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“I know, little love, I know.” Carefully, I crouch next to Quiggley as he writhes. But once I’m sure he’s barely aware of me, his second and real mouths working in a sloshing tandem to emit horrid, wet sounds, I allow myself to relax. He’ll be working on getting upright again for a bit. Smoothing my dress over my thighs, I lean in to study his regeneration.

Fascinating: his skin is reknitting. It must be painful. It’s slow and all the nerves are exposed. But he must have availed himself of some kind of regeneration material. Or something.

Interesting.

I stand up and scroll through his emails again, the one from Dean Shea catching my eye.

MILLER WILL HELP WITH YOUR ARRIVAL. WE HAVE LEFT CLOTHES BY THE ENTRY. SEE U SOON.

What’s the likelihood that Evan Miller left something else, too? Something to aid in longevity? Pondering, I lean against the wall, arms crossed, and watch Quiggley shuffle himself to standing, vertebra by cracked vertebra. Thinking fast, I throw half-drunk crystal snifters of bourbon onto the floor with a sparkling shatter, tossing the full decanter so it breaks into wide, bladelike shards. I push them through the gore with a toe, then turn to face Quiggley with a doe-eyed stare.

“W-what’s happened?” Quiggley’s throat gapes as he looks around. The healing hasn’t gone very well, leaving him pockmarked with weeping black wounds.

“Will, goddess, I’m so sorry. I don’t know—you were fine, just drinking your whiskey, and you collapsed. You cut—your—” I motion to his neck. “I thought you were dead, but—”

My halting speech must shake him awake, because his gaze sharpens. “I what?”

“Fell.” The door to the bathroom opens. “Lamb, he’s up!”

“What?” She jolts through the bedroom and into the little common area, her face too pale and her lips cracked. She gasps and staggers toward me, unconsciously gripping my arm. She feels right there, tucked behind me where I can keep her safe.

I should have done better than this fucking mess.

“We were having a lovely drink, Dr. Quiggley, but you fell and I was about to call an ambulance. I thought you were gone.” I put a sob in my voice, faux tears trembling on my lash line. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Lacie looks from me to Dr. Quiggley, all blinking stare and slack jaw. Poor thing, I definitely threw her for a loop. But I know she can handle it. She’s going to have to. A sharp pain crests behind my right ear and I slam the heel of a hand down on the writhing skin.

Fuck.

“How did I slit my own throat?” Quiggley’s eyes narrow.

“The question is, Dr. Quiggley—Will—how did you survive?”

For a single second, he looks panicked, his brow quirking and his mouth dropping open. But then he tucks it away, setting a solid professorial gaze on me. He holds a hand to his throat. “I suppose I’m tougher than I look,” he chuckles, his jaw still slightly misaligned so his words catch on his teeth. “Thank you for your concern, though, Marcella.”

“Oh, of course, of course.” If I had a heart to stammer, it would be going a thousand miles a minute. We’re both teetering on a razor’s edge of lies and truths: he can’t know that I know what he is, because that would give me, and by extension Lacie, away. But then, I have to hope he doesn’t remember the attack. Mercifully, I launched at him from behind rather than while wrapped around him. And while I prefer to incapacitate my victims with a kiss as lethal as it is lovely, alcohol-related pliancy does just as well.

He stares at me, his yellow teeth bared in an almost-smile. “I’d better get on, I think.”

“Not like this, Dr. Quiggley,” Lacie says, startling to life beside me. “Please, I think I would feel better if I at least got you a car back to where you’re staying.”

His gaze snaps to hers, and for a hair-raising moment, his expression muddles to something darker, sharper. Hungrier. “Oh, I appreciate that…”

“Lacie,” she supplies. Now he knows her name, too, and in association with mine.

Dammit. She’s too nice for her own good. She thinks she’s taking over and being helpful, but she’s really only endangering herself. And there’s nothing I can do. She’s already taken out her phone and started tapping for a car-ride app.

Quiggley’s face rights itself into a shattered smile. His splitting lip releases a cold stream of rotted, black blood that slithers between his two front teeth.

“I’m alright, however. Drank too much but I’m a tough old coot. I’d better get back to Whittaker and discuss the semester’s next steps.” He gathers his coat from beside the door, slipping into it and pulling his hat over his ears. Every time he moves his head, one of the holes in his neck springs open, oozing a dark slurry.

Fuck, if he is going to Whittaker, the other won’t be as disoriented and might be able to put two and two together. I wanted to start a war, but not like this. Not directly implicating me and Lacie. That’s too dangerous, even for my liking.

“So long, you two. I hope to see you around at Classics department events.”

The door closes and Lacie and I stare each other for a long time, a held breath between us.

Finally, she whispers, “How?”