Alex reached into her dresser for the basso belladonna drops. One more afternoon. She could give Tara Hutchins that much before she buried her for good and moved on. The way she’d buried Hellie.
Aurelian, home to the would-be philosopher kings, the great uniters. Aurelian was founded to embrace ideals of leadership and, supposedly, to bring together the best of the societies. They modeled themselves as a kind of New Lethe, tapping members from every society to form a leadership council. That didn’t last long. Lively debate gave way to raucous argument, new members were recruited, and they soon became as clannish as the other Houses of the Veil. In the end, their magic has a fundamental practicality best suited to the working professional, less a calling than a trade. That has made them the object of ridicule by some with more delicate sensibilities, but when Aurelian found themselves banned from their own “tomb” and without permanent address, they managed to survive where other Houses have foundered—by hiring themselves out to the highest bidder.
—from The Life of Lethe: Procedures and Protocols of the Ninth House
They just lack any kind of style. Sure, they occasionally burp out a senator or an author of middling renown, but Aurelian nights always feel a bit like you’ve been handed the transcript to a juicy court case. You start out excited, and by page two you realize it’s all a lot of words and not much drama.
—Lethe Days Diary of Michelle Alameddine (Hopper College)
6
Last Fall
He started her small—with Aurelian. Darlington figured the big magics could wait for later in the semester, and he knew he’d made the right choice when he came downstairs at Il Bastone to find Alex perched on the edge of a velvet cushion, gnawing feverishly on a thumbnail. Dawes seemed oblivious, her attention focused on A Companion to Linear B, her noise-canceling headphones firmly in place.
“Ready?” he asked.
Alex stood and wiped her palms on her jeans. He had her run through the stock of protections in their bags, and Darlington was pleased to see she’d forgotten nothing.
“Good night, Dawes,” he said as they unhooked their coats from the hall rack. “We won’t be home late.”
Dawes slid her headphones down to her neck. “We have smoked salmon and egg and dill sandwiches.”
“Dare I ask?”
“And avgolemono.”
“I’d say you’re an angel, but you’re so much more interesting.”
Dawes clucked her tongue. “It’s really not a fall soup.”
“It’s barely fall and there’s nothing more fortifying.” Besides, after a shot of Hiram’s elixir it was tough to get warm.
Dawes smiled as she returned to her text. She liked being praised for her cooking almost as much as she liked being acknowledged for her scholarship.
The air felt bright and cold against his skin as they walked down Orange, back toward the Green and campus. Spring came on slow in New England, but fall was like rounding a sharp turn. One moment you were sweating through summer cotton and the next you shivered beneath a sky gone hard enamel blue.
“Tell me about Aurelian.”
Alex blew out a breath. “Founded in 1910. Rooms consecrated in Sheffield-Sterling-Strathcona Hall—”
“Save yourself the mouthful. Everyone calls it SSS.”
“SSS. During the 1932 renovations.”
“Around the same time Bones was sealing off their operating theater,” Darlington added.
“Their what?”
“You’ll learn during your first prognostication. But I thought we’d keep the training wheels on for our first journey out.” Best that Alex Stern found her footing among the eager, generous Aurelians rather than in front of the Bonesmen. “The university gave those rooms to Aurelian as a gift for services rendered.”
“Which services?”
“You tell me, Stern.”
“Well, they specialize in logomancy, word magic. So something with a contract?”
“The purchase of Sachem’s Wood in 1910. It was a huge acquisition of land and the university wanted to make sure the purchase could never be challenged. That land became Science Hill. What else?”
“People don’t take them very seriously.”
“People?”
“Lethe,” she amended. “The other societies. Because they don’t have a real tomb.”
“But we’re not like those people, Stern. We aren’t snobs.”
“You are most definitely a snob, Darlington.”
“Well, I’m not that particular kind of snob. We have only two real concerns: Does their magic work and is it dangerous?”
“Does it?” asked Alex. “Is it?”
