Ninth House

by Leigh Bardugo

  In the quiet, she heard Blake crying. His left hand was clenched in a fist, as if readying to strike her. But the light from the streetlamps filtering in through the windows caught on something silver in his other hand. A blade.

  “Can you be quiet?” he asked. “Tell me you can be quiet.”

  “I can be quiet,” said Alex.

  Blake giggled, that high-pitched giggle she remembered from the video. “That’s what Tara said too.”

  “What did she say?” Alex whispered. “What did she do to make you mad?”

  Blake leaned down. His face was still beautiful, cut in sharp, almost angelic lines. “She thought she was better than all my other girls. But everyone gets the same from Blake.”

  Had he been stupid enough to use the Merity on Tara? Had she realized what he was using it for? Had she threatened him? Did any of it matter now? Alex was going to die. In the end, she’d been no smarter than Tara, no more able to protect herself.

  “Alex?” Dean Sandow’s voice from somewhere down below.

  “Don’t come up here!” she screamed. “Call the cops! He has—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Blake drew back his foot and kicked her hard in the side. Alex went silent.

  It was too late anyway. Sandow was at the top of the stairs, his expression bewildered. From her place on the floor, Alex saw him register her on her back, Blake above her, the knife in his hand.

  Sandow lunged forward, but he was too slow.

  “Stop!” snapped Blake.

  The dean went rigid, nearly toppling.

  Blake turned to Alex, a smile spreading across his lips. “He a friend of yours? Should I make him throw himself down the stairs?”

  Alex was silent. He’d told her to be silent and she just wanted to make him happy, but her mind was mule-kicking around her skull. They were all going to die tonight.

  “Come here,” Blake said. Sandow strode forward eagerly, a spring in his step. Blake bobbed his head at Alex. “I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Whatever I can do to help,” said Sandow, as if inviting a promising new student to office hours.

  Blake held out the knife. “Stab her. Stab her in the heart.”

  “A pleasure.” Sandow took the knife and straddled Alex.

  A cold wind gusted through the house from the open door. Alex felt it on her flushed face. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t fight, couldn’t run. Behind Sandow the top of the open door and the brick path were visible. Alex remembered the first day Darlington had brought her here. She remembered Darlington’s whistle. She remembered the jackals, spirit hounds, bound to serve the delegates of Lethe.

  We are the shepherds.

  Alex’s hand lay against the floorboards. She could feel the cool, polished wood beneath her palm. Please, she begged the house silently. I am a daughter of Lethe, and the wolf is at the door.

  Sandow raised the knife high above his head. Alex parted her lips—she wasn’t speaking, no, she wasn’t talking—and desperately, hopelessly, she whistled. Send me my hounds.

  The jackals burst through the front door in a snapping, snarling pack. They raced up the stairs, claws clattering and paws sliding. Too late.

  “Do it,” said Blake.

  Sandow brought the knife down. Something slammed into him, driving him off Alex. The hallway was suddenly full of jackals, trampling over her in a snarling mass. One of them crashed into Blake. The weight of their bodies drove the breath from Alex’s lungs, and she cried out as their paws smacked over her broken bones.

  They were wild with excitement and bloodlust, yelping and snapping. Alex had no idea how to control them. She’d never had reason to ask. They were a mess of gleaming canines and black gums, muzzles frothing. She tried to push up, push away. She felt jaws clamp closed on her side and screamed as long teeth sank into her flesh.

  Sandow shouted a string of words she didn’t understand and Alex felt the jaws open, hot blood gushing from her. Her vision was turning black.

  The jackals retreated, slinking back toward the stairs, bodies bumping against each other. They crouched by the banister, whining softly, jaws snapping at the air.

  Sandow lay bleeding on the hall runner beside her; his pant leg was torn. She could see that the jackal’s jaws had snapped clean through his femur, the white jut of bone gleaming like a pale tuber. Blood was gouting from his leg. He was gasping, fumbling in his pocket, trying to find his phone, but his movements were slow, sluggish.

  “Dean Sandow?” she panted.

  His head lolled on his shoulders. She saw the phone slip from his fingers and fall to the carpet.

