The other looked like someone’s very strict dad, his gray hair in a tight crew cut, his button-down tucked neatly into pressed khaki trousers.
Two more robed figures entered, carrying a large crate. Alex doubted it was a couch from Ikea. They set it down between two brass symbols on the floor—Greek letters that fanned out in a spiral over the marble slabs.
“Why did you lobby so hard to have a ritual sanctioned this week?” Alex asked Calista, eyeing the crate as the Lettermen used a crowbar to jimmy the top open. Most of the time societies took the evenings assigned to them in the calendar or occasionally petitioned for an emergency dispensation that invariably threw the whole schedule into upheaval. But the Lettermen had been very clear that Book and Snake needed this Thursday night for their ritual.
“It was the only day…” Calista hesitated, torn between pride and the demand for discretion. “A certain four-star general has a very tight schedule.”
“Got it,” said Alex, glancing at the stern-faced man with the crew cut.
She took out her chalk and her notes and began to draw the circle of protection—carefully, precisely. She didn’t realize how hard she was gripping the chalk until it snapped in two and she had to work with one of the stubs. She was nervous, but she didn’t have that panicked, neverstudied-for-the-test feeling. She had reviewed her notes, drawn the symbols again and again in the shadowy comfort of Il Bastone’s parlor, New Order on the tinny sound system. She’d felt like the house approved of her newfound diligence, its doors locked and secured, its heavy curtains drawn to keep the sun out.
“Are we ready?” The high priest was approaching, rubbing his hands together. “We have a schedule to keep.”
Alex couldn’t remember his name, some alum she’d met the previous year. He’d oversee the ritual with the new delegation. Behind him, she saw the Lettermen lifting a corpse out of the crate. They laid it on the floor, naked and white. The smell of roses filled the air, and the priest must have seen Alex’s surprise because he said, “That’s how we prepare the body.” Alex didn’t think of herself as squeamish; she’d been too close to death her whole life to shy away from severed limbs or gunshot wounds—at least when it came to Grays. But it was always different with an actual body, stiff and silent, more alien in its stillness than a ghost could ever be. It was as if she could feel the void where the person should be.
“Who is he?” she asked.
“No one anymore. He was Jacob Yeshevsky, Silicon Valley darling and friend to Russian hackers everywhere. Died on a yacht less than twentyfour hours ago.”
“Twenty-four hours,” Alex echoed. Book and Snake had requested this night for their ritual back in August.
“We have our sources.” He bobbed his head toward the cemetery. “The dead knew his time was coming.”
“And predicted it to the day. Thoughtful of them.”
Jacob Yeshevsky had been murdered. She felt sure of that. And even if Book and Snake hadn’t planned it, they’d known it was going to happen. But she wasn’t here to cause trouble, and Jacob Yeshevsky was beyond her help.
“The circle is ready,” said Alex. The ritual had to be protected by the circle, but she’d set a gate at each compass point, and one would be kept open to allow magic to flow in. That was where Alex would stand guard, in case any Grays tried to crash the party, drawn by longing, greed, any powerful emotion. Though unless things got really exciting, she doubted Grays would want to be this close to a fresh corpse and all of this grand funereal gloom.
“You’re a lot cuter than that girl Darlington used to run around with,” the priest said.
Alex didn’t return his smile. “Michelle Alameddine is way out of your league.”
His grin only deepened. “Absolutely no one is out of my league.” “Stop trying to fuck the help and let’s go,” barked the general.
The priest departed with another smile.
Alex wasn’t sure if it was ballsy or creepy to hit on someone within spitting distance of a dead body, but she intended to get well away from Book and Snake as soon as she could. She had to remain the good girl. Do the job.
Do it right. She and Dawes didn’t want any trouble, didn’t want to give Lethe any reason to split them up or interfere with what they had planned. A new Praetor getting in their way was going to be messy enough.
A deep gong sounded. The Lettermen stood outside the perimeter of the circle, their veils drawn over their faces, mourners in black, leaving only the general, the high priest, and the dead man at the circle’s center.
“There studious let me sit,” intoned the priest, his voice echoing through the chamber, “and hold high converse with the mighty dead. ”
“For what it’s worth, that quote is about libraries, not necromancy,”
Darlington had whispered to her once. It marked the start of every Book and Snake ritual. “It’s written in stone at Sterling.”
Alex hadn’t wanted to confess that she spent most of her time at Sterling Library dozing off in one of the reading rooms with her boots propped on a heating vent.
The priest tossed something into the lamp above them, and bluish smoke billowed up from the flames, then seemed to settle, sinking onto the bare feet of the statues. One of the stone snakes began to move, its white scales iridescent in the firelight. It slithered toward the corpse, undulating across the marble floor, then paused, as if scenting the body. Alex choked back a gasp when it lunged, jaws wide, and latched on to the corpse’s calf.
The corpse began to twitch, muscles spasming, bouncing off the iron floor like hot kernels in a pan. The snake released its grip and Yeshevsky’s body sprang into a deep crouch, feet wide, hands cupping its knees, waddling like a crab but with a speed that made Alex’s skin crawl. Its face — his face—was stretched into a grimace, eyes wide and panicked, mouth pulling down like a theatrical mask of tragedy.
“I need passwords,” said the general as the corpse capered around the temple, “solid intel, not…” He waved his hand through the air, damning the domed crypt, the students in their robes, and poor, dead Jacob Yeshevsky in a single gesture. “Fortune-telling.”
“We’ll get you what you need,” the priest replied smoothly. “But if you’re asked to reveal your sources—”
“You think I want oversight sniffing around this Illuminati bullshit?”
Alex couldn’t see the priest’s face beneath his veil, but his scorn was clear. “We are not the Illuminati.”
“Posers,” muttered one of the Lettermen standing near Alex.
“Just get him talking,” said the general.
It’s a front, Alex thought. That brusque, grunting, all-business act was cover. The general hadn’t known what he was walking into when he’d hatched his agreement with Book and Snake, connected by some
highpowered alumnus. What had he imagined? Some muttered words, a voice from the beyond? Had he thought there would be dignity in this? But this was what real magic looked like—indecent, decadent, perverse. Welcome to
Yale. Sir, yes, sir.
A string of drool hung from Jacob Yeshevsky’s mouth as he waited in that deep, unnatural crouch, rocking slowly side to side, toes wiggling slightly, eyes rolling in his head, a grotesque, a gargoyle.
“Is the scribe ready?” asked the priest.
“I am,” replied one of the Lettermen, veiled and perched in a small balcony above.
