Page 17 of Dead Beat

She was studiously highlighting a copy of Borges’s Labyrinths, but he noted the way she set it on her lap when the tinny voice over the speaker called, “Old Greenwich.” They all paused then, as if in silent prayer—everyone but the Praetor, who had no idea they were racing past a monster’s den. Was Linus Reiter hunting tonight? Did he somehow know they were near? Darlington had seen the old photo of Reiter taken at Mory’s, but he had never met the creature who had replaced the man, the thing that had murdered Michelle Alameddine, a woman who had served loyally as his familiar, who had spied on Lethe for him, all for the promise of an immortality he had no power to bestow.

When they finally left the train and emerged into the massive echoing chamber of Grand Central, he couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of portent. The Praetor pushed forward eagerly into the crowd, heading toward the stairs and the exit without a look back. For a moment, they stood alone in the eddying mass of commuters, four pilgrims again, on what should be a considerably less perilous journey than a visit to the underworld.

“Are we ready?” he asked.

Turner nodded.

Dawes stuffed her headphones into her bag. “Yes,” she said. “I think so,” though she didn’t sound sure of herself.

Alex’s head was tilted back to look at the golden constellations sprinkled across the vaulted ceiling.

“It isn’t the original,” he said. “There was too much wear and tear, so they built this ceiling right over it.”

“Is it enchanted?”

“Not that I know of, though there’s speculation that the incorrect placement of the constellations was part of a magical binding. There’s a bespelled fireplace inside the old Campbell Apartment. It allowed John W. Campbell to send messages to his managers on the railroad. But that magic is long since dormant.” There were other mysteries he wanted to share, the places in New York where magic could still be found. The Temple of Dendur at the Met where a ghostly crocodile could be seen crawling down the halls at midnight. The Ethiopian prayer scroll in the Morgan Library that could only be read in the reflection of a double mirror if you didn’t want to risk hemorrhaging from the eyes. The door guarded by iron owls that sat smack-dab in the center of Herald Square for anyone to see and that bore the inscription La nuit porte conseil. It was the French equivalent of You should sleep on it. But Darlington had always suspected the direct translation—the night brings counsel—hinted at darker possibilities. The door led to a garden in the middle of Oxford, if anyone still had the key and the courage to take on wobbly portal magic. But this wasn’t a sightseeing tour.

“Well?” Walsh-Whiteley demanded from the base of the stairs, waving them on.

“Can we just leave him here?” Alex asked.

Dawes burrowed more deeply into an oversized parka that looked like it was slowly consuming her. “Maybe he’ll get hit by a bus. One I’m driving.”

The Yale Club was directly across the street from the terminal on Vanderbilt Avenue.

“You look disappointed,” Darlington observed as they entered the modest lobby and checked their coats.

“I’ve never been to New York,” Alex said. “I was hoping we’d at least get to walk around a little. Isn’t that the same Nathan Hale from Old Campus?”

“Yes,” Darlington confirmed, glancing at the statue tucked into a niche in the lobby. “But no one actually knows what Hale looked like.”

“A great patriot,” Walsh-Whiteley said as they climbed the stairs to the third-floor dining room.

“Truly,” Darlington said, but under his breath he couldn’t resist adding, “And a rotten spy.”

“Was he?” Turner asked.

“He worked for General Washington less than a month. And he didn’t bother to create an alias or ditch his Yale diploma when he went undercover. He might as well have worn a sign that read, I love espionage.”

“Good last line, though,” Alex said.

“I don’t disagree. I doubt I’d have the presence of mind to quote bastardized Cato while waiting on the hangman.” Hale had regretted he had but one life to give for his country, but Darlington had to wonder how many lives would have satisfied. He had imagined being stalwart in that way, the kind of man who feared neither guns nor gallows. But now he risked his life multiple times a week without thinking much on the matter. Maybe that was the secret truth of courage. You didn’t face danger; you just got used to it.

Why had none of them simply walked away? If they had been individuals instead of this haphazard tribe of willing fools, would they have made the same choices?

A woman with a clipboard and a headset was waiting at the third-floor landing.

She consulted her list and then said, “I’m sorry, I have just four names from the current delegation.”

Turner scowled. “Is this where I have to flash my badge to get past the red velvet rope?”

“No, Detective Turner, you can go on in. But I’m afraid Oculus wasn’t included on our list.”

“It’s fine,” said Professor Walsh-Whiteley. “She can wait in the lobby.”

Alex was already squaring up. “Like a service dog?”

“Miss Stern—