  Blake was crawling toward her. He was bleeding too. She saw where the jackals had sunk their teeth into the meat of his biceps, his thigh.

  He pulled himself up the length of her body, resting against her like a lover. His hand was still clenched in a fist. He struck her once, twice. The other hand slid into her hair.

  “Eat shit,” he whispered against her cheek. He sat up, gripped her hair in his hand, and slammed her skull against the floor. Stars exploded behind her eyes. He lifted her head again, yanking on her hair, tilting her chin back. “Eat shit and die.”

  Alex heard a wet, heavy thud and wondered if her skull had split open. Then Blake fell forward onto her. She shoved at him, scrabbling against his chest, his weight impossible, and finally rolled him off her. She touched her hand to the back of her head. No blood. No wound.

  She couldn’t say the same for Blake. One side of his perfect face was a bloody red crater. His head had been smashed in. Dawes stood over him, weeping. In her hands she clutched the marble bust of Hiram Bingham III, patron saint of Lethe, his stern profile covered with blood and bits of bone.

  Dawes let the bust slip from her fingers. It hit the carpet and rolled to its side. She turned away from Alex, fell to her knees, and vomited.

  Blake Keely stared at the ceiling, eyes unseeing. The snow had melted on his jacket, and the wool glittered like something far finer. He looked like a fallen prince.

  The jackals padded down the stairs, vanishing through the open door. Alex wondered where they went, what they spent their hours hunting.

  Somewhere in the distance she heard what might have been a siren or some lost thing howling in the dark.

  27

  Winter

  When Alex woke, she thought she was back in the hospital in Van Nuys. The white walls. The beeping machines. Hellie was dead. Everyone was dead. And she was going to jail.

  The illusion was fleeting. The pain burning in the wound at her side brought her back to the present. The horror of what had happened at Il Bastone returned in a rapid blur: red lights flashing, Turner and the cops flooding up the stairs. The uniforms had sent a jolt of panic through her, but then … What’s your name, kiddo? Talk to me. Can you tell me what happened? You’re all right now. You’re all right. How gently they spoke to her. How gently they handled her. She heard Turner talking: She’s a student, a freshman. Magic words. Yale falling over her, shroud and shield. Take courage; no one is immortal. Such power in a few words, an incantation.

  Alex pushed her blankets back and yanked at her hospital gown. Every movement hurt. Her side had been stitched up and was covered in bandages. Her mouth was dry and cottony.

  A nurse bustled in with a big smile on her face as she rubbed hand sanitizer between her palms. “You’re up!” she said brightly.

  Alex read the name on the tag attached to her scrubs and felt a chill creep over her. Jean. Was this Jean Gatdula? The woman Skull and Bones had paid to take care of Michael Reyes, to care for all of their victimae for the prognostications? It couldn’t be coincidence.

  “How are you, sweetheart?” the nurse asked. “How’s your pain?”

  “I’m good,” Alex lied. She didn’t want them doping her up. “Just a little groggy. Is Pamela Dawes here? Is she okay?”

  “Down the hall. She’s being treated for shock. I know you’ve both been through it, but you have to rest now.”

&n
bsp; “That sounds good,” Alex said, letting her eyelids flutter closed. “Could I have some juice?”

  “You bet,” said Jean. “Back before you know it.”

  As soon as the nurse was gone, Alex made herself sit up and slide out of bed. The pain forced her to breathe shallowly, and the sound of her own panting made her feel like an animal caught in a trap. She needed to see Dawes.

  She was hooked to her IV so she took it with her, wheeling it along beside her, grateful for the support. Dawes’s room was at the end of the hall. She was propped up in her hospital bed on top of the covers, dressed in NHPD sweats. They were far too big for her and dark navy, but otherwise they would have fit perfectly into her grad student uniform.

  Dawes turned her head on the pillow. She said nothing when she saw Alex, just wriggled over to the edge of the bed to make room.

  Carefully, Alex hoisted herself into the bed and laid down beside her. There was barely space for the two of them, but she didn’t care. Dawes was okay. She was okay. They had somehow survived this.

