Except this time he was the threat. Dawes nodded, but she didn’t look convinced.
“Be careful,” Alex said. “Anselm—”
“Black Elm isn’t Lethe property. And someone has to take care of Cosmo.
Of both of them.”
Alex watched Dawes disappear into the rain. She wasn’t made to take care of anyone or anything. Hellie was proof of that. Babbit Rabbit.
Darlington.
She had trudged home in the wet, changed into dry pajamas, eaten four Pop-Tarts, and fallen into bed. Now she rolled over, shaking with chills and famished.
Mercy was sitting up in bed, a copy of Orlando open in her lap, a cup of tea steaming atop the upended vintage suitcase she used as a bedside table.
“Why can’t we just try again?” Mercy asked. “What’s stopping us?”
“Good morning to you too. How long have you been up?”
“A couple of hours.”
“Shit.” Alex sat up too fast, the head rush immediate. “What time is it?”
“Almost noon. On Monday.”
“Monday? ” Alex squeaked. She’d lost all of Sunday. She’d slept nearly thirty-six hours.
“Yup. You missed Spanish.”
What did it matter? Without her Lethe scholarship there would be no way for her to stay at Yale. She’d lost her chance to get away from Eitan. She’d
lost her chance at a new life for her mother. Would they let her finish out the year? The semester?
But all of that was too miserable to contemplate.
“I’m starving,” she said. “And why is it so cold in here?”
Mercy dug in her bag. “I brought you two bacon sandwiches from breakfast. And it’s not that cold. It’s because you brushed up against hellfire.”
“You’re a beautiful angel,” Alex said, snatching the sandwiches from Mercy and unwrapping one. “Now what the fuck are you talking about?”
“You never study.”
“Not never,” Alex mumbled, mouth full.
“I read Dawes’s notes, not the actual source material, but contact with hellfire can leave you feeling cold and even result in hypothermia.”
“Was that the blue flame?”
“The what?”
Alex had to remember that Mercy had no idea what had happened in the underworld. “What does hellfire look like?”
“Not sure,” said Mercy. “But it’s considered the fabric of the demon world.”
“What’s the treatment?”
Mercy closed her book. “That’s less clear. Soup made from scratch and Bible verses were both suggested.”
“Yes, please, and no, thank you.”
Alex dragged herself out of bed and fumbled around in her dresser. She pulled a hoodie over her sweats. Was she even allowed to wear Lethe sweats anymore? Was she supposed to return them? She had no idea. She had a lot of questions she should have asked Anselm instead of flipping him off, but it had still been very satisfying.
She found the tiny bottle of basso belladonna wedged against the back of the drawer and squeezed drops into both of her eyes. There was no way she was getting through this day without a little help.
What’s stopping us? Mercy had asked. The answer was nothing. Alex didn’t want to go through hell again. But if they’d done it once, then they’d know what to expect the second time around. Dawes would have to choose a night of portent—assuming she and the others were willing to make a second
run at the Gauntlet—and they wouldn’t have armor for Mercy, but they could load her up with other protections, figure out a way around the alarms if they couldn’t brew another tempest. Why not try again? What was there to lose?
They’d come close enough that they had to take another shot.
She checked her phone. There was a text from Dawes from the day before.
All clear at Black Elm.
No changes? she texted back.
A long pause followed and then finally: He’s right where we left him.
