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“Okay, that’s a start. How does Dean Shea, for example, create that cult of worship around him?” I put a hand on her elbow, gently steering her back to the couch. “I’m not your enemy here, alright? I’m not going to run and tell anyone about this conversation.”

She sits again, but there’s a flicker of doubt in her eyes. And why wouldn’t there be? But then she looks up, and I can see the weight of this place inside of her. The code of silence flattening her to nothing. She wants to break free.

I want her to break free.

Resting a hand on her knee, I croon, “Come now. If you want to know who did this to Laurel, you cannot do it without help. It’s too vast for one person.”

Lacie softens at my words—or maybe it’s just the wine—and then takes a breath. “Dean Shea sets the year’s coursework up as a competition. You’ve heard that from Therese and Lyle already. He picks a few stars from the bunch, gives them unfair advantages ahead of the showcase.”

“Being accepted into this showcase—I suppose it means funding? Networking introductions?”

Lacie nods. “But earning Dean Shea’s attention also comes with a ticket to this … after-party.”

I roll my eyes. Men and their pomp. “Say more.” I pull the cork out and tip a little more wine into Lacie’s glass. She takes an automatic sip.

“We’re not supposed to talk about it. In fact, it’s really … like a secret society more than anything. Once you’re on the inside, you get invited to all these parties. But the most important occurs at the end of the semester: a bacchanal, I’ve heard it called. A masquerade?” She shakes her head prettily even as her features tighten. “It sounds silly, but the Winter Ball is where all these important choices are made.”

“It doesn’t. For centuries, men have carried on this way: closed circles, tight-knit nepotic groups.”

She glances at me, a curious twinkle in her eyes. “You’re right, you know. Even if they aren’t really beasts … they are monsters.”

“I’d say they’re real enough beasts.” I reach out and twist a curl of blonde hair around a finger. “Go on.”

Her eyes catch on my fingertips, but she makes no move to stop me.

“There’s a rumor—so take this with a grain of salt—that every year some young professor, someone with promise, goes missing after the party.”

“How very lurid.” But beneath my sarcasm, I’m putting two and two together. Perhaps Laurel’s death truly was an accident: it seemed hasty, unschooled. Maybe they merely meant to capture her, spirit her into whatever prison they have, an abduction gone wrong.

I can see that Lacie’s making the connection, too, just a single step behind. “You don’t think…” She looks at me, her eyes dagger-sharp against mine.

“Why not?”

“But that’s … that’s crazy. Preston isn’t killing people. That can’t be true.”

I stare back at her until she folds, dropping her eyes to her lap. God, she is so frustrating. Every time she makes a connection, she falls back again, unsure and quailing. I want to drag her, kicking and screaming, into awareness.

“It is true,” I press. “There is a very dead woman in a hall on campus. Regardless of whether a monster got her or a human did, quell your disbelief. You need to move past that or you will never, ever know who did this. Understand?”

When she looks back up at me, her eyes are wide. She thinks she’s hiding the tremble of her lower lip, but she’s not. I’m torn between wanting to thumb it or screaming at her—I can’t tell which. She makes a soft noise of assent. “But that means the dean would know. Wouldn’t he?”

“Of course.”

She blinks hard. “Do you think they keep records?”

“You mean of their conquests? Of course. History honors the victors and all that, why?”

“Our key cards open most of the department’s rooms. And if for some reason they don’t, someone probably could unlock Dean Shea’s office for us.” She pulls her hair, eyes growing wide. “But no, that would— That’s too dangerous.”

I tilt my head at her, smiling with all my teeth. “That is very interesting.”

“No, no. That’s— Marcella, that’s not what I think we should do.” Lacie shakes her head at me. “They would know. There are records, right, of the cards that open doors? For this exact reason.”

“Probably,” I concur, but file this little tidbit away. It’s a fine starting point. I doubt Shea would leave anything sensitive in his office, but it couldn’t hurt to be thorough.

“You won’t do anything dangerous, not yet, not without talking to me, will you?”

“Of course not.” I will protect her. I sip my wine. “Now. There’s a party—potentially where someone is, what, sacrificed?” I stand and pace. Bellatrix’s eyes stare at me from the dark of my bedroom nook.