Had the dean dozed off reading by the fire and been surprised by his attacker? Or had he put up a fight and been shoved back into his chair? He looked silly, almost cartoonish with his feet up in the air that way, and Alex wished there weren’t so many people around to see it. Stupid. What did Dean Beekman care now? Alex had never had a class with him, wasn’t even sure what he taught, but he was one of those professors everyone knew. He wore a tweed bucket hat and a Morse scarf, and rode his bike everywhere on campus, the bell jingling merrily as he waved to students. He was called Beeky and his lectures were always packed, his seminars legendary. He also seemed to know everyone interesting who had ever gone to Yale, and he’d brought a slew of famous actors and authors to tea at Morse.
No one had said a word about Marjorie Stephen in the days since she’d been found dead. Alex doubted anyone but the professor’s students and colleagues at the Department of Psychiatry knew she’d passed. But this was going to be something entirely different.
She didn’t want to look closely at the body, but she made herself peer into the dean’s face. His eyes were open, but they didn’t have the same milky cast Alex remembered from the first crime scene. It was hard to tell if he looked older than he should. His mouth was open, his expression startled but still genial, as if greeting a friend who had appeared unexpectedly at his door.
“His neck is broken,” said Turner. “The coroner will tell us if it happened when the chair went over or before.”
“So no poison,” she said. “But you think this is connected to Marjorie Stephen’s death?”
“This was on his desk.” Turner waved her over to where a typed piece of paper lay atop the blotter: Bewray not him that wandereth.
“Isaiah again?”
“That’s right. It completes the line we found with Professor Stephen: Hide the outcasts, bewray not him that wandereth. Did you find anything at Lethe about it?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t had a chance to go digging.” I’ve been too busy figuring out how to break into hell. “I don’t know anything about Isaiah.”
“He was a prophet who predicted the coming of Christ, but I don’t see what that has to do with two dead professors.”
Alex studied the bookshelves, the messy desk, the rigid body. “Does this
… It feels wrong. It’s too showy. The Bible quotes. The body tipped over.
There’s something…”
“Theatrical?” Turner nodded. “Like someone thinks this is amusing.”
Like someone was playing a game. And demons loved games and puzzles, but their only resident demon was currently trapped in a circle of protection. Was someone at the societies toying with them?
“Did Professor Stephen know Beekman?”
“If they were connected, we’ll find out. But they weren’t in the same department. They weren’t even in the same field. Dean Beekman taught American Studies. He had nothing to do with the psych department.”
“And the poison that killed Professor Stephen?”
“Still waiting on the tox report.”
The societies didn’t like eyes on them, but that didn’t mean someone hadn’t gone rogue. Even so, none of it really made sense.
“It’s the clues,” she said, chewing over the thought. “Those Bible quotes don’t fit. If someone was using magic to … I don’t know, get revenge on their professors, they wouldn’t leave clues. That feels unhinged.”
“Or like someone pretending to be unhinged.”
That would mean a lot more trouble. As much as Alex didn’t want these deaths to be her problem, she couldn’t pretend the uncanny wasn’t at work
here. Magic was transgression, the blurring of the line between the impossible and the possible. There was something about crossing that boundary that seemed to shake loose all the morals and taboos people took for granted.
When anything was within your grasp, it got harder and harder to remember why you shouldn’t take it—money, power, your dream job, your dream fuck, a life.
“Tell me I’m jumping at shadows, Stern, and you can go back to lurking in that haunted house on Orange.”
Il Bastone was one of the least haunted places in New Haven, but Alex didn’t see the point of getting into that discussion.
“I can’t,” Alex admitted.
“Can’t you … work your contacts on the other side?”
“I don’t have ghost informants, Turner.”
“Then maybe try making some friends.”
Again, Alex had the sense that she was missing something, that if Darlington had been here he would know what to look for; he would be able to do this job. So maybe Darlington was exactly who they needed. Turner wanted answers, and he just might be able to offer them something in return.
Four pilgrims. Four murderers. Alex wasn’t sure if it was wise to trust Turner, but she did, and she wanted him on their side.
“Turner,” Alex asked. “You ever kill someone?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“So yes.”
“It’s none of your goddamn business.”
But it might be. “How long do you have to be here?”
Turner gave an exasperated snort. “Why?”
“Because I want to show you something.”
