Alex hadn’t lived in New Haven long, but she knew those names. They were streets that branched off of Broadway. Follow Whalley long enough and you’d end up in West Rock. Three streets. Three judges. Three murders.

There will be a third. That was what Darlington had meant. He’d been trying to make the connection for them even as his demon half had been toying with them, enjoying the riddle the killer had set.

“What happened to the judges?” Alex asked. “Did they get caught?”

“Lived to a ripe old age. Two of them ended up somewhere in Massachusetts, but Dixwell changed his name and lived out his days in New Haven. His ashes are interred beneath the New Haven Green. British troops used to travel here just to piss on his gravestone, one hundred years after he died. That’s how big a deal these guys were. Martyrs to liberty and all that.

And now they’re a footnote, a bit of trivia for me to try to impress you with over lunch.”

Alex wasn’t sure whether to be uncomfortable or flattered at the idea of Anselm trying to impress her.

“Have you ever wondered why the death words work?” He leaned forward. “Because we all amount to nothing in the end and there is nothing more terrifying than nothing.”

Alex hadn’t really cared why they worked so long as they did. “You know a lot about this place.”

“I like history. But there isn’t any money in it.”

“Not like the law?”

Anselm lifted a shoulder. “Lethe makes a lot of promises, so does Yale, but none of them come true in New Haven. This is a place that will never repay your loyalty.”

Maybe not much like Darlington after all. “And Lethe?”

“Lethe was an extracurricular. It’s silly to think of it as anything else.

Dangerous even.”

“You’re warning me.” Just as Michelle Alameddine had.

“I’m just talking. But I don’t think you came here to listen to me pontificate about Cromwell and the perils of growing old in Connecticut.”

So this was it. “You said you read my file. My mom … my mom isn’t doing great.”

“She’s ill?”

Was chasing after any whiff of a miracle diagnosable? Was there a name for someone doomed to seek invisible patterns in gemstones and horoscopes?

Who thought life’s mysteries might be revealed by eliminating dairy from your diet? Or gluten or trans fats? Could Los Angeles be called an illness?

“She’s fine,” Alex said. “She’s just not a realist and she’s not good with money.” That was putting it mildly.

“Does she embarrass you?”

The question startled her, and Alex wasn’t ready for the rush of emotion that came with it. She didn’t want to feel small and naked, a child without protection, a girl alone. The semester had only just begun and she was already exhausted, worn down to nothing, the same girl who had arrived at Yale over a year ago, swinging at anyone and anything that might try to hurt her. She wanted a mother to keep her safe and give her good advice. She wanted a father who was something more than a ghost story her mother refused to tell.

She wanted Darlington, who was here but who wasn’t, whom she needed to navigate all this madness. It all crashed in on her at once, and she felt the unwelcome ache of tears at the back of her throat.

Alex took a sip of water, got herself under control. “I need to find a way to help her.”

“I can get you a paid summer intern—”

“No. Now. I need money.” That came out harsher than she’d meant it to, the real Alex jutting her chin out, tired of small talk and diplomacy.

Anselm folded his hands as if bracing himself. “How much?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.” Enough to get Mira out of her lease and settled somewhere new, enough to keep her going until she landed a new job.

All of that was assuming Alex could convince her mother to leave Los Angeles. But Alex thought she could. She’d use compulsion if she had to, if it would save her mother’s life and hers.

“That’s quite a loan.”

“A gift,” she corrected. “I can’t pay something like that back.”

“Alex, what you’re asking—”

But it was time to be very clear. “You read my file. You know what I can do. I can see the dead. I can even speak to them. You want information? You want access to the Veil? I can get it for you. And I don’t need some stupid ritual at Book and Snake to do it.”

Now Anselm was staring. “You can hear them?” She

nodded.

“That’s … that’s incredibly risky.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“But the possibilities…” Anselm’s expression was unreadable. His easy laughter and charm had evaporated into the salt sea air. He might want to be done with Lethe and all of its strange magic, but he also knew how much the Ninth House valued that kind of access, how much power it might yield.

Sandow had once called Lethe “beggars at the table,” authorities without authority, hands out for any crumb of magic the other societies might be willing to part with. Alex’s gift could change that, and power was a language they all understood.

“Alex,” he said, “I’m going to ask you something and I need you to be honest with me.”

“Okay.”

“You told me you were willing to put aside your attempts to reach Darlington, that you were ready to let that go.” Alex waited. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who lets things go.”

Alex had known he might push and this part was easy. Because she knew exactly what he wanted to hear.

“You’ve seen my file,” she repeated. “You know what Lethe offered me.

I’m not here because I want to wear a cloak and play wizard. You all think the world beyond the Veil is something special, but that’s just because you haven’t had to look into that particular abyss your whole life. I didn’t come to Yale for magic, Mr. Anselm.”

“Michael.”

She ignored him. “I didn’t come here for magic or for fun or because I wanted to make friends and learn to talk about poetry at cocktail parties. I came here because this is my one and only chance at a future that doesn’t look like that file. I’m not going to throw it away for a rich kid who was nice enough to talk down to me a few times.” It was all true. All but the last part.

Anselm studied her, weighing what she’d said. “You said Lethe owed him.”

“I’m not Lethe.”