Page 63 of The Alchemists

“Over?” Gemma stared at him, stunned.

I’m such an asshole.

“I’m so sorry.”

He took a step backward, then turned and pushed his way through the crowd, pulling his cravat loose, raking a hand through his hair.

“Sebastian!”

He whirled furiously, ready to throw off whoever was trying to stop him, and found himself face to face with Professor Chant. They stared at each other with equally wide eyes.

“Professor?”

“Forgive the forwardness, but have you seen Mr. Hawleyhurst tonight?”

“Conrad?” Seb’s mind skidded out. “No, why?” He only vaguely registered the strangeness of Chant asking him about Conrad, about what that asking meant.

“He hasn’t been here at all?”

“Not that I’ve seen. He could be dressed as any⁠—”

“A vampire. Lestat, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh.” Seb took a beat to process that. He was pretty sure Lestat was gay. When he looked up, Chant was still frowning. “Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure something is right. Have you been in contact with Lily at all?”

“I was just going to go and find her.”

“Ah,” Chant exhaled. “Good, yes. Do that. She was just leaving the Metaphysics Library when I saw her last.” He patted Seb forcefully on the shoulder, propelling him toward the door. “Off you go.”

He didn’t need a second invitation.

Seb tugged up the high collar of his coat and jogged into the night.

Outside, he could finally breathe. He pulled in half-frozen air through his nose and exhaled it in great puffs of haze.

The Metaphysics building was dark. He stopped, puzzled. Turning in a slow circle, he took in the other two buildings on the quad. Both Paracelsus and Taverner had lights on—dim security lighting, but still.

When had Chant seen Lily? Maybe she’d already gone home.

But he knew, in his gut, that it was impossible. Whatever it was that tied them together, that had kept them running against each other until they started to twist like saplings around each other, striving for the same sun, told him she was here.

Above him, the Reaper’s Moon throbbed, huge and almost full.

The moon.

He remembered his dreams. He pictured Gemma dressed almost like Dream-Lily. He recalled Cornelius Windermere calling his Selene, whoever she was, “that which is above.” Saying that she was “born of heaven and walked in starlight.”

He sprinted across the academic quad and down the hill.

LILY

“Lily!”

She turned, flinching at her name, poised to jackrabbit into the woods where she could lose them.

Sebastian Allsaires ran down the hill where they had held almost three hundred graduations, his voluminous coat flapping behind him like a pair of demonic wings. She would have known him from his gait, smooth even over the steep and slick terrain. She would have known him from his voice alone; from his shadow in the dark.