.”
Darlington lay in his narrow bed, writing and rewriting angry emails in his head to the
Manuscript alumni and the Lethe board, losing the thread, overwhelmed by images of Alex lit by stars, the thought of that black dress sliding from her shoulders, then returning to his rant and a demand for action. The words tangled together, caught on the spokes of a
wheel, the points of a crown. But one thought returned again and again as he tossed and
turned, fell in and out of dreams, morning light beginning its slow bleed through the high
tower window: Alex Stern was not what she seemed.
11
Winter
Alex woke abruptly. She was asleep and then she was conscious and terrified, batting at
the hands she could still feel around her neck.
Her throat felt raw and red. She was on the couch of the common room at the Hutch.
Night had fallen and the lights burned low in their sconces, casting yellow half-moons against framed paintings of rolling meadows dotted with sheep and shepherds playing their pipes.
“Here,” Dawes said, perching on the cushions, holding a glass full of what looked like
eggnog with a little green food coloring in it up to Alex’s lips. A musty smell emanated
from the rim. Alex recoiled and opened her mouth to ask what it was, but all that emerged
was a faint rasp that made her throat feel like someone had touched a lit match to it.
“I’ll tell you after you drink it,” said Dawes. “Trust me.”
Alex shook her head. The last thing Dawes had given her to drink had set her insides on
fire.
“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Dawes asked.
Yes, but right now she wished she were dead.
Alex pinched her nose, took the glass, and gulped. The taste was stale and powdery, the
liquid so thick it almost choked her going down, but as soon as it touched her throat, the
burning eased, leaving only a faint ache.
She handed the glass back and wiped a hand over her mouth, shuddering slightly at the
aftertaste.
“Goat’s milk and mustard seed thickened with spider eggs,” Dawes said.
Alex pressed her knuckles to her lips and tried not to gag. “Trust you?”
Her throat was sore, but she could at least talk and the raging fire inside her seemed to
have banked.
“I had to use brimstone to burn the beetles out of you. I’d say the cure was worse than