“You’re lucky no one was killed.” He set down his glass and met her eyes.
Alex did her best to look innocent, but she hadn’t had much practice. “I’m going to put forward a theory. You weren’t trying to wreck the table tonight.
You were trying to open a portal to hell and somehow reach Daniel Arlington.”
Why couldn’t he be one of the dim ones?
“Interesting theory,” said Alex. “But not what happened.”
“Just like your theory that Darlington is in hell? Pure speculation?”
“You a lawyer?”
“I am.”
“You talk like one.”
“I don’t consider that an insult.”
“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.