“The answer to both questions is sometimes. Aurelian specializes in unbreakable contracts, binding vows, stories that can literally put the reader to sleep. In 1989 a certain millionaire slipped into a coma in the cabin of his yacht. A copy of God and Man at Yale was found beside him, and if anyone had thought to look they would have found an introduction that exists in no other version—one composed by Aurelian. You may also be interested to know that Winston Churchill’s last words were ‘I’m bored with it all.’”
“You’re saying Aurelian assassinated Winston Churchill?”
“That’s mere speculation. But I can confirm that half of the dead in Grove Street Cemetery only stay in their graves because the inscriptions on their tombstones were crafted by members of Aurelian.”
“Sounds pretty powerful to me.”
“That was the old magic, when they were still considered a landed society. Aurelian was kicked out of their rooms when union contract negotiations with the university soured. The charge was serving alcohol to minors, but the fact is that Yale felt Aurelian had botched the initial contracts. They lost Room 405 and their work has been shaky ever since. These days, they mostly manage the occasional nondisclosure agreement or inspiration spell. That’s what we’ll be seeing tonight.”
They passed the administrative offices of Woodbridge Hall and the glowing golden screens of Scroll and Key. The Locksmiths had canceled their next ritual. It wouldn’t mean any less work for Lethe—Book and Snake had been happy to move into the Thursday night slot in their place—but Darlington wondered exactly what was going on at Keys. There had been rumors of weakening magic, portals that malfunctioned or didn’t open at all. It might all be talk—the Houses of the Veil were secretive, competitive, and prone to petty gossip. But Darlington would take the delay as an opportunity to dig into what Scroll and Key might be contending with before he dragged his Dante into a possible mess.
“If Aurelian isn’t dangerous, why do we need to be there?” Alex asked.
“To keep the proceedings from being interrupted. This particular ritual tends to draw a lot of Grays.”
“Why?”
“All of the blood.” Alex’s steps slowed. “Please don’t tell me you’re squeamish. You won’t make it through a semester if you can’t handle a bit of gore.”
Darlington immediately felt like an ass. After what Alex had survived back in California, of course she’d be wary. This girl had witnessed real trauma, not the theater of the macabre to which Darlington had become so accustomed.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, but she was gripping the strap of her satchel with clenched fists.
They entered the stark plateau of Beinecke Plaza, the library’s windows glowing like chunks of amber.
“You will be,” he promised. “This is a controlled environment and a simple spell. We’re basically just serving as bouncers tonight.”
“Okay.”
She didn’t look okay.
They pushed through the library’s revolving door and into the high vault of the entry. Gordon Bunshaft had envisioned the library as a box within a box. Behind the empty security desk a vast glass wall rose to the ceiling, packed with shelves of books. This was the real library, the stacks, the paper-and-parchment heart of Beinecke, the outer structure that surrounded it acting as entry, shield, and false skin. Large windows on
every side showed the empty plaza beyond.
A long table had been set up not far from the security desk, a comfortable distance away from the cases, where rotating exhibits from the library’s collections were displayed and where the Gutenberg Bible was housed in its own little glass cube, lit from above. A single page of it was turned every day. God, he loved this place.
The Aurelians were milling around the table, already in their ivory robes, chatting nervously. That giddy energy alone was probably enough to start drawing Grays. Josh Zelinski, the delegation’s current president, broke away from the group and hurried over to greet them. Darlington knew him from several American studies seminars. He had a Mohawk, favored oversize overalls, and talked a lot. A woman in her forties trailed him, tonight’s Emperor—the alumna selected to supervise the ritual. Darlington recognized her from a rite Aurelian had conducted the previous year to draw up governing documents for her condo board.
“Amelia,” he said, reaching for the name. “A pleasure to see you again.”
She smiled and glanced at Alex. “Is this the new you?” It was the same thing they’d asked Michelle Alameddine when she’d taken him around his freshman year.
