Somewhere in the distance she heard what might have been a siren or some lost thing howling in the dark.
27
Winter
When Alex woke, she thought she was back in the hospital in Van Nuys. The white walls. The beeping machines. Hellie was dead. Everyone was dead. And she was going to jail.
The illusion was fleeting. The pain burning in the wound at her side brought her back to the present. The horror of what had happened at Il Bastone returned in a rapid blur: red lights flashing, Turner and the cops flooding up the stairs. The uniforms had sent a jolt of panic through her, but then… What’s your name, kiddo? Talk to me. Can you tell me what happened? You’re all right now. You’re all right. How gently they spoke to her. How gently they handled her. She heard Turner talking: She’s a student, a freshman. Magic words. Yale falling over her, shroud and shield. Take courage; no one is immortal. Such power in a few words, an incantation.
Alex pushed her blankets back and yanked at her hospital gown. Every movement hurt. Her side had been stitched up and was covered in bandages. Her mouth was dry and cottony.
A nurse bustled in with a big smile on her face as she rubbed hand sanitizer between her palms. “You’re up!” she said brightly.
Alex read the name on the tag attached to her scrubs and felt a chill creep over her. Jean. Was this Jean Gatdula? The woman Skull and Bones had paid to take care of Michael Reyes, to care for all of their victimae for the prognostications? It couldn’t be coincidence.
“How are you, sweetheart?” the nurse asked. “How’s your pain?”
“I’m good,” Alex lied. She didn’t want them doping her up. “Just a little groggy. Is Pamela Dawes here? Is she okay?”
“Down the hall. She’s being treated for shock. I know you’ve both been through it, but you have to rest now.”
“That sounds good,” Alex said, letting her eyelids flutter closed. “Could I have some juice?”
“You bet,” said Jean. “Back before you know it.”
As soon as the nurse was gone, Alex made herself sit up and slide out of bed. The pain forced her to breathe shallowly, and the sound of her own panting made her feel like an animal caught in a trap. She needed to see Dawes.
She was hooked to her IV so she took it with her, wheeling it along beside her, grateful for the support. Dawes’s room was at the end of the hall. She was propped up in her hospital bed on top of the covers, dressed in NHPD sweats. They were far too big for her and dark navy, but otherwise they would have fit perfectly into her grad student uniform.
Dawes turned her head on the pillow. She said nothing when she saw Alex, just wriggled over to the edge of the bed to make room.
Carefully, Alex hoisted herself into the bed and laid down beside her. There was barely space for the two of them, but she didn’t care. Dawes was okay. She was okay. They had somehow survived this.
“The dean?” she asked.
“He’s stable. They put him in a cast and pumped him full of blood.”
“How long have we been here?”
“I’m not sure. They sedated me. I think at least a day.”
For a long time, they lay in silence, the sounds of the hospital filtering down the hall to them, voices at the nurses’ station, the click and whir of machines.
Alex was drifting into sleep when Dawes said, “They’re going to cover it all up, aren’t they?”
“Yeah.” Jean Gatdula was a sure sign of that. Lethe and the other societies would use every bit of their influence to make sure that the true details of the night never came to light. “You saved my life. Again.”
“I killed someone.”
“You killed a predator.”
“His parents are going to know he was murdered.”
“Even alligators have parents, Dawes. That doesn’t stop them from biting.”
“Is it over now?” Dawes asked. “I want… normal.”
If you ever find it, let me know.
“I think so,” Alex said. Dawes deserved some kind of comfort, and it was all she could offer. At least now this whole gnarled mess would unravel. Blake would be the thread that pulled it all apart. The drugs. The lies. There would be some kind of reckoning among the Houses of the Veil.
Alex must have fallen asleep, because she woke with a start when Turner wheeled Dean Sandow into the room. She sat up too quickly and hissed in a breath at the pain, then nudged Dawes, who drowsily came awake.
Sandow looked exhausted, his skin sagging and almost powdery. His leg was extended before him in a cast. Alex remembered that white spike of bone jutting from his thigh and wondered if she should apologize for calling the jackals. But if she hadn’t, she would be dead, and Dean Sandow would be a murderer—and more than likely dead too. How had they even explained these wounds to the police? To the doctors who had sewn them up? Maybe they hadn’t had to explain. Maybe power like Lethe, power like the societies, like the dean of Yale University, made explanations unnecessary.
Detective Abel Turner looked fresh as ever, dressed in a charcoal suit and a mauve tie. He perched at the end of the big recliner tucked into the corner for overnight guests.
Alex realized this was the first time they’d all been in a room together—Oculus, Dante, Centurion, and the dean. Only Virgil was missing. Maybe if they’d started the year this way, things would have gone differently.
“I suppose I should begin with an apology,” said Sandow. His voice sounded ragged. “It’s been a hard year. A hard couple of years. I wanted to keep that poor girl’s death away from Lethe. If I had known about the Merity, the experiments with Scroll and Key… but I didn’t want to ask, did I?”
Dawes shifted in the narrow bed. “What’s going to happen?”
“The murder charge against Lance Gressang will be vacated,” said Turner. “But he’ll still face charges on dealing and possession. He and Tara were dealing psychotropics to Scroll and Key, possibly to Manuscript, and we had a look at Blake Keely’s phone. Someone got in there to delete a bunch of big files recently.” Alex kept her face blank. “But the voicemails were enlightening. Tara found out what Merity could do and what Blake was using it for. She was threatening to tell the police. I don’t know if Blake was more afraid of blackmail or exposure, but there was no love lost between them.”
“So he killed her?”
“We’ve been interviewing a lot of Blake Keely’s friends and associates,” Turner went on. “He was not someone who liked women. He may have been escalating in some way or using drugs himself. His behavior lately has been truly bizarre.”
Bizarre. Like eating the contents of a clogged toilet. But the rest made a kind of sense. Blake had barely seen the girls he used as human. If Tara had challenged his control, maybe the leap to murder hadn’t been a big one. When Alex had relived Tara’s death, it had been Lance’s face she saw looming above her, and she’d assumed it was a glamour disguising the real murderer. But what if Blake had somehow dosed Tara with Merity and simply commanded her to see Lance’s face? Was the drug that powerful?
Something else was bothering her. “Blake told me he didn’t kill Tara.”
“He was clearly out of his right mind when he attacked you—” said Sandow.
“No,” said Alex. “When…” When she’d been seeking revenge for what he’d done to Mercy. “A few days ago. He was under compulsion.”
Turner’s eyes narrowed. “You were questioning him?”
“I had an opportunity and I took it.”
“Is this the time to critique Alex’s methods?” Dawes asked quietly.