The woman shook her head. “She left a couple days ago. Took the rest of the semester off.”

Sveta Myers had gotten spooked. Maybe she’d done the work of destroying the greenhouse herself. “You ever see her with a couple? Skinny little blond girl and a big guy, looked like he lived at the gym?”

“I saw the girl here a lot. She was Sveta’s cousin or niece or something?” Alex highly doubted that. “I might have seen the guy once or twice. Why?”

“Thanks for your help,” said Alex, and headed for the gates.

She tried to shake off her feeling of disappointment as she made her way back down the hill. She’d hoped to find more of Tara in the gardens, not just piles of dirt heaped like a fresh grave.

Turner had said he’d meet Alex outside Ingalls Rink, and she spotted his Dodge idling by the curb. It was blessedly warm inside.

“Anything?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Someone cleaned the whole place out, and the student they were working with skipped town too. Someone named Sveta Myers.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ll see if I can track her down.”

“I’ll check the alumni rosters to see if she’s connected to any of the societies,” said Alex. “I want to talk to Lance Gressang.”

“You’re back on that?”

Alex had almost forgotten she’d feigned interest in talking to Gressang before. “Someone has to question him about the new information we have.”

“If the case goes to trial—”

“It will be too late. Someone sent a monster after me. They killed Tara, stole all her plants. Maybe they got to Sveta Myers too. They’re cleaning house.”

“Even if I could get an interview with Gressang, I’m not bringing you with me.”

“Why not? We need Gressang to believe we understand more about all of this than he does. It will take him about thirty seconds to realize you don’t know your ass from a hot rock.”

“What a colorful turn of phrase.”

“I saw you in that apartment, Turner. You almost wet yourself when Lance disappeared through that wall.”

“You have a real way about you, y’know that, Stern?”

“Is it my charm or my looks that you can’t get enough of ?”

Turner twisted in his seat to give her a long stare. “You don’t always have to come out swinging. What are you so angry at?”

Alex felt an irritating jolt of embarrassment. “Everything,” she muttered, gazing at the fogged-up windshield. “Anyway, you know I’m right.”

“Maybe so, but Lance is represented by counsel. Neither of us can talk to him without his lawyer.”

“Would you like to?”

“Of course I’d like to. I’d also like a rare steak and a moment of peace without you yapping in my ear.”

“Can’t oblige. But I think I can get you an interview with Gressang.”

“Let’s say that’s true. Nothing we learn will be admissible in a court of law, Stern. Lance Gressang could tell us he killed Tara twelve times over and we wouldn’t be able to pin it on him.”

“But we’ll still get answers.”

Turner rested his gloved hands on the steering wheel. “I’m pretty sure when my mother was talking about the devil, she had you in mind.”

“I’m a delight.”

“If I said yes, what would we need?”

Turner already had a nice enough suit. “You own a briefcase?”

“I can borrow one.”

“Great. Then all we need is this.” She pulled the mirror she’d used to gain access to Tara’s apartment from her pocket.

“You want me to walk into a secure jail with a compact and a nice attaché case?”

“It’s worse than that, Turner.” Alex flipped the mirror in her hand. “I want you to believe in magic.”

24

Winter

The plan was trickier than Alex had anticipated. The mirror would fool the guards they encountered but not the cameras in the jail.

Dawes came to the rescue with an actual tempest in a teapot. Alex hadn’t thought Darlington was being literal when they’d walked through the bizarre basement of Rosenfeld Hall, but apparently back in their heyday, St. Elmo’s had managed all kinds of interesting magic.

“It’s not just the vessel,” Dawes explained to Alex and Turner the next day, standing at the counter in the kitchen at Il Bastone, a golden teapot and jeweled strainer before her. “It’s the tea itself.” She carefully measured out dried leaves from a tin stamped with the St. Elmo’s crest, a sinister little design referred to as “the goat and boat.”

“Darlington said they’re campaigning for a new tomb,” Alex said.