  “The dean?” she asked.

  “He’s stable. They put him in a cast and pumped him full of blood.”

  “How long have we been here?”

  “I’m not sure. They sedated me. I think at least a day.”

  For a long time, they lay in silence, the sounds of the hospital filtering down the hall to them, voices at the nurses’ station, the click and whir of machines.

  Alex was drifting into sleep when Dawes said, “They’re going to cover it all up, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah.” Jean Gatdula was a sure sign of that. Lethe and the other societies would use every bit of their influence to make sure that the true details of the night never came to light. “You saved my life. Again.”

  “I killed someone.”

  “You killed a predator.”

  “His parents are going to know he was murdered.”

  “Even alligators have parents, Dawes. That doesn’t stop them from biting.”

  “Is it over now?” Dawes asked. “I want … normal.”

  If you ever find it, let me know.

  “I think so,” Alex said. Dawes deserved some kind of comfort, and it was all she could offer. At least now this whole gnarled mess would unravel. Blake would be the thread that pulled it all apart. The drugs. The lies. There would be some kind of reckoning among the Houses of the Veil.

  Alex must have fallen asleep, because she woke with a start when Turner wheeled Dean Sandow into the room. She sat up too quickly and hissed in a breath at the pain, then nudged Dawes, who drowsily came awake.

  Sandow looked exhausted, his skin sagging and almost powdery. His leg was extended before him in a cast. Alex remembered that white spike of bone jutting from his thigh and wondered if she should apologize for calling the jackals. But if she hadn’t, she would be dead, and Dean Sandow would be a murderer—and more than likely dead too. How had they even explained these wounds to the police? To the doctors who had sewn them up? Maybe they hadn’t had to explain. Maybe power like Lethe, power like the societies, like the dean of Yale University, made explanations unnecessary.

  Detective Abel Turner looked fresh as ever, dressed in a charcoal suit and a mauve tie. He perched at the end of the big recliner tucked into the corner for overnight guests.

  Alex realized this was the first time they’d all been in a room together—Oculus, Dante, Centurion, and the dean. Only Virgil was missing. Maybe if they’d started the year this way, things would have gone differently.

  “I suppose I should begin with an apology,” said Sandow. His voice sounded ragged. “It’s been a hard year. A hard couple of years. I wanted to keep that poor girl’s death away from Lethe. If I had known about the Merity, the experiments with Scroll and Key … but I didn’t want to ask, did I?”

  Dawes shifted in the narrow bed. “What’s going to happen?”

  “The murder charge against Lance Gressang will be vacated,” said Turner. “But he’ll still face charges on dealing and possession. He and Tara were dealing psychotropics to Scroll and Key, possibly to Manuscript, and we had a look at Blake Keely’s phone. Someone got in there to delete a bunch of big files recently.” Alex kept her face blank. “But the voicemails were enlightening. Tara found out what Merity could do and what Blake was using it for. She was threatening to tell the police. I don’t know if Blake was more afraid of blackmail or exposure, but there was no love lost between them.”

  “So he killed her?”

  “We’ve been interviewing a lot of Blake Keely’s friends and associates,” Turner went on. “He was not someone who liked women. He may have been escalating in some way or using drugs himself. His behavior lately has been truly bizarre.”

  Bizarre. Like eating the contents of a clogged toilet. But the rest made a kind of sense. Blake had barely seen the girls he used as human. If Tara had challenged his control, maybe the leap to murder hadn’t been a big one. When Alex had relived Tara’s death, it had been Lance’s face she saw looming above her, and she’d assumed it was a glamour disguising the real murderer. But what if Blake had somehow dosed Tara with Merity and simply commanded her to see Lance’s face? Was the drug that powerful?

  Something else was bothering her. “Blake told me he didn’t kill Tara.”

  “He was clearly out of his right mind when he attacked you—” said Sandow.

  “No,” said Alex. “When…” When she’d been seeking revenge for what he’d done to Mercy. “A few days ago. He was under compulsion.”

  Turner’s eyes narrowed. “You were questioning him?”

  “I had an opportunity and I took it.”

