She texted Tripp to let him know where she’d dumped his bike inside the gate and headed across Old Campus, turning over Tara’s ties to the societies. The gluma suggested the involvement of Book and Snake, but so far it didn’t look like Tara had been dealing to anyone in that society. Tripp connected her to Skull and Bones, Colin and that weird tattoo connected her to Scroll and Key, Kate Masters tied her to Manuscript—and Manuscript specialized in glamours. If someone had been dressed in magic that night, pretending to be Lance, Manuscript was probably involved. That could explain why Alex had seen Lance’s face in Tara’s memory of the murder.

But all of that also assumed Tripp’s information was good. When you were scared you’d say anything to get yourself out of a bad situation. She should know. And Alex had no doubt that Tripp would happily sell out whoever first came to mind to get himself out of trouble. She supposed she could take those names to Sandow, explain that Turner would now be hunting down their alibis, try to make him reconsider Lethe’s involvement in the investigation. But then she’d have to explain that she’d badgered the information out of a Bonesman.

Alex had to be honest with herself too. Something in her had shaken loose when the gluma attacked—the real Alex coiled like a serpent in the false skin of who she pretended to be. That Alex had snapped her jaws closed on Salome, bullied Tripp, manipulated Turner. But she had to be careful. It’s essential that they see you as stable, reliable. She didn’t want to give Sandow any more excuses to sever her from Lethe and her only hope of staying at Yale.

Alex felt a rush of relief as she climbed the steps to Vanderbilt. She wanted to be behind the wards, to see Lauren and Mercy and talk about work and boys. She wanted to sleep in her own narrow bed. But when Alex entered the suite, the first thing she heard was crying. Lauren and Mercy were on the couch. Lauren had her arm around Mercy and was rubbing her back as Mercy sobbed.

“What happened?” Alex said.

Mercy didn’t look up and Lauren’s face was harsh.

“Where have you been?” she snapped.

“Darlington’s mom needed help with something.”

Lauren rolled her eyes. Apparently the family-emergency excuse was past retirement.

Alex sat down on the battered coffee table, her knees bumping Mercy’s. Mercy had her head buried in her hands. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Can I show her?” said Lauren.

Mercy released another sob. “Why not?”

Lauren handed over Mercy’s phone. Alex slid unlock on the screen and saw a text string with someone named Blake.

“Blake Keely?” He was a lacrosse player, if she remembered right. There was a story about him kicking a kid from a rival team in the head during a game in high school. The player had been on the ground at the time. Every college had revoked his scholarship—every college but Yale. The lacrosse team had been Ivy League champs four years running, and Blake had landed a modeling gig with Abercrombie & Fitch. His posters were plastered all over the store’s windows on Broadway, giant black-and-white images of him emerging shirtless from a mountain lake, hauling a Christmas tree through a snowy wood, snuggling a bulldog puppy by a roaring fire.

You were hot last night. All the brothers agree. Come by again tonight. There was a video attached.

Alex didn’t want to press play, but she did. The sound of raucous laughter blared from the phone, the thump of a bass track. Blake said, “Heyyyyy hey, we have such a pretty girl, something exotic on the menu tonight, right?”

He turned the camera on Mercy, who laughed. She was sitting in another boy’s lap, her velvet skirt hiked high on her thighs, a red Solo cup in her hand. Shit. Omega Meltdown. Alex had promised Mercy she’d go with her, but she’d completely forgotten.

“Take it in the other room,” said Lauren as Mercy wept.

Hurriedly, Alex entered her bedroom and shut the door. Mercy’s bed was unmade. That, even more than her sobbing, was a sure sign of distress.

In the video Mercy’s skirt was pushed up to her waist, her panties pulled down. “Jesus, look at all that bush!” Blake giggled, a high, giddy sound, his eyes tearing with laughter. “It’s so straight. You doing good, hon?”

Mercy nodded.

“Haven’t had too much to drink? You’re sober and consensual as they say?”

“You bet.”

Mercy’s eyes were bright, lively, alert, not glazed or heavy lidded. She didn’t look drunk or like she’d been roofied.

“On your knees, hon. Time for Chinese takeout.”

Mercy knelt, her dark eyes wide and wet. She opened her mouth. Her tongue was stained purple from the punch. Alex paused the video. No, not the punch. She knew that color. That was how those servants had looked that night at Manuscript. That was Merity, the drug of service, taken by acolytes to give up their will.

The door opened and Lauren slipped inside. “She won’t let me take her to the health center.”

“They’re rapists. We should be going to the cops.” They should be good for that at least.

“You saw the video. She told me she barely drank.”

“She was drugged.”

“I thought so too, but she isn’t acting like it. She doesn’t look like it. Did you watch it?”

“Part of it. How bad does it get?”

“Bad.”

“How many guys?”

“Just the two. She thinks he’s going to send it around to his boys if he hasn’t already. Why weren’t you with her?”

I forgot. Alex didn’t want to say it. Because, yes, a girl had been murdered and Alex had been attacked, but at the end of the day, Alex hadn’t spared a second thought for Mercy, and Mercy deserved better. She deserved a night out to have fun and flirt and maybe meet a cute boy she could kiss and take to a formal. That was why Alex had agreed to go to Omega Meltdown with her. She owed Mercy, who had been kind to her and helped with Alex’s papers and never pitied, just pushed her to do better. But she’d forgotten all about the party after the gluma attack. She’d gotten caught up in her fear and desperation and her desire to know why she was being hunted.

“Who did she go with?” Alex asked.

“Charlotte and that crew from upstairs.” Lauren’s voice was an angry growl. “They just left her there.”

If Mercy was under the influence of Merity, then she would have said she was fine, that they should leave, and they wouldn’t have known her well enough to argue with her. But if Alex had been there, she would have seen Mercy’s purple tongue. She could have stopped this.

Alex put her coat back on. She took a screenshot of the video and sent it to her own phone showing Mercy’s mouth open, her purple tongue out.

“Where are you going?” Lauren whispered furiously. “Does Darlington’s mom need some more help?”

“To fix this.”

“She doesn’t want us talking to the police.”

“I don’t need the police. Where does Blake live?”

“The Omega house.”

Up on Lynwood, in the filthy frat row that had sprung up when the university had kicked the fraternities off campus years ago.

“Alex—” said Lauren.

“Just try to keep her calm and don’t leave her alone.”

Alex strode back out of Vanderbilt and across Old Campus. She wanted to go straight to Blake, but that would do no good. A group of Grays flickered in the corner of her vision. “Orare las di Korach,” she spat. Her grandmother’s curse felt good on her tongue. Let them be swallowed alive. All of her anger must have gathered in the words. The Grays scattered like birds.

And what about the gluma? If it was out there hunting, would it go running? She would have been glad for a glimpse of the Bridegroom, but she hadn’t seen him since their encounter in the borderlands.

Alex knew she shouldn’t have riled Detective Turner. He might have been willing to help if she hadn’t messed with him. It was possible he still would. Part of her believed he really was one of the good guys. But she didn’t want to rely on Turner or the law or the administration to fix this. Because the video would still be out there, and Blake Keely was rich and beautiful and beloved, and there was a big difference between things being fair and things being set right.

15

Winter

Alex hadn’t been back to Manuscript since the Halloween party. That night, she’d stayed with Darlington at Black Elm, trying to keep warm in his narrow bed. She’d woken to dawn light trickling through the room and Darlington curled behind her, asleep. He was hard again, the ridge of him tucked against the curves of her ass. One of his hands was cupped over her breast, his thumb moving back and forth over her nipple with the lazy rhythmic sway of a cat’s tail. Alex felt her whole body flush.

“Darlington,” she had snapped.

“Mmm?” he murmured against the back of her neck.

“Wake up and fuck me or cut that out.”

He froze and she felt him wake. He rolled off the bed, stumbling, tangled in covers. “I didn’t … I’m sorry. Did we?”

She rolled her eyes. “No.”

“Those assholes.”

A rare swear but a deserved one. His eyes had been bloodshot, his face haggard. It would have been worse if he’d known that the report she showed him over breakfast bore no resemblance to the one she’d actually sent to Dean Sandow.

The Manuscript tomb looked even uglier beneath a noon sun, the circle hidden in its brickwork seeming to appear then disappear as Alex approached the front door. Mike Awolowo waved her inside. The big room and the yard beyond looked airy, safe, all signs of the arcane buried deep beneath the surface.