“Meet our new Dante. Alex is from Los Angeles.”
“Nice,” said Zelinski. “Do you know any movie stars?”
“I once swam naked in Oliver Stone’s pool—does that count?”
“Was he there?”
“No.”
Zelinski looked genuinely disappointed.
“We’ll start at midnight,” said Amelia.
That gave them plenty of time to set up a perimeter around the ritual table.
“For this rite, we can’t block the Grays out completely,” Darlington explained as he and Alex walked a wide circle around the table, choosing the path of the boundary they would create. “The magic requires that the channels with the Veil remain open. Now tell me first steps.”
He’d assigned her excerpts from Fowler’s Bindings and also a short treatise on portal magic from the early days of Scroll and Key.
“Bone dust or graveyard dirt or any memento mori to form the circle.”
“Good,” said Darlington. “We’ll use this tonight.” He handed her a stick of chalk made from compressed crematory ash. “It will allow us to be more precise in our markings. We’ll leave channels open at each compass point.”
“And then what?”
“Then we work the doors. The Grays can disrupt the ritual, and we don’t want this kind of magic breaking loose. Magic needs resolution. Once this particular rite begins, it will be looking for blood, and if the spell gets free of the table, it could literally slice some nice law student studying a block away in two. One less lawyer to plague the world, but I’m told lawyer jokes are passé. So if a Gray tries to come through, you have two options: dust them or death words.” Grays loathed any reminder of death or dying—lamentations, dirges, poems about grief or loss, even a particularly well-phrased mortuary ad could do the trick.
“How about both?” asked Alex.
“There’s really no need. We don’t waste power if we don’t have to.”
She looked skeptical. Her anxiety surprised him. Alex Stern might be graceless and uneducated, but she’d shown plenty of nerve—at least when anything but moths were concerned. Where was the steel he’d glimpsed in her before? And why did her fear disappoint him so acutely?
Just as they were finishing their markings to close the circle, a young man passed through the turnstile, his scarf pulled up nearly to his eyes. “The guest of honor,” murmured Darlington.
“Who is he?”
“Zeb Yarrowman, wunderkind. Or former wunderkind. Surely the Germans have a name for prodigies who age out of enfant terrible.”
“You would know, Darlington.”
“Too cruel, Stern. I have time yet. Zeb Yarrowman wrote a novel his junior year at Yale, published it before he graduated, and was the darling of the New York literary scene for several years running.”
“Good book?”
“It wasn’t bad,” Darlington said. “Malaise, madness, young love, the usual bildungsroman fare, all set against the background of Zeb working at his uncle’s failing dairy. But the prose did impress.”
“So he’s here to mentor someone?”
“He’s here because The King of Small Places was published almost eight years ago and Zeb Yarrowman hasn’t written a word since.” Darlington saw Zelinski signal to the Emperor. “It’s time to start.”
The Aurelians had assembled in two even lines, facing each other on either side of the long table. They wore white cloaks almost like choir robes, with pointed sleeves so long they brushed the tabletop. Josh Zelinski stood at one end, the Emperor at the other. They put on white gloves of the type used to handle archival manuscripts and unfurled a scroll down the table’s length.
“Parchment,” said Darlington. “Made from goatskin and soaked in elderflower. A gift for the muse. But that’s not all she requires. Come on.” He led Alex back to the first marks they’d made. “You’ll watch the southern and eastern gates. Don’t stand between the markings unless you absolutely have to. If you see a Gray approaching, just step into his path and use your graveyard dirt or speak the death words. I’ll be monitoring the north and west.”
“How?” Her voice held a nervous, truculent edge. “You can’t even see them.”
Darlington reached into his pocket and removed the vial of elixir. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He broke the wax covering, unstopped the cork, and, before thoughts of self-preservation could intrude, downed the contents.
Darlington had never gotten used to it. He doubted he ever would—the urge to gag, the bitter spike that drove through his soft palate and up into the back of his skull.
“Fuck,” he gasped.
