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Then, I’ll worry about the rest of it.

I turn and leave them there, not bothering to look back. The crowd wraps me in its undulating arms. I’m ravenous, a predator let loose on a herd of unsuspecting cattle. Saliva slips between my teeth as I stalk deeper into the din, into the darkest parts of the shadows.

Sims, that lecherous old cretin who has been in cahoots to make Lacie’s life miserable since she’s been at Preston, stumbles by. He’s obviously drunk. Obviously vulnerable. He must play a part in this sick game Shea is playing. It snaps its jaws inside of me, rabid to be fed.

You could just fix this one little problem on your own, it whispers. Go.

Yes. That’s it. That’s it.

Lacie can wait. Mama’s hungry.

SIXTEENLacie

Marcella disappears into the jostling crowd.

“Marcella!” I shout, my voice swallowed by the screech of string instruments turned grating, the chittered laughter of women on the arms of graying men.

Lyle studies me from behind his mask. “What’s up?”

Of course, she stranded me with the one person who actually needs my support and help right now. I turn to him, gathering a breath. “Lyle, I really am so sorry about Therese—” her contorted body, her blood soaking the alley. My words stutter at the crushed shape of her.

“Don’t be,” Lyle returns, sharp and angry. “Therese was many things, but she was not suicidal. I’m not going to rest until I find out what happened.” He crosses his arms. “She was so twisted up I barely recognized her. It was brutal, horrible.”

I shift uncomfortably. Those things are stalking Preston, and whether it’s related to Dean Shea and his ilk or not, Marcella and I are diving straight into the storm. Lyle would be risking his life the same way we are now if he dares to start searching. He’s already said something about bite marks. God knows what he’d do next, given how erratic he was at the fellows’ restaurant.

“I … don’t know what you’re talking about?” I hate the lilt in my voice; it makes me sound thoughtless and ditzy.

“Never mind.” Lyle reaches beneath his mask to rub a hand over his face, his voice swinging wildly into a sob. “I just wish she was still here.”

And it is horrible. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever seen. That there’s an entire legacy of missing professors feels ruinous, too impossible to imagine. I turn back to the crowd that swallowed Marcella, my panic playing havoc inside of me.

“I know,” Lyle says, soft as an assassin’s thrust, “that there’s something going on with you, Lacie. Ever since Marcella came.”

I turn to him, my mask closing my field of vision so he’s limned in black. “What do you mean?”

He grabs the folds of taffeta on the neck of my dress and drags me close enough to see spittle flying from the mouth of his mask. “This all started happening when she came. Don’t you see? Don’t you feel that?”

“People have gone missing for years,” I say, my voice jellied as I twist away.

“Maybe,” Lyle says, his voice the hiss of a gas leak, fists tightening, “but never like this. And maybe tonight, everything will change.”

“Get your hands off me,” I say, hoping my reply has the texture of shattered glass. “You’re grieving but it doesn’t give you license to act this way. Think about the other night! You should go home—you shouldn’t even be here.”

“No?” He barks a hard laugh. “I had no choice.” Lyle lets go of me and I fall back. “Careful, Lacie. You better watch your girlfriend closely.”

He’s mad with grief. Anyone can see that, I tell myself. All I know is that either Marcella’s the danger, according to Lyle, or she is in danger. Either way, taking my eyes off of her is a bad idea.

“Have a good night, Lyle,” I say, slinking into the bodies flooding the dance floor.

The dancers are a whirl of garnet silk and vermilion lace, glittering diamonds and glossy hair, sightless masks with empty eyes. Bared feline teeth and lupine snarls. Eddies of perfume coat the air, my tongue, the whipping lengths of hair as the floor sags and buckles, springs back and re-forms under hundreds of feet. Waiters in their navy coats and wolf masks circle as though famished, their trays merely distractions for anxious prey. I snatch a flute of champagne and tilt it carefully into my mouth so the liquid swills away the first traces of a panic attack.

There’s a booming laugh from the far corner, tucked in the shadows; it sounds like Dean Shea. Clawing through bodies, I see him. Even in his lion’s head mask, he’s recognizable. Jocular in a smoking jacket trimmed with gold, a cigar clutched between his teeth as he speaks with old men I’ve never seen before. Alumni? They’re over-tall, towering, faces hidden behind papier-mâché white rabbit masks, buckteeth gleaming.

For a single second, their fingernails seem to lengthen and sharpen, but by the time I take an ember-tipped breath, they’re back to normal. Shaking my head, I slip my glass onto a passing tray.

Just the candlelight. Isn’t it?

Full of monsters, I hear Marcella’s voice croon in the back of my mind.