“This is awkward. I was under the impression you did.”

The Bridegroom’s lips pursed again. He looked so prim, so put out, Alex almost laughed. “I’m aware.”

“Murder-suicide? Shot her, then yourself?”

“I did not. Whoever killed her was responsible for my death as well. I don’t know who it was. Just as Tara Hutchins may not know who harmed her.”

“All right,” Alex said dubiously. “Then why not ask your fiancée what she saw?”

His eyes slid away. “I can’t find her. I’ve been searching for her on both sides of the Veil for over a hundred and fifty years.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

He nodded stiffly. “If a spirit doesn’t wish to be found, there’s an eternity to hide in.”

“She blames you,” Alex said, fitting the pieces together.

“Possibly.”

“And you think she’ll stop blaming you if you find out who really did this?”

“Hopefully.”

“Or you could just leave her be.”

“I was responsible for Daisy’s death, even if I didn’t deal her the blow. I failed to protect her. I owe her justice.”

“Justice? It’s not like you can seek revenge. Whoever killed you is long since dead.”

“Then I will find him on this side.”

“And do what? Kill him real good?”

The Bridegroom smiled then, the corners of his mouth pulling back to reveal an even, predatory set of teeth. Alex felt a chill settle over her. She remembered the way he’d looked wrestling with the gluma. Like something that wasn’t quite human. Something even the dead should fear.

“There are worse things than death, Miss Stern.”

Again the murmuring rose from the banks of the western shore, and this time Alex thought she could pick out the sound of what might have been French. Jean Du Monde? It might be a man’s name or just nonsense syllables her mind was trying to shape into meaning.

“You’ve had over a hundred years to try to find this mystery killer,” Alex said. “Why do you think I’m going to have any better luck?”

“Your associate Daniel Arlington was looking into the case.”

“I don’t think so.” An old murder that headlined Haunted New England tours wasn’t Darlington’s style at all.

“He visited the … place where we fell. He had a notebook with him. He took photos. I highly doubt he was just sightseeing. I can’t get past the wards of the house on Orange Street. I want to know why he went there and what he found.”

“And Darlington isn’t … he isn’t there? With you?”

“Even the dead don’t know where Daniel Arlington is.”

If the Bridegroom hadn’t found Darlington on the other side, then Sandow had to be right. He was just missing, and that meant he could be found. Alex needed to believe that.

“Find Tara,” Alex said, eager to be out of the water and back to the world of the living. “I’ll see what work Darlington left behind. But I need to know something. Tell me you didn’t send that thing, the gluma, after me.”

“Why would I—”

“To form a connection between us. To make me indebted to you and lay the groundwork for this little partnership.”

“I didn’t send that thing after you and I don’t know who did. How am I to convince you?”

Alex wasn’t sure. She’d hoped she’d somehow be able to tell, that there was some vow she could force him to make, but she supposed she’d know soon enough. Assuming she could figure out what Darlington had discovered—if anything. The factory that had been the murder site was a parking garage now. Knowing Darlington, he’d probably gone there to take notes on the history of New Haven concrete.

“Just find Tara,” she said. “Get me my answers and I’ll get yours.”

“This is not the pact I would have chosen, nor are you the partner I would have sought, but we will both make the best of it.”

“You’re quite the charmer. Daisy like that way with words?” The Bridegroom’s eyes turned black. Alex had to force herself not to take a step backward. “Quick temper. Just the type of guy to off a lady who got sick of his shit. Did you?”

“I loved her. I loved her more than life.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

He took a deep breath, summoning his composure, and his eyes returned to their normal state. He held out his hand to her. “Speak your true name, Miss Stern, and let us make our bargain.”

There was power in names. It was why the names of Grays were blacked from the pages of Lethe’s records. It was why she would rather think of the thing before her as the Bridegroom. The danger lay in connection, in the moment when you bound your life to someone else’s.

Alex fingered the carob pod in her pocket. Best to be ready in case … what? He tried to drag her under? But why would he? He needed her and she needed him. That was how most disasters began.

She took his hand in hers. His grip was firm, his palm damp and ice-cold against hers. What was she touching? A body? A thought?

“Bertram Boyce North,” he said.

“That’s a terrible name.”

“It’s a family name,” he said indignantly.

“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.