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“Please, no one talks to me anyway.” Her expression darkens and she glances away, fingertips scratching Bellatrix’s ears. “Not anymore.”

“We must think about the future now, not the past,” I say, and immediately realize it was the wrong thing. Lacie’s gaze snaps back to mine.

“How could you say that? I just— Laurel is dead and—” She stops short, tucking her anger away with an affronted huff.

But doesn’t she know it’s better out than in? That the power of that anger is what could fuel her, lift her? Poor lamb, raised to slit the throat of the panther inside her. I want to challenge her. Make her yell at me. Perhaps it would help Lacie’s grief to know that there is an outlet, if she so chooses.

I grab my glass again and take a deep sip, feigning ignorance. “She was your competition, Lacie.”

Her forehead furrows and she bites out, “She was my friend.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Lacie turns her head away again, cheeks flushing. Her heart’s beating hummingbird quick. I can smell the anger leaking from her, all that buried rage.

Let it out, I will her, but instead she only swallows an impossibly large gulp of wine. It paints her lips dark, and I let my gaze linger there.

When I raise my eyes, I find she’s balled her fists tight. Good. “Well, what do you want to do about it?”

“I want to know who did it.” Each word’s a dagger.

I laugh thinly, the edge of a razor. “Really. You want to investigate?”

“She didn’t deserve what happened to her. She was a good person.”

I shouldn’t involve her in this. I should take this responsibility from her shoulders, allow her to heal. Never speak to her about it again, come what may. But even if she escaped Preston unscathed and without implication, she wouldn’t recover: the not-knowing would break her heart and her mind. All her life, she would wonder if monsters were real.

She doesn’t even know she’s sitting right next to one.

“Alright, let’s entertain this little detective charade. Tell me everything you know about Preston—everything about its professors and deans and students.”

“What is there to tell? It’s mysterious in all ways except that it’s intentionally difficult to navigate. And—” She snorts. “—tenure tracks usually aren’t killed in upstairs hallways.”

I hum. Beneath that derision, I’m sure she can see that Laurel’s horrid death is connected to these “mysterious” ways. “So, let’s return to what we saw—”

“I saw my closest friend dismembered.”

“That’s not all, though, is it? You said yourself, when we found Laurel’s body, that it couldn’t be a human killing.”

Lacie shakes her head. “I don’t remember what I said.” Her eyes close lightly as she finishes her glass of wine, lashes fluttering against a caught tear. I want to stroke it away.

“Yes, you do. Horrid things lurk in the shadows, even here. It’s time to accept it.” I stand, reaching for the wine bottle, then spin to her, dark silk skimming my thighs. “Don’t be foolish.”

When she looks up, she’s full of banked ire. “I’m not a child. I do not believe in fairy stories.”

“That is your prerogative, my dear. You only must accept that the sagas you study have a bit of truth inside of them—past the men killing one another over petty quarrels, past the wills and whims of the gods. The real magic. Because you know there are monsters here.”

It’s not a question.

Lacie stands abruptly and Bellatrix bolts with a hiss; she looks regretful only for an instant, then holds her glass out. The wine glugs from the bottle as I refill her. She immediately tips it against her soft lips, dribbles of wine gathering at their corners.

I’m seized with the impulse to devour her. To press her against the wall of books behind her and kiss her empty, until she goes pliable and whimpering beneath my touch.

I tighten my hands, nails slicing deep into my palms. I like her too much, I realize, to do that. I must remember restraint. I must hold on to myself. I don’t take advantage of women clinging to the edges of their sanity.

Instead of tonguing the droplet of wine from her lips, I say, “Fine. Don’t accept it. I’ll believe in magic and monsters enough for the both of us.” I pause, gathering my thoughts as I recork the bottle. “Talk to me about the university overall if you can.”

Lacie chews her bottom lip. “What you see is what you get. Old men who can do whatever they want. Assistant professors who hit back to maintain power but otherwise give their whole lives over to their taskmasters. Those who do go far.” She wilts a little. “And then there are the others who scurry beneath them, trying to catch up—but not too fast. If you’re faster than they want, they’ll simply expel you from the department. Prove to be tough and they’ll give you the crappy intro courses where you can’t help but fail.”