Ninth House

by Leigh Bardugo

  “Fines? They tried to kill me. They as good as killed Darlington.”

  “The trust of each House of the Veil has been contacted, and a meeting will be held in Manhattan.”

  A meeting. With a seating chart. Maybe some minted slush punch. Alex felt a wild anger building inside her. “Tell me someone is going to pay for what they did.”

  “We’ll see,” said Sandow.

  “We’ll see?”

  Sandow raised his head. His eyes were fierce, lit by the same fire she’d seen when he’d faced down a hellbeast on new-moon night. “You think I don’t know what they’re getting away with? You think I don’t care? Merity being passed around like candy. Portal magic revealed to outsiders and used by one of them to attack a delegate of Lethe. Manuscript and Scroll and Key should both be stripped of their tombs.”

  “But Lethe won’t act?” asked Dawes.

  “And destroy two more of the Ancient Eight?” His voice was bitter. “We are kept alive by their funding, and this isn’t Aurelian or St. Elmo we’re talking about. These are two of the strongest Houses. Their alumni are incredibly powerful and they’re already lobbying for clemency.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Alex. She should just let it all go, take her boosted GPA and be glad she was alive. But she couldn’t. “You had to know something like this would happen eventually. Turner’s right. You soup up the car. You hand them the keys. Why leave magic, all this power, to a bunch of kids?”

  Sandow sagged further in his chair, the fire leaving him. “Youth is a wasting resource, Alex. The alumni need the societies; an entire network of contacts and cohorts depends on the magic they can access. This is why the alumni return here, why the trusts maintain the tombs.”

  “So no one pays,” said Alex. Except Tara. Except Darlington. Except her and Dawes. Maybe they were knights—valuable enough, but easy to sacrifice in the long game.

  Dawes turned cold eyes on the dean. “You should go.”

  Sandow looked defeated as he wheeled himself into the hall.

  “You were right,” Dawes said when they were alone. “They’re all going to get away with it.”

  A brisk knock sounded at the open door.

  “Ms. Dawes, your sister is here to pick you up,” said Jean. She pointed at Alex. “And you should be resting in your own bed, little miss. I’m coming back with a wheelchair.”

  “You’re leaving?” Alex hadn’t meant to sound so accusatory. Dawes had saved her life. She could go wherever she wanted. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

  “She lives in Westport,” Dawes said. “I just need…” She shook her head. “This was supposed to be a research job. It’s too much.”

  “It really is,” said Alex. If her mom’s place had been a few train stops away instead of a few thousand miles, she wouldn’t have minded curling up on the couch there for a week or twelve.

  Alex climbed out of the bed. “Be safe, Dawes. Watch lots of bad TV and just be normal for a while.”

  “Stay,” Dawes protested. “I want you to meet her.”

  Alex made herself smile. “Come see me before you go. I need to get some of that sweet, sweet Percocet before I collapse, and I don’t want to wait for good nurse Jean to wheel me away.”

  She moved as fast as she could out the door, before Dawes could say more.

  Alex returned to her room only long enough to retrieve her phone and yank out her IV. Her clothes and boots were nowhere to be found, taken to be entered into evidence. She’d probably never see them again.

  She knew what she was doing was irrational, but she didn’t want to be here anymore. She didn’t want to pretend to talk reasonably about something that made no sense.

  Sandow could make all of the apologies he wanted. Alex didn’t feel safe. And she had to wonder if she’d ever feel safe again. We are the shepherds. But who would protect them from the wolves? Blake Keely was dead and gone, his pretty skull smashed to bits. But what was going to happen to Kate Masters and Manuscript, who had unleashed Merity for the sake of saving a few dollars? What about Colin—eager, brilliant, scrubbed-face Colin—and the rest of Scroll and Key, who had sold their secrets to criminals and possibly sent a monster to devour Darlington? And what about the gluma? She’d nearly been murdered by a golem in glasses, and no one seemed to care. Dawes had been attacked. Dean Sandow had nearly bled out on the hall rug. Were they all really that expendable?

  Nothing was going to be dismantled. Nothing would change. There were too many powerful people who needed the magic that lived in New Haven and that was tended by the Houses of the Veil. Now the investigation belonged to Sandow and to faceless groups of wealthy alumni who would dole out punishment or forgiveness as they saw fit.