Dawes nodded. “Losing Rosenfeld Hall broke them. They’ve been petitioning for years, claiming all sorts of new applications for their magic. But without a nexus to build over, there’s no point to a new tomb.” She poured the water over the leaves and set the timer on her phone. The lights flickered. “Make the brew too strong and you could short the grid for the entire Eastern Seaboard.”

“Why are the tombs so important?” Turner asked. “This is just a house and you’re standing there … working magic.” He ran his tongue over his teeth as if he didn’t like the taste of the word.

“Lethe House magic is spell-and object-based, borrowed enchantments, very stable. We don’t rely on rites. It’s why we can keep the wards up. The other societies are trafficking with far more powerful forces—telling the future, communicating with the dead, altering matter.”

“Big magic,” said Alex.

Turner leaned back against the counter. “So they have machine guns and you’re working with a bow and arrow?”

Dawes looked up, startled. She rubbed her nose. “Well, more like a crossbow, but yes.”

The timer sounded. Dawes swiftly removed the strainer and poured the tea into a thermos. She handed it to Alex. “You should have about two hours of real disruption. After that …” She shrugged.

“But you’re not going to knock the power out, right?” Turner asked. “I don’t want to be at a jail when all the lights go down.”

“Aw, look how far you’ve come!” Alex said. “Now you’re worried about magic being too powerful.”

Dawes tugged at her sweatshirt sleeves, the surety she’d displayed while caught up in brewing the tea evaporating. “Not if I got it right.”

Alex took the thermos and stowed it in her satchel, then yanked her hair into a tight bun. She’d told Mercy she had a job interview as an excuse to borrow her fancy black pantsuit.

“I hope you get the job,” Mercy had said, and hugged Alex so tight it felt like her bones were bending.

“I hope I get it too,” Alex had replied. She’d been happy to play dress-up, happy to have this adventure to fill the hours, regardless of the danger. The new-moon rite had felt distant, impossibly far off, but tonight it would happen. She was having trouble thinking about anything else.

She checked her phone. “No signal.”

Turner did the same. “Me neither.”

Alex turned on the little television that sat above the breakfast nook. Nothing but static. “A perfect brew, Dawes.”

Dawes looked pleased. “Good luck.”

“I’m about to commit career suicide,” said Turner. “Let’s hope we’ve got more on our side than luck.”

The drive to the jail was short. No one there knew Alex, so she didn’t have to worry about being recognized. She made a perfectly reasonable assistant in her borrowed corporate drag. Turner was another matter. He’d had to pop by the courthouse that morning to bump into Lance Gressang’s attorney and secure his visage in the compact.

They passed through security without incident.

“Stop looking at the cameras,” Alex whispered as she and Turner were escorted down a dingy hallway lit by buzzing fluorescents.

“They look like they’re working.”

“The power is on, but they’re just recording static,” Alex said with more confidence than she felt. The thermos was tucked into her bag, its weight resting reassuringly against her hip.

Once they were inside the meeting room, they’d be safe at least. There was no video or audio recording allowed in a conference between an attorney and his client.

Lance was seated at the table when they entered. “What do you want?” he said when he caught sight of Turner, who had pocketed the compact after flashing it at the scowling guard.

“You’ve got one hour,” the guard said. “Don’t push it.” Gressang shoved back from the table, looking from Turner to Alex. “What the fuck is this? Are you two working together?”

“One hour,” the guard repeated, and locked the door behind him.

“I know my rights,” Gressang said, standing. He looked even bigger than he had at the apartment, and his bandaged hand didn’t do much to put Alex at ease. She had made it her business not to get trapped in small spaces with men like Lance Gressang. You didn’t want to be the only thing in sight when their moods went sour.

“Sit down,” said Turner. “We need to have a conversation.”

“You can’t talk to me without my lawyer.”

“You walked through a wall yesterday,” said Turner. “That in the penal code?”