“It’s not an insult. If I wanted to insult you, I’d call you two pounds of shit in a one-pound bag. For example.” Alex knew she should rein in her anger, but she was tired and frustrated. The board had made it clear they didn’t believe Alex’s theory on Darlington’s whereabouts and that there would be no heroic attempts to set him free. But if Anselm was bothered, he didn’t show it. He just looked worn out. “We owe Darlington a little effort.

If it weren’t for Dean Sandow, he wouldn’t be down there.” If it weren’t for me.

“Down there,” Anselm repeated, bemused. “Do you really think hell is a big pit somewhere under the sewer lines? That if you just dig deep enough, you’ll get there?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Though that had been exactly what she’d been picturing. She hadn’t worried too much about the logistics, about what opening a portal or walking the Gauntlet might entail. That was Dawes’s job.

Alex’s job was to be the cannonball once Dawes figured out where to point the cannon.

“I don’t want to be cruel, Alex. But you don’t even understand the possibilities of the trouble you could cause. And for what? A chance to expiate your guilt? A theory you can barely articulate?”

Darlington could have articulated it just fine if he’d been there. Dawes could if she weren’t scared of speaking above a whisper.

“Then get someone with the right résumé to convince you. I know he’s…” She’d almost said down there. “He’s not dead.” He might well be resting comfortably in the Black Elm ballroom.

“You lost a mentor and a friend.” Anselm’s blue eyes were steady, kind.

“Believe it or not, I understand. But you want to open a door that isn’t meant to be opened. You have no idea what might come through.”

Why didn’t these people ever get it? Protect your own. Pay your debts.

There was no other way to live, not if you wanted to live right.

She crossed her arms. “We owe him.”

“He’s gone, Alex. It’s time to accept that. Even if you were right, whatever survived in hell wouldn’t be the Darlington you know. I appreciate your loyalty. But if you take a chance like this again, you and Pamela Dawes will no longer be welcome at Lethe.”

He lifted his empty glass as if he expected to find it full, then pushed it aside. He folded his hands, and she could see him thinking through what to say. Anselm was eager to be gone, to get back to New York and his life.

There were people who carried Lethe with them forever, who took jobs hunting down magical artifacts or did dissertations on the occult, who locked themselves in libraries or traveled the globe seeking new magic. But not Michael Anselm. He’d gone into law, found a job that required suits and results. He had none of the ambling, gentle scholarship of Dean Sandow, none of Darlington’s greedy curiosity. He had built an ordinary life propped up by money and rules.

“Do you understand me, Alex? You’re out of second chances.”

She understood. Dawes would lose her job. Alex would lose her scholarship. That would be the end of it. “I understand.”

“I need your word that this will be the last of it, that we can get back to business as usual and that you’ll be prepared to supervise rituals every Thursday night. I know you didn’t have the training you should have, but you have Dawes and you seem to be a … resourceful young woman.

Michelle Alameddine is available if you feel—”

“We’ll manage. Dawes and I can handle it.”

“I won’t cover for you again. No more trouble, Alex.”

“No more trouble,” Alex promised. “You can trust me.” The big lies were as easy as the small ones.

7

Alex had thought they’d be free to speed straight to Black Elm as soon as Anselm was gone, but he left them on the phone with his assistant, who rolled one call after another to Scroll and Key alumni and members of the Lethe board so that Alex and Dawes could explain themselves and apologize contritely, again and again.

Alex pressed the mute button. “This isn’t healthy. I can only feign sincerity for so long before I rupture something.”

“Well then, try meaning it,” Dawes scolded and stabbed the mute button as if she were skewering a cocktail shrimp. “Madame Secretary, I’d like to discuss the harm we caused tonight…”

It was midnight before they were free of the apology chain and headed for the old Mercedes parked behind Il Bastone. Alex wasn’t sure if it was right or wrong to be in Darlington’s car in this moment. It felt uncomfortably like they were just on their way to pick him up, like he’d be waiting at the end of Black Elm’s long driveway with a duffel slung over his shoulder, ready to slide into the back seat, like they’d drive and keep driving until the car gave up or sprouted wings.

Dawes was a nervous driver at the best of times, and tonight it was as if she were afraid the Mercedes would combust if she pushed it over forty miles per hour. Eventually they reached the stone columns that marked the entry to Black Elm.

The woods that surrounded the house were still thick with summer leaves, so when they came upon the brick walls and gables, the house appeared too suddenly, an unpleasant surprise. A light was on in the kitchen, but they’d set that to a timer.

“Look,” said Dawes, her voice barely a breath.

Alex was already looking. They’d boarded up the windows on the second floor after Dean Sandow had deliberately botched his ritual to bring

Darlington home. A faint light shone through the edges, soft, flickering amber.

Dawes parked the car outside of the garage. Her hands gripped the steering wheel, white-knuckled. “It might be nothing.”

“Then it’s nothing,” said Alex, pleased with how steady she sounded.

“Stop trying to strangle the steering wheel and let’s go.”

They both shut their car doors gently, and Alex realized it was because they were afraid to disturb what might be waiting upstairs. There was a chill in the air, the first hint of the end of summer and the autumn to come. There would be no more fireflies, no more drinks on the porch or sounds of tag played late into the night.

Alex unlocked the kitchen door, and Dawes gasped as Cosmo sprang from behind the cupboards, screeching past them into the yard.

Alex thought her heart might leap straight out of her rib cage. “For fuck’s sake, cat.”

Dawes held her satchel to her chest as if it were some kind of talisman.

“Did you see his fur?”

One side of Cosmo’s white fur looked like it had been singed black. Alex wanted to make some kind of excuse. Cosmo was always getting into trouble, showing up with a new scar or covered in brambles, jaws clamped around a poor murdered mouse. But she couldn’t force her mouth to make the words.

Before they’d left Il Bastone, they’d stopped in the Lethe armory for more salt, and they’d brought the silver chains. They seemed silly and useless, toys for children, old wives’ tales.

Dawes hovered at the kitchen door as if it were the actual portal to hell.

“We could call Michelle or…”

“Anselm? If we summoned some kind of monster, do you really want to tell him?”

“It’s pretty quiet for a monster.”

“Maybe it’s a giant snake.”

“Why did you have to say that?”

“It’s not a snake,” Alex said. “It could still be nothing. Or … an electrical fire or something.”