Either way, Alex didn’t like that it would be so easy for Lethe to close Darlington’s chapter. He had been a lot of things, most of them annoying, but he had loved his job and Lethe House. It was cruel that Lethe couldn’t love him back. This was the first time Sandow had even broached the possibility that Darlington wouldn’t return, that he couldn’t just be yanked from between the interdimensional cushions of a cosmic couch. Was it because they were only days away from trying?

Sandow picked up the empty glass coated in film from the vile green milk drink.

“Axtapta? You were attacked by a gluma?”

His voice had been smooth, diplomatic, pensive, while he discussed Darlington—his dean voice. But at the thought of a gluma, a deep crease appeared between his worried brows.

“That’s right,” Alex said solidly, though she still wasn’t entirely sure what that implied. Then she made the leap. “I think someone sent it after me. Maybe Book and Snake.”

Sandow huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Why would they ever have cause to do something like that?”

“Because Tara Hutchins is dead and I think they had something to do with it.”

Sandow blinked rapidly, as if his eyes were defective camera lenses. “Detective Turner says—”

“This is what I think, not Turner.”

Sandow’s gaze snapped to hers, and she knew he was surprised by the surety in her voice. But she couldn’t afford the deferential dance she knew he would prefer.

“You’ve been investigating?”

“I have.”

“That isn’t safe, Alex. You aren’t equipped to—”

“Someone had to.” And Darlington was far away.

“Do you have evidence a society was involved?”

“Book and Snake raises the dead. They use glumas—”

“Glumae,” murmured Dawes.

“Glumae as messengers to talk to the dead. One of them attacked me. Seems like a solid theory.”

“Alex,” he said gently, a faint scold in his voice. “We knew when you came here that someone of your abilities had never been in such a position. It’s possible, likely even, that simply being here has disrupted systems we can only guess at.”

“You’re saying I triggered the gluma attack?” She hated the defensive edge in her voice.

“I’m not saying you did anything,” said Sandow mildly. “I’m just saying by dint of what you are, you may have brought this on.”

Dawes crossed her arms. “That sounds a lot like She was asking for it, Dean Sandow.”

Alex couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. Pamela Dawes disagreeing with Dean Sandow. On her behalf.

Sandow set his mug down with a clatter. “That’s certainly not what I meant to imply.”

“But that is the implication,” said Dawes in a voice Alex had never heard her use before, clear and incisive. Her eyes were cold. “Alex has indicated her own concerns regarding her assault, and instead of hearing her out, you’ve chosen to question her credibility. You may not have meant to imply anything, but the intent and the effect were to silence her, so it’s hard not to think this stinks of victim blaming. It’s the semantic equivalent of saying her skirt was too short.”

Alex tried not to smile. Dawes had leaned back in her chair, legs and arms crossed, head cocked to one side, somehow both angry and at ease. Sandow’s face was flushed. He put his palms up as if trying to gentle a beast—easy now. “Pamela, I hope you know me better than that.” Alex had never seen him so flustered. So Dawes knew how to speak the dean’s language, the threats that counted.

“Someone sent that monster after me,” Alex said, pushing the advantage Dawes had given her. “And it isn’t a coincidence that a girl died just days before. Tara’s phone log showed calls to Tripp Helmuth. That points to Bones. A gluma just tried to murder me in the street. That might point to Book and Snake. Tara was killed on a Thursday night, a ritual night, and if you read my report, you know that at the same time someone was carving her up, I saw two formerly docile Grays completely lose their shit.” Sandow’s brows pinched further together, as if such language pained him. “You—Lethe—brought me here for a reason, and I’m telling you that a girl is dead and there’s a connection to the societies. For a minute just pretend I’m Darlington and try to take me seriously.”

Sandow studied her, and Alex wondered if maybe she’d gotten through to him. Then he shifted his gaze to Dawes. “Pamela, I believe we have a camera facing the intersection at Elm and York.”

Alex saw the way Dawes’s shoulders softened, her head lowering, as if Sandow had spoken the words to break whatever spell she had been under. She rose and retrieved her laptop. Alex felt something twist in her gut.

Dawes struck a few keys on her computer, and the mirror on the far wall brightened. A moment later, the screen showed Elm Street teeming with cars and people, a sea of gray and darker gray. The time stamp in the corner read 11:50 a.m. Alex searched the tide of people moving along the sidewalk, but everyone just looked like a bulky lump in a coat. Then a flash of movement outside the Good Nature Market caught her eye. She watched the crowd part and ripple, instinctively moving away from violence. There she was, fleeing the store, the owner shouting at her, a girl with black hair in a woolly hat—Darlington’s hat. She must have lost it in the fight.

The girl on the screen stepped off the sidewalk and into traffic, all of it in cold silence, a pantomime.

Alex remembered the gluma’s furious grip as it had dragged her into the street, but there was no gluma on the screen. Instead, she saw the dark-haired girl throw herself into the flow of cars, stumbling and wild, screaming and clawing at nothing. Then she was on her back. Alex’s memory said the gluma was on top of her, but the screen showed nothing at all, just her lying at the center of the street as cars swerved to avoid her, her back bowing and flexing, her mouth wide, her hands clawing at nothing, convulsing.

A moment later she was on her feet, lurching toward the alley that ran behind the Hutch. She saw herself look back once, eyes wide, face streaked with blood, mouth open in horror, the corners pulled down like the corners of a sail pulled taut. I was seeing the Bridegroom fight the gluma. Or was I? It was the face of a madwoman. She was back on that bathroom floor, shorts around her ankles, screaming and alone.

“Alex, everything you say may be true. But there is no proof of what attacked you, let alone who might be responsible. If I show this to the alumni … It’s essential that they see you as stable, reliable, particularly given … well, given how precarious things are now.”

Given that Darlington had disappeared. Given that it had happened when she was supposed to be watching his back.

“Isn’t this why we’re here?” asked Alex, a last try, an appeal on behalf of something bigger than herself, something Sandow might value more. “To protect girls like Tara? To make sure the societies don’t just … do whatever they want?”

“Absolutely. But do you really believe you’re equipped to investigate a homicide by yourself? There’s a reason I told you to stand down. I’m trying to keep things as normal as they can be in a world where monsters live. The police are investigating the Hutchins murder. The girl’s boyfriend has been arrested and is awaiting trial. Do you honestly think that if Turner found a connection to one of the societies, he wouldn’t pursue it?”

“No,” admitted Alex. “I know he would.” Whatever she thought of him, Turner was a bloodhound with a conscience that never took the day off.

“If he does, we will absolutely be there to lend him support, and I promise to pass along everything you’ve learned. But right now I need you to focus on getting well and staying safe. Dawes and I will both put our minds to what might have triggered the gluma attack and if there may be other disruptions caused by your ability. Your presence here on campus is an unknown factor, a disruptor. The behavior of those Grays during the prognostication, Darlington’s disappearance, a violent death near campus, now a gluma—”

“Wait,” said Alex. “You think my being here had something to do with Tara getting killed?”

“Of course not,” said the dean. “But I don’t want to give the Lethe board reasons to start drawing those kinds of conclusions. And I cannot afford to let you play amateur detective in a matter this serious. Our funding is up for review this year. We exist by the university’s good graces and we keep our lights on through the continued support of the other societies. We need their good will.” He released a long breath. “Alex, I don’t mean to sound cold. The Hutchins murder is gruesome and tragic and I am absolutely going to monitor this situation, but we have to tread cautiously. The end of last semester … What happened at Rosenfeld changed everything. Pamela, do you want to see Lethe’s funding pulled?”

“No,” Dawes whispered. If she spoke Sandow’s language, Sandow was also fluent in Dawes. Lethe was her hiding place, her bunker. There was no way she was going to risk losing it.