  “Is this the time to critique Alex’s methods?” Dawes asked quietly.

  Alex bumped Dawes’s shoulder with her own. “Excellent point. Neither of you would have looked past Lance if I hadn’t been a tack in your ass.”

  Turner laughed. “Still coming out swinging, Stern.”

  Sandow gave a pained sigh. “Indeed.”

  “But she’s not wrong,” said Dawes.

  “No,” said Sandow, chastened. “She’s not wrong. But Blake may have believed in his own innocence. He may not have remembered committing the crime if he was under the influence when it happened. Or he may have been trying to please whoever was compelling him. Compulsion is complicated.”

  “What about the gluma that came after me?” Alex asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Sandow. “But I suspect whoever sent that … monster for Darlington sent the gluma after you as well. They didn’t want Lethe investigating.”

  “Who?” demanded Alex. “Colin? Kate? How did they get their hands on a gluma?” Had they deliberately used a monster that would cast suspicion on Book and Snake?

  You asked me to tell you what you were getting into. Now you know. That was what Darlington had said after he’d unleashed the jackals on her. But had he known? Had he understood that his own intelligence, his love of Lethe and its mission, would paint a target on his back?

  “We’ll find out,” Sandow said. “I promise you that, Alex. I won’t rest until it’s done. Colin Khatri has been questioned. It’s clear he and Tara were experimenting heavily together. With portal magic, money spells, very dangerous stuff. It’s not apparent who was the instigator, but Tara wanted to go deeper and she wouldn’t let Colin put on the brakes, not if he and the society wanted more of the … assistance she was providing.”

  Because Tara had gotten a taste of something more. She’d glimpsed true power and she knew it was her one chance to take it.

  “She was essentially extorting him,” said Sandow. “All of it a disgrace—and all of it happening right beneath my nose.” He slumped in his wheelchair. He looked old and gray. “You were in danger and I didn’t protect you. You were keeping the spirit of Lethe alive, and I was so focused on Darlington’s disappearance, on trying to make it seem as if all was well, on maintaining an illusion for the alumni. It was … It is shameful. Your tenacity is a credit to Lethe, and both
Turner and I will say so in our reports to the board.”

  “And what does she get for her trouble?” asked Dawes, arms crossed. “You were so eager to wash your hands of Tara’s murder, Alex almost died twice.”

  “Three times,” noted Alex.

  “Three times. She should get something for it.”

  Alex’s brows rose. Since when was Dawes part hustler?

  But Sandow just nodded. This was the world of quid pro quo.

  See, Darlington? Alex thought. Even I know a little Latin.

  Turner rose. “Whatever bullshit you all come up with, I don’t want to hear it. You can dress this up in talk, but Blake Keely, Colin Khatri, Kate Masters—they’re rich kids getting wasted and wrapping a sports car they have no business driving around a tree.” He gave Alex’s shoulder a gentle squeeze on his way out. “I’m glad no one ran you over. Try not to get your ass kicked for a week or two.”

  “Try not to buy any new suits.”

  “I make no promises.”

  Alex watched him saunter away. She wanted to say something to call him back, to make him stay. Good-guy Turner with his shiny badge. Sandow was looking at his clasped hands as if he were concentrating on a particularly difficult magic trick. Maybe he’d unfold his palms and release a dove.

  “I know this semester has been a struggle,” he said at last. “It’s possible I could help you with that.”

  Alex forgot Turner and the pain smoldering in her side. “How?”

  He cleared his throat. “I could, possibly, make sure you pass your classes. I don’t think it would be wise to go too far, but—”

  “A 3.5 GPA should do it,” said Dawes.

  Alex knew she should say no, that she wanted to earn her way. It was what Darlington would do, what Dawes would do, probably what Mercy and Lauren would do. But Tara would say yes. Opportunity was opportunity. Alex could be honest next year. Still … Sandow had agreed too fast. What exactly were the terms of this bargain?

  “What’s going to happen to Scroll and Key?” Alex asked. “To Manuscript? To all of these assholes?”

  “There will be disciplinary action. Heavy fines.”