  Alex snagged a doctor’s lab coat off the back of a chair and headed for the elevators in her hospital socks. She thought someone might stop her, but she strolled by the nurses’ station without incident. The pain was bad enough that she wanted to bend double and cling to the wall, but she wasn’t going to risk drawing attention.

  The elevator doors opened on a woman with auburn hair in a cream-colored sweater and snug jeans. She looked like Dawes but Dawes winnowed down and polished to a high shine. Alex let her pass and stepped inside the elevator. As soon as the doors closed, she slumped against the wall, trying to catch her breath. She didn’t really have a plan. She just couldn’t be here. She couldn’t make small talk with Dawes’s sister. She couldn’t act like what had happened was somehow fair or right or okay.

  She shuffled out into the cold, limped a half block away from the hospital, and requested a ride on her phone. It was late and the streets were empty—except for the Bridegroom. North hovered in the glow of the hospital lights. He looked worried as he moved toward her, but Alex couldn’t bring herself to care. He hadn’t found Tara. He hadn’t done a damn thing to help her.

  It’s over, she thought. Even if you don’t want it to be, buddy.

  “Unwept, unhonored, and unsung,” she growled. North recoiled and vanished, his expression wounded.

  “How are you tonight?” the driver asked as she slid into the back seat.

  Half dead and disillusioned. How ’bout you? She wanted to be behind the wards, but she couldn’t bear the idea of returning to Il Bastone. “Can you take me to York and Elm?” she said. “There’s an alley. I’ll show you.”

  The streets were quiet in the dark, the city faceless.

  I’m done, Alex thought, as she dragged herself out of the car and up the staircase to the Hutch, the smell of clove and comfort surrounding her.

  Dawes could run off to Westport. Sandow could go home to his housekeeper and his incontinent Labrador. Turner … well, she didn’t know who Turner went home to. His mother. A girlfriend. The job. Alex was going to do what any wounded animal would. She was going where the monsters couldn’t reach her. She was going to ground.

  Others may falter and take the false step. What penalty but pride?

  Ours is the calling of the final trumpet on the horseman’s last ride.

  Ours is the answer given without pause and none too soon.

  Death waits on black wings and we stand hoplite, hussar, dragoon.

  —“To the Men of Lethe,” Cabot Collins (Jonathan Edwards College, ’55)

  Cabsy wasn’t actually any good as far as poets go. Seems to have missed the last forty years of verse and just wants to write Longfellow. It’s ungenerous to carp, what with him losing his hands and all, but I’m not sure even that justifies two hours cooped up at Il Bastone, listening to him read from his latest masterpiece while poor Lon Richardson is stuck turning the pages.

  —Lethe Days Diary of Carl Roehmer (Branford College ’54)

  28

  Early Spring

  Alex woke to the sound of glass breaking. It took her a moment to remember where she was, to take in the hexagon pattern of the Hutch’s bathroom floor, the dripping faucet. She grabbed the lip of the sink and pulled herself up, pausing to wait out the head rush before she padde
d through the dressing room to the common room. For a long moment she stared at the broken window—one leaded pane smashed, the cool spring air whistling through, the glass slivers scattered on the plaid wool of the window seat beside her discarded falafel and Suggested Requirements for Lethe Candidates, the pamphlet still open to the page where Alex had stopped reading. Mors irrumat omnia.

  Cautiously, she peered down at the alley. The Bridegroom was there, just as he had been every day for the last two weeks. Three weeks? She couldn’t be sure. But Mercy was there too, in a belted jacket patterned with cabbage roses, her black hair pulled into a ponytail, a guilty expression on her face.

  Alex thought about just not doing anything. She didn’t know how Mercy had found her, but she didn’t have to stay found. Eventually her roommate would get tired of waiting for Alex to show and she’d leave. Or throw another rock through the window.

  Mercy waved and another figure stepped into view, dressed in a purple crochet coat and glittery mulberry-colored scarf.

  Alex leaned her head against the window frame. “Shit.”

  She pulled on a Lethe House sweatshirt to cover her filthy tank top and limped barefