“Galaxy Stern,” she said, but when she tried to pull her hand back, his fingers closed
tighter.
“I have waited a long time for this moment.”
Alex popped the carob pod into her mouth. “Moments pass,” she said, letting it rest between her teeth.
“You thought me sleeping, but I heard you say, I heard you say, that you were no true
wife.” Again, Alex tried to pull away. His hand stayed closed hard around hers. “I swear I will not ask your meaning in it: I do believe yourself against yourself, and will henceforward rather die than doubt.”
Rather die than doubt. Tara’s tattoo. The quote wasn’t from some metal band.
“Idylls of the King,” she said.
“You remember now.”
She’d had to read the whole long sprawl of Tennyson’s poem as part of the preparation
for Darlington’s and her first visit to Scroll and Key. There were quotes from it all over their tomb, tributes to King Arthur and his knights—and a vault full of treasures plundered
during the Crusades. Have power on this dark land to lighten it, and power on this dead
world to make it live. She remembered the words etched into the stone table at the Locksmiths’ tomb.
Alex shook free of the Bridegroom’s grip. So Tara’s death was potentially connected to
three societies. Tara was tied to Skull and Bones through Tripp Helmuth, to Book and Snake by the gluma attack, and—unless Tara had a secret taste for Victorian poetry—she was linked to Scroll and Key by her Tennyson tattoo.
North bowed slightly. “When you find something that belonged to Tara, bring it to any
body of water and I will come to you. They are all crossing places for us now.”
Alex flexed her fingers, wanting to be free of the feel of the Bridegroom’s hand in hers.
“I’ll do that.” She turned from him, biting down on the carob pod, her mouth flooding with a bitter, chalky taste.
She tried to push toward the eastern bank, but the river yanked at her knees and she stumbled. She felt herself pulled backward as she lost her footing, her boots seeking purchase on the riverbed as she was dragged toward the host of dark shapes on the western
shore. North had his back to her and he already seemed impossibly far away. The shapes
did not look quite human anymore. They were too tall, too lean, their arms long and bent
at wrong angles, like insects. She could see their heads silhouetted against the indigo sky,
noses lifted as if scenting her, jaws opening and closing.
“North!” she shouted.
But North did not break his stride. “The current claims us all in the end,” he called without turning. “If you want to live, you have to fight.”
Alex gave up trying to find the bottom. She wrenched her body toward the east and swam, kicking hard, fighting the current as she plunged her arms into the water. She turned her head to gasp for breath, the weight of her shoes drawing her down, her shoulders aching. Something heavy and muscular bumped her, driving her back; a tail lashed her leg. Maybe the crocodiles couldn’t harm her, but they could do the river’s work.
Fatigue sat leaden in her muscles. She felt her pace slow.
The sky had gone dark. She couldn’t see the shore any longer, wasn’t even sure she was
swimming in the right direction. If you want to live.
And wasn’t that the worst of it? She did. She did want to live and always had.
“Hell!” she shouted. “Goddamn hell!” The sky exploded with forked lightning. A little
blasphemy to light the way. For a long, horrible moment, there was only black water, and
then she spotted the eastern shore.
She drove forward, plowing her hands through the water, until at last she let her legs drop. The bottom was there, closer than she’d thought. She crawled through the shallows,
crushing lotus blossoms beneath her sodden body, and slumped down on the sand. She could hear the crocodiles behind her, the low engine rumble of their open mouths. Would
they nudge her back to the river’s grasp? She dragged herself a few more feet, but she was
too heavy. Her body was sinking into the sand, the grains weighing her down, filling her