“Someone talking?” Dawes asked, keeping her voice low.
Alex nodded and rubbed her temples. She didn’t know how she was going to fix this particular problem, but she did know she had to make certain the Grays didn’t realize she could still hear them, not when so many were desperate for connection with the living world.
She hadn’t seen North since the afternoon of the party at the president’s house. Perhaps he was somewhere grieving what Daisy had become. Maybe he’d created a support group on the other side of the Veil for the souls she’d kept captive for so many years. Alex didn’t know.
They paced the perimeter of the land the dean had intended for St. Elmo’s. Alex hoped flowers would grow over the place where Tara had died. She had sent the recording of Sandow’s confession to the Lethe board. It was horrible, they agreed. Grotesque. But mostly it was dangerous. Even if Sandow’s ritual had failed, they didn’t want anyone getting the idea there might be a way to create a nexus through ritual homicide—and they didn’t want Lethe connected to Tara’s death. Excluding a few members of the board, everyone still believed Blake Keely was responsible for the murder, and Lethe intended to keep it that way.
This time, Alex wasn’t going to push. She had too many new secrets that needed keeping. Sandow’s death had been chalked up to a sudden, massive heart attack during his welcome-home party. He’d had a bad fall only a few weeks before. He was under tremendous financial stress. His passing had been cause for sadness, but it had drawn little attention—especially since Marguerite Belbalm had disappeared after being seen with him at the same party. She’d last been observed entering the president’s office to speak to Dean Sandow. No one knew where she was or if she’d come to harm, and the New Haven PD had opened an investigation.
Lethe had no idea what Belbalm had been or how she was connected to Sandow’s death. Alex had made sure to cut off the recording before the professor entered the office. The Lethe board had never heard the term “Wheelwalker” and they were never going to, because unless Alex was very much mistaken, she had the ability to create a nexus anytime she wanted—all she had to do was develop a taste for souls. She’d seen the way Lethe and the societies worked. That wasn’t knowledge any of them needed.
Dawes glanced at the time on her phone, and in silent agreement they left Payne Whitney behind and turned right down Grove Street. Ahead, Alex saw the massive mausoleum of Book and Snake, a gloomy block of white marble surrounded by black wrought iron. Now that Alex knew they hadn’t sent the gluma after her, that they hadn’t had any involvement in what happened to Tara, she had to wonder if they could help her find Tara’s soul. Though she didn’t like the idea of stepping beneath that portico or of what the Lettermen might demand in trade, Lethe owed Tara Hutchins some kind of rest. But that would have to wait. She had another task to accomplish before she could help Tara. One she might not survive.
Alex and Dawes passed under the massive neo-Egyptian gates of the cemetery, beneath the inscription that had pleased Darlington so: THE DEAD SHALL BE RAISED.
Maybe not just the dead if Alex put her mind to it.
They passed the graves of poets and scholars, presidents of Yale. A small crowd was gathered at a new headstone. Dean Sandow was still keeping the best company.
Alex knew there might be Lethe alumni in the crowd today, but the only one she recognized was Michelle Alameddine. She wore the same stylish coat, her dark hair pulled back in a neat twist. Turner was there too, but he gave her the barest nod. He wasn’t happy with her.
“You left me a body to find?” he’d growled at her when she’d agreed to meet him at Il Bastone.
“Sorry,” Alex had said. “You’re really hard to shop for.”
“What happened at that party?”
Alex had leaned against the porch column. It felt like the house was leaning on her too. “Sandow killed Tara.”
“What happened to him?”
“Heart attack.”
“Like hell. Did you kill him?”
“I didn’t have to.”
Turner had looked at her for a long moment, and Alex had been glad that for once she was telling the truth.
They hadn’t spoken since, and Alex suspected that Turner wanted to be done with her and all of Lethe. She couldn’t blame him, but it felt like a loss. She’d liked having one of the good guys in her corner.
The service was long but dry, a recitation of the dean’s accomplishments, a statement from the president, a few words from a slender woman in a navy dress that Alex realized was Sandow’s ex-wife. There were no Grays at the cemetery today. They didn’t like funerals, and there wasn’t enough emotion at this graveside to overcome their revulsion. Alex didn’t mind the quiet.
As the dean’s coffin was lowered into the earth, Alex met Michelle Alameddine’s eyes and gave a brief bob of her head—an invitation. She and Dawes drifted away from the graveside, and Alex hoped Michelle would follow.
They took a winding path to the left, past the tomb of Kingman Brewster, planted with a witch hazel tree that bloomed yellow every year in June—almost always on his birthday—and that lost its leaves in November at the time of his death. Somewhere in this cemetery, Daisy’s first body was buried.
When they reached a quiet corner between two stone sphinxes, Dawes said, “Are you sure about this?” She’d worn mom slacks and pearl earrings to the funeral, but her red bun had slid gently to one side.
“No,” admitted Alex. “But we need all the help we can get.”
Dawes wasn’t going to argue. She’d been full of apologies once Lethe had reached her at her sister’s house in Westport and she’d heard the real story of what happened at the president’s party from Alex. Besides, she wanted this quest, this mission, as much as Alex did. Maybe more.
Alex saw Michelle headed their way through the grass. She waited for her to join them, then dove right in. “Darlington isn’t dead.”
Michelle sighed. “That’s what this is about? Alex, I understand—”
“He’s a demon.”
“Excuse me?”
“He didn’t die when he was eaten by the hellbeast. He was transformed.”
“That isn’t possible.”
“Listen,” said Alex. “I’ve spent some time in the borderlands recently—”
“Why am I not surprised?”
“Every time I heard… well, I don’t know what they were—Grays? Monsters? Some kind of creature that wasn’t quite human on the darker shore. They were saying something I couldn’t quite make out. I thought it was a name at first, Jonathan Desmond or Jean Du Monde. But that wasn’t it at all.”
“And?” Michelle’s expression was rigidly impassive, as if she was fighting to appear open-minded.
“Gentleman demon. That’s what they were saying. They were talking about Darlington. And I think they were scared.”
Darlington was a gentleman. But this isn’t a time for gentlemen. Alex had barely registered the dean’s words at the time. But when she’d played back the recording of their conversation, they’d stuck in her head. Darlington: the gentleman of Lethe. People had always described him that way. Alex had thought of him like that herself, as if he’d somehow stepped into the wrong time.
But it had still taken her a while to put it together, to realize that the creatures on that dark shore had always muttered those strange sounds when Alex mentioned Darlington or even thought about him. They hadn’t been angry, they’d been frightened, the same way the Grays had been frightened the night of the prognostication. It had been Darlington who had spoken “murder” at the new-moon rite, not just some echo—but it was Sandow he’d been accusing, not Alex. The man who had murdered Tara. The man who had tried to murder him. At least, Alex hoped that was the case. Daniel Tabor Arlington, always the gentleman, a boy of infinite manners. But what had he become?