Page 27

“That’s a stretch.”

“Is it? Is the person who disappears the best instructor, or the worst, of the year?”

“The worst, of course. But it’s not one person who leaves every year now. It’s multiple.” She scoffs. “People assume they quit—and they probably do. I don’t know what we’re even talking about. I can’t accept that Preston’s killing multiple people every year.”

I roll over her disbelief. She needs to stop equivocating with falsehoods. Reality can be stranger, and far worse, than fiction. “To survive, you must be well-liked. Seems a challenge when that means the dean has to notice you, heap you with grand expectations. You can’t buckle.”

The words hang between us. Lacie is on the wrong side of that equation, and it curdles my stomach.

“They already like you,” Lacie finally mutters.

“Hm? Oh, I know they like me.” Maybe a little too much.

“You could keep going to the Dean’s Dinners,” she says, her voice a little soft around the edges. Well, she did drink two glasses of Brunello di Montalcino from 1995 in swift succession; 17 percent booze can do that. “You could … ask around.”

I laugh and she gives me a cutting look. “Don’t cast aspersion!”

“Aspersion?” I cackle again. “What—are you a man from the 1800s?” I knew them. That was a word they would use.

“What else would you call it?” Her cheeks pink, but she’s starting to smile, too. I’m surprised how good it feels to see her brightening.

“No, no, you’re right. Fine. But all the same. It’s not as easy as asking around. I’m sure you know that.” Plus, if this isn’t a wight after all, but another draugr, it could get messy for me very, very quickly.

Lacie rolls her eyes. “So get deeper in. Go all the time.” She turns fierce as she starts to pace, too, her forehead furrowed. “You seem capable enough already.”

“I am capable of getting inside, you’re right.”

She shoots me a look, trying to parse whether that was a double entendre. “I— What?” She shakes her head hard. “So why do you need me, then?”

“I’d like to keep you close.”

“I’m not going to say a word!”

“But I don’t know you from Adam, my dear.” I lean against the wall of books, watching her spin herself up. I hold up a hand to stem the flow. A plan takes shape, albeit vaguely. She wants justice. I need safety. Neither of us will survive this without the other.

“And more importantly, you know the players in this game. You’ve been here for almost two years. I, on the other hand, have not. The only thing I have is access. I can see the chess pieces, but I don’t know who they are, exactly. Dean Shea may be the king, but who is queen? Bishop? Rook?” I pause, watching her eyes flit anywhere but my own. “Understand?”

Lacie sighs. “So I’ll just be your … your Sherpa?” She’s grasping at words now, a little drunker than I thought. Sweet thing is a lightweight, and it fills me with glee.

“Essentially. But you also are knowledgeable in this area of … death. As it were. Do your own digging. Safely, of course.”

“So I’m our researcher, too?” Lacie gives me a snide grin. “Right.”

I shrug, enjoying her consternation. “You are smart enough for it.”

“God! You’re the worst. You’re the worst because you’re right and because now I’m in this fucking situation,” she blazes, stomping toward the kitchen. She places the wineglass in the sink, then spins to me a little dizzily.

“This isn’t my fault. You invited me up to the fifth floor.”

“I would have just called an ambulance!”

“And yet. You’re only going to survive this if you allow yourself to be taken through the rapids and fight back against the things that matter.”

“That metaphor is stupid.” She groans and rubs her eyes. “It’s stupid and if it was in a paper, I would take points off because of it.”

“It’s too late, Lacie, to back out,” I rejoin, stepping toward her. “It’s too late to do anything but save ourselves. And remember, you are the one who wants to find out who did this to Laurel. Not me.”

“And you want to save your own skin.”