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“You what? You left me alone after Quiggley—”

She nods, teeth seeking her lip. They haven’t quite rearranged into normalcy again, I notice, the sharp edges digging deep. “I needed to know if they were lying to us.” Marcella clears her throat, drawing out a tiny brass key. “I didn’t know … what you needed. From the Rare Book Room, I mean. And I could not get the books, but I got this.”

It sits in the center of her palm. She’s bloodied over a goddamned key?

A harsh laugh burbles out of me as I snatch it away. “You—you did what? There are cameras all over the place—”

“I was careful.” Her gaze shoots to mine, feline and terrible. “Well, are you going to at least thank me?”

“No! I am not going to—for what? This?” I shake the key. “What even is this?”

“That, I gather, is the key to the hidden chamber beneath Shea’s desk,” she answers, a tremor in her voice.

I shake my head as I close a fist around the metal. It doesn’t warm in my palm. Odd. “What is happening to you?”

She touches her face, fingers tracing her teeth. Then she groans, her eyes closing. “I remember pain. I remember running away from the library. But I don’t remember anything else.” Her jaw works. “This blood is human, isn’t it?” Marcella opens her eyes, panicked. “Did I hurt you?” Her voice is all cracks, and behind it, a miserable sob huddles, just waiting to spring free.

I shake my head slowly. “I didn’t even know you were gone. You truly don’t remember … anything?”

Marcella rests her head on her knees, her eyes drifting closed. Her brow furrows. “I remember … the snow, swirling all around me. No shoes…” She dredges up memories, her face folding in on itself with frustration. “There were people in the Rare Book Room. I was afraid of them.”

The imperious, sharp shine off of her, she looks impossibly broken. I place the still-cold key on the coffee table, then help her stand. “You shouldn’t have done that. Not for me. God knows what you got into. Come on.”

I lead her to the kitchen sink, wetting a cloth. As I wipe her face of its rime of road salt and splattered blood, Bellatrix lingers at the entry, tail lashing.

“Don’t you start,” I mutter as I swipe at a dirty rip in Marcella’s skin. “I’ll feed you soon enough.”

Marcella’s laugh surprises me. “Taking care of my pet? I never thought I’d see the day I’d rope you into domesticity.”

I twist the cloth in my hands. “Isn’t it my job to step in, when you’re dangerous like this?”

Her expression darkens. “I’m not a danger,” she snaps. “Not to you.”

“You weren’t yourself. You were worried you hurt me. And you were saying things in Icelandic.” I blow a breath through my lips, then take my glasses from my face to rub my eyes. “Marcella, what are you if not a danger? You went brazenly into—into whatever at the library! You don’t even remember it.”

She mumbles something and I sharpen. “What was that?”

“I said, that’s not even really my name.”

I grit my teeth. Of course it’s not her real name. She’s an undead being. And yet it doesn’t feel like a lie, not really; it’s more like she put on an outfit that doesn’t quite fit her body. She could change it anytime to something better suited, but she hasn’t.

Maybe that in and of itself is a punishment: to live life having to pretend all the time.

God, don’t I know it.

“I took it from the vampiric tradition. Tongue-in-cheek. But it seems too kind to me now. Too soft in your mouth. I sound good when you say it, and I’m not. You see that now.”

“I think you’re hiding so much behind”—I sniff and motion to her face, her body—“that it must be very hard. If you don’t want me to call you ‘Marcella,’ something else is fine. I like you. Well, most of you. Other things … well, I can live with them. I think.” I soften a little. “Okay? Just stop being mean to me for no reason.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Her voice has gone soft as smoke. “You know, you do something to me. Even when I’m rabid and horrible and want to do awful things … you make me a little better than the monster I am. I’m sorry I was cruel.”

I study her, the crease between her eyes, the undone snarl of her long hair. “I know how it feels. Truly.”

She rasps a laugh, but it sounds like she’s on the verge of tears. “No, Lacie. I know you think you know what I am, but you don’t. The weight is so heavy.”

I think about saying “you’re not a monster,” but that’s not true, is it? “I really am trying so hard to help.” I hesitate. If I can take some of this burden from her, I will. “Why don’t I go to Shea’s office and figure out what they’re hiding in that lockbox so you can rest?” I pick up the key. “I can do this, Marcella.”

She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t even turn to face me. Instead, she holds her arms out to Bellatrix, and the cat leaps onto her lap. After a moment stroking her ears, Marcella looks up at me. “I don’t want you to get hurt. Please, don’t go on your own. I’m afraid they’ll…” She swallows hard. “Please.”