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He ponders a moment, allowing my eyes to catch on his wedding ring. Ugh. This creature needs to die. Forget about Lyle and whatever they’re hiding in the Rare Book Room, just for now. If I can pick one off, I’ll feel a little better about our chances getting out of Preston alive. “Yours, I think.”

“Wonderful. I have a lovely bourbon I’m sure you’ll enjoy.”

TWENTY-TWOLacie

Outside my window, snow swirls in earnest, Preston’s courtyards glazed in white already. They’re predicting half a foot just tonight. A bitter cold snap, the kind that breaks bones and causes ambulances to wail through the quiet suburban streets like wraiths loosened from the grave.

And all I can think about is where Marcella is, if she’s safe, and what we do next.

Our conversation in the Div School basement library didn’t illuminate anything at all for me—except that on some level, Marcella’s interest in the vættir is self-serving. I’m not stupid enough to think that she’s carrying on this way because of altruism. I’m not even deluded enough to think she’s actually interested in me. That kiss was nothing more than … than a blip for her.

What if I’m just another manifestation of that same killing principle? When she wants me, she wants all of me, to devour me. But the second I stop giving her what she wants, I’m sure I’ll be absolutely nothing to her again. Or, rather, dinner.

And yet, I need to know who killed Laurel once and for all. There are too many loose ends hanging for my liking. As pissed as I am at Marcella for dragging me into this mess, she has the best chance of helping me.

Rubbing my eyes, I turn away from the window. I wish I had Bellatrix right about now. A soft, warm animal nearby would go a long way.

Pointedly ignoring my showcase research spread over my coffee table, I open my apartment’s door and peer into the hall. Muffled music thumps from the floor below, but there’s no one hanging about having quiet conversations outside their apartments, mercifully. My eyes skip across the ruined Persian rugs, catching on the sightless gazes of philosophers’ busts. I shiver as I tuck my hands inside my fisherman sweater. It’s not doing much to keep me warm, even though that’s probably only my state of mind.

Maybe Marcella won’t mind if I snuggle her kitty. I force myself to make a bargain: cat cuddles and then right back to work. I have approximately a million papers to grade, and I need to catch up on emails.

I’ve found it’s particularly difficult to care about coursework when people are dropping dead left and right. First Laurel, then Therese, and Arjun … What if Marcella hurt them? I want to trust her, but … reasonably, should I?

Pondering the macabre, I step into my slippers and tap on Marcella’s door.

There’s a crash, a muffled curse. Oh, I realize with a shudder. There’s someone in there with her, isn’t there?

And why wouldn’t there be? We shared a single kiss that we both knew was a horrible idea—even given my burgeoning feelings for her. Stupid, to involve myself with a murderous monster. I know that, and yet … all I can imagine is her skin against mine, her tongue scraping me open, her—

God. The thoughts won’t stop coming.

Marcella opens the door, her face stoic. She looks me up and down, her lips curving into a distracted smile. “Lacie, lamb, you’ve caught me at a … difficult moment.”

“I—I was just going to ask if I could see Bellatrix.”

Marcella leans on the doorframe, gazing at me. Calculating.

Always calculating. Perhaps I’m simply a math equation for her: she only has to balance my disgust and my interest to keep me from walking away. Yet the bitterest part isn’t that I feel a sense of justice for using her right back, it’s that underneath it all, I need to know what’s happening on campus.

Somehow, I think, Marcella knows that.

“Well, come in, lamb. But don’t act surprised when you see the mess I’ve made.”

“What?”

Marcella’s already walking inside. “Bellie, lovebug,” she calls, a smoky sotto voce ringing through the apartment, “c’mere girlie.”

My foot slips in something black and tacky. “Hey, Marcella, I think you tracked in—” The words curdle in my throat. “What the fuck,” I breathe.

A man’s body is curled on the floor. He’s not been killed like the last one—like Dr. Sims. His throat’s been sliced ear to ear, a second smile splitting his neck wide. But his blood isn’t red—it’s onyx, sticky as tar and just as thick.

I stagger backward, my breath coming fast. “What? Again?”

Marcella wipes fingers I now see are coated in black blood on her dress. “What do you mean, ‘again’? At least I didn’t take this one to my bed.”

My voice rises to a near shout. “You killed him!”

“Hush, Lacie, there are people everywhere in this building,” Marcella chides, tossing her kitchen towel over her shoulder like she was merely cleaning up after dinner.