Alex blinked. “I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you swear.”
Chills shook him and he tried to control the tremors that quaked through his body. “I c-c-class p-p-profanity with declarations of love. Best used sparingly and only when wholeheartedly m-m-meant.”
“Darlington … are your teeth supposed to chatter?”
He tried to nod, but of course he was already nodding—spasming, really.
The elixir was like dunking your head into the Great Cold, like stepping into a long, dark winter. Or as Michelle had once said, “It’s like getting an icicle shoved up your ass.”
“Less localized,” Darlington had managed to joke at the time. But he’d wanted to pass out from the shuddering awful of it. It wasn’t just the taste or the cold or the tremors. It was the feeling of having brushed up against something horrible. He hadn’t been able to identify the sensation then, but months later he’d been driving on I-95 when a tractor trailer swayed into his lane, missing his car by the barest breath. His body had flooded with adrenaline, and the bitter tang of crushed aspirin had filled his mouth as he remembered the taste of Hiram’s Bullet.
That was what it was like every time—and would be until the dose finally tried to kill him and his liver tipped into toxicity. You couldn’t keep sidling up to death and dipping your toe in. Eventually it grabbed your ankle and tried to pull you under.
Well. If it happened, Lethe would find him a liver donor. He wouldn’t be the first. And not everyone could be born gifted like Galaxy Stern.
Now the shaking passed, and for a brief moment the world went milky, as if he were seeing Beinecke’s golden glow through a thick cataract of cobwebs. These were the layers of the Veil.
When they parted for him, the haze cleared. Beinecke’s familiar columns, the cloaked members of Aurelian, and Alex’s wary face came into ordinary focus once more—except he saw an old man in a houndstooth jacket hovering by the case that housed the Gutenberg Bible, then strolling past to examine the collection of James Baldwin memorabilia.
“I think … I think that’s—” He caught himself before he spoke Frederic Prokosch’s name. Names were intimate and risked forming a connection with
the dead. “He wrote a novel that used to be famous, called The Asiatics, from a desk at Sterling Library. I wonder if Zeb’s a fan.” Prokosch had claimed to be unknowable, a mystery even to his closest friends. And yet here he was, moping around a college library in the afterlife. Maybe it was best that the elixir cost so much and tasted so bad. Otherwise Darlington would be downing it every other afternoon just for glimpses like this. But now it was time to work. “Send him on his way, Stern. But do not make eye contact.”
Alex rolled her shoulders like a boxer stepping into the ring and approached Prokosch, keeping her gaze averted. She reached into her bag and pulled out the vial of graveyard dirt.
“What are you waiting for?”
“I can’t get the lid off.”
Prokosch looked up from the glass case and drifted toward Alex.
“Then say the words, Stern.”
Alex took a step backward, still fumbling with the lid.
“He can’t hurt you,” said Darlington, putting himself between Prokosch and the entry to the circle. The ritual hadn’t yet begun, but best to keep it clean. Darlington didn’t love the idea of dispelling the Gray himself. He knew too much about the ghost as it was, and banishing him back behind the Veil risked creating a connection between them. “Go on, Stern.”
Alex squeezed her eyes shut and shouted, “Take courage! No one is immortal!”
Prokosch shuddered in apprehension and lifted a hand as if to shoo Alex away. He bolted through the library’s glass walls. Death words could be anything, really, as long as they spoke of the things Grays feared most—the finality of passing, a life without legacy, the emptiness of the hereafter. Darlington had given Alex some of the simplest to recall, from the Orphic lamellae found in Thessaly.
“See?” said Darlington. “Easy.” He glanced at the Aurelians, a few of whom were giggling at Alex’s ardent declaration. “Though you needn’t shout.”
But Alex didn’t seem to care about the attention she’d drawn. Her eyes were alight, staring at the place where Prokosch had been moments before. “Easy!” she said. She frowned and looked at the vial of dirt in her hand. “So easy.”
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