Of course that placated him. Turner the Eagle Scout.

As soon as the first drop hit her eyes, she knew she’d made a bad miscalculation. She felt instantly energized, ready to move, act, but the basso belladonna did nothing to ease the pain, only made her more aware of it. She could feel the places where her broken bones were pressing that they shouldn’t, where the blood vessels had burst, the capillaries ruptured and swelling.

The drug was telling her brain that everything was okay, that anything was possible, that if she willed it, she could heal herself right now. But the pain was shrieking panic, banging on her awareness, a fist against glass. She could feel a splinter starting, her sanity like a windshield that wasn’t meant to break. She’d been called crazy countless times, had sometimes believed it, but this was the first time she’d felt insane.

Her heart was thundering. I’m going to die here.

You’re fine. Through how many late nights and long afternoons had she said that to someone who’d smoked too much, swallowed too much, snorted too much? Breathe through it. You’re fine. You’re fine.

“Meet me on Tilton,” she told Turner, pushing to her feet. He was beautiful. The basso belladonna had lit his brown skin like a late-summer sunset. Light bounced off the short stubble of his shaved head. Medication, my ass. The pain screamed as her broken ribs shifted.

“This is a terrible idea,” he said.

“The only kind I have. Go on.”

Turner blew out an exasperated breath and went.

Alex’s hyped-up mind had already plotted a route down the back hall and out onto the rickety landing. The air was cool and moist against her fevered skin. She could see every grain of the weathered gray wood, feel sweat blooming on her cheeks and turning cold in the winter air. It was going to snow again.

Down the little row of steps. Just hop them, said the drug lighting up her system.

“Please shut up,” gasped Alex.

Everything seemed to be coated in a smooth, silvery sheen, painted in high gloss. She forced herself to walk instead of run, her bones scraping against each other like a violin bow. The blacktop of the alley behind Tara’s apartment glittered, the stink of garbage and piss like a thick, visible haze that she had to push through as if she were underwater. She passed between two row houses and onto Tilton. A moment later, a blue Dodge Charger rounded the corner and slowed. Turner hopped out and opened the back door, letting Alex slide into the back seat.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Il Bastone. The house on Orange.”

It was almost worse to lie down and stop moving. All she could think about as she sank into the new-car smell of Turner’s leather seats was the pain rolling through her. She stared at the bits of sky and rooftop passing by the window, trying to follow their path to Il Bastone in her head. How much longer? Dawes would be there. Dawes was always there, but could she help? It’s my job.

“Oculus isn’t answering her phone,” said Turner. Was Dawes in section? Somewhere in the stacks? “What was I seeing back there?” he asked.

“Told you. Portal magic.” She said it with confidence, though she couldn’t really be sure. She’d thought portal magic was used for traveling big distances or entering secure buildings. Not getting the jump on someone in a beatdown. “Portals are Scroll and Key magic. I thought Tara and Lance might be dealing to them because of Colin Khatri. And Tara’s tattoo.”

“Which one?”

“Rather die than doubt. From Idylls of the King.” She had the strange sense that she’d taken Darlington’s place. Did that mean he’d taken hers? God, she hated being this high. “Lance said something when he was kicking the crap out of me. He wanted to know who hurt Tara. He didn’t do it.”

“Do I need to remind you that he’s a criminal?”

Alex tried to shake her head, then winced. “He wasn’t bullshitting me.” In the panic and fear of the attack, she’d thought she was being hunted again, like with the gluma. But now she wasn’t so sure. “He was interrogating me. He thought I’d broken in.”

“You did break in.”

“He wasn’t there for me. He came back to the apartment for something else.”

“Yeah, let’s talk about that. I explicitly told you not to go anywhere near—”

“Do you want answers or do you want to keep being an asshole? Lance Gressang didn’t kill Tara. You have the wrong guy.”

Turner said nothing and Alex laughed softly. The effect was not worth the effort. “I get it. Either you’re crazy and seeing shit or I’m crazy, and wouldn’t it be nicer if I was the crazy one. I have bad news for you, Turner. Neither of us is nuts. Someone wanted you to believe Lance is guilty.”

“But you don’t think he is.” There was a long silence. Alex heard the tick tock tick tock of the turn signal in time with her heartbeat. At last, Turner said, “I checked into the whereabouts of the society members you mentioned.”

So he’d followed up. He was too good a detective to turn down a lead. Even if it came from Lethe. “And?”

“We already knew it was impossible to confirm Tripp Helmuth’s whereabouts, because no one had eyes on him the whole night. Kate Masters claims she was at Manuscript until just after three in the morning.”

Alex grunted as the Charger hit a bump. It hurt to talk, but it also helped keep her distracted. “Her whole delegation should have been there,” she managed. “It was a Thursday night. A meeting night.”

“My impression is they were partying late. It’s a big building. She easily could have come and gone with no one the wiser.”

And Manuscript was only a few blocks from the crime scene. Could Kate have snuck out, glamoured as Lance, to meet Tara? Had it been some kind of game? A high gone wrong? Had Kate intended to hurt Tara? Or was all of this just in Alex’s head?

“What do you know about the kid from Scroll and Key, Colin Khatri?” Turner asked.

“I like him,” Alex was surprised to hear herself say. “He’s nice and he dresses sharp like you but more European.”

“That’s great intel.”

Alex searched her memory. The basso belladonna made it easy to remember the elaborate interior of the Scroll and Key tomb, the patterns of the tiles on the floor. The night of the botched attempt to open a portal to Budapest, Colin had given her an excited little wave when he’d seen her, as if they were rushing the same sorority. “Darlington said Colin was one of the best and brightest, doing graduate-level chem work as an undergrad. Headed someplace prestigious next year. Stanford, I think.”

“He never showed at Scroll and Key last Thursday. He was at a party at a professor’s house. Bell-something. A French name.”

She wanted to laugh. “Not a party. A salon.” Colin had been at Belbalm’s salon. Alex was supposed to attend the next one … tomorrow? No, tonight. Her magical summer working in the professor’s quiet office and watering her plants had never seemed more far away. But had Colin actually been at the salon? Maybe he’d slipped away. Alex hoped that wasn’t the case. Belbalm’s world of peppery perfume and gentle conversation felt like a refuge, the reward she probably didn’t deserve but would happily accept. She wanted to keep it separate from all of this mess.

Alex felt her awareness drifting, that first bright burst of the basso belladonna letting go. She heard a beep that sounded too loud, then Turner talking over the radio, explaining the damage at Lance and Tara’s apartment. Someone looking for drugs. He had pursued on foot but lost the perp. He gave a vague description of a suspect who might have been male or female in a parka that might have been black or dark blue.

Alex was surprised to hear him lying, but she knew he wasn’t covering for her. He didn’t know how to explain Lance or what he’d seen.

At last, Turner said, “We’re coming up on the green.”

Alex forced herself to sit up so she could direct him. The world felt red, as if even the air touching her body was out to get her.

“Alley,” she said, as the dark brick and stained glass of Il Bastone came into view. There were lights on in the parlor window. Be home, Dawes. “Park in back.”

Alex shut her eyes and released a sigh when the engine stopped. She heard Turner’s door slam and then he was helping her climb out of the car.

“Keys,” he said.

“No keys.”

She had a worried moment when Turner fumbled with the doorknob, wondering if the house would let him in. But either her presence was enough or it recognized Centurion. The door swung open.

Il Bastone made a worried rattle as she entered, the chandeliers tinkling. To anyone else it probably would have felt like a truck rolling by, but Alex could feel the house’s concern and it put a lump in her throat. Maybe it just disapproved of so much blood and trauma crossing its threshold, but Alex wanted to believe that the house did not like the suffering of one of its own.

Dawes was lying on the parlor carpet in her lumpy sweatshirt, headphones on.