Page 58 of Dead Beat

The JE library was busy on a Friday afternoon, and she had to share a table, but she didn’t like working at Sterling anymore. She always had the sense that the fountain at the center of the courtyard would start to overflow, and she’d find herself falling through a hidden doorway where Golgarot would be waiting, jeweled yoke in hand. That wasn’t the way it worked. The Gauntlet had been built to make sure only pilgrims with very clear intentions could make that journey. But she was a Wheelwalker and that meant the rules could bend in unexpected ways.

What else did it mean? Had her father been a demon? A pilgrim himself? Or had the magic in her veins come from her mother’s line? How many times had she looked into Mira’s face, seeking some phantom image of herself, her eyes, her nose, the shape of her jaw superimposed over her mother’s features but never really lining up?

Alex was working on an essay on coded language, searching for textual support in her paperback copy of Howards End, but she was struggling to think straight. Her mind kept straying to the temple room, to the low thunder of the water, those chanting voices, Darlington seizing her hips. Her skin felt too tight. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to fight or fuck. They’d always been a little too similar for her, the wires crossing when they weren’t meant to.

And this. This felt perilous.

“I am losing my goddamn mind.” She shoved the paperback so hard it flew off the desk. The little boy ghost who always lingered by the plaque commemorating his death like a macabre tour guide giggled and Alex pretended not to hear him. She didn’t need her focus wandering between sex and death, tormented by thoughts of hell one minute, rattled by memories of Darlington’s lips pressed to her neck the next.

She checked the time. Professor Girard held office hours between 3 p.m. and 5 p.m. Maybe a fight wasn’t such a bad idea.

Alex considered her options on the short walk to Linsly-Chittenden Hall. Girard’s office was just a few doors down from the Praetor’s office and she had no desire to run into Raymond Walsh-Whiteley. He’d been sending long emails complete with footnotes on vampire lore since the meeting in New York. He’d even suggested Lethe host an international colloquium on vampirism and succubi. How about a mob with pitchforks to break down the gate to Reiter’s mansion? How about vengeance for Michelle Alameddine and every body lying beneath the gardens at Sweetwell? How about some protection, a legion of bodyguards armed with salt, to protect her from a vampire whom she’d seen levitate in his fashionable living room and who could descend from the Connecticut skies at any moment? But sure, a symposium seemed like a great plan.

Linsly-Chittenden looked like a big brick hearth, its stones a warm red, welcoming in the gray winter cold. She wasn’t sure exactly what approach to take with Girard. He had an ego on him, so maybe flattery was the sensible way to go, but she wasn’t feeling very sensible.

It was only when she knocked on his door that she realized she might run into Mercy here. That could be a good thing. She could observe them together and Mercy would think Alex was taking her coursework seriously.

“Enter.”

No sign of Mercy, but the Gray in the hospital gown was perched on Girard’s desk. Alex was ready with death words on her lips, but she didn’t need them. The Gray took one look at her and vanished through the wall. She hadn’t enjoyed what Alex had done to her. Even so, Alex could sense the Gray hadn’t gone far. She was lingering outside the window, too tied to this man by her jealousy and rage.

Girard looked up from his desk as Alex closed the door. He gave her a warm smile, but she hadn’t missed the assessment in his gaze or the hardness there. It was calculating in a way truly confident people rarely were.

“Welcome,” he said. “Have a seat.”

Alex had come to understand how carefully staged most professors’ offices were—photos of family to disarm you, objects from their travels to impress you, shelves packed with essential books for reference or reputation. Girard was leaning into his middle-aged rock-star performance—a framed Nine Inch Nails poster on the wall, a black-and-white photo of a dramatically lit mosh pit, an acoustic guitar propped up in the corner.

Alex settled into one of the knockoff Eames chairs in front of his desk. He had a little plaque that could have said Manager or CEO but read in tidy letters, Eat the peach. The man was predictable to the point of parody. If you were going to reference Eliot, why start with the poem every dippy high school senior slapped on his yearbook page? Alex winced. Was she becoming a snob? A few semesters at Yale and she was sneering at a professor’s taste in poetry. She could have blamed Darlington’s influence, but she didn’t want to think about Darlington.

“I’m at a disadvantage,” said Girard. “Many students but…” He spread his hands out.

But only one Charlie Girard.

Alex restrained an eye roll and smiled. “I take your Shakespeare in Cinema lecture. I think you know my roommate Mercy Zhao.”

The tiniest bob of his eyebrows, followed by another smile. “Of course. A wonderful student and a very lively mind.”

Up close he had fine lines around his eyes, a bit of a sulk to his mouth. He looked like someone who had gotten too much of what he wanted. Alex decided on a direct approach.

“She has a crush on you.”

Girard laughed and leaned back in his chair. “It wouldn’t be the first time,” he admitted easily. “But I don’t cross boundaries.”

“I do.”

Again the eyebrows bobbed. “Sorry?”

“I make a business of it. I have what the professionals call a lack of impulse control.”

He held up his hands, panic playing over his face. “I’m flattered, truly. But this isn’t appropriate and I’m not comf—”

“Jesus, you’re arrogant. I’m not hitting on you. I’m threatening you.”

His face spasmed as if he didn’t know whether he was more insulted or relieved. “You are?”

“Let me spell it out. You’re going to be nice to my friend and encourage her to use that lively mind and you’re going to give her a great grade because you know she’ll earn it. And you’re going to stop there. No compliments about how mature she is for her age or how it’s so rare that you encounter an intellect to match yours. No late-night study sessions with a glass of wine.”

“Excuse me? I don’t know what you think you’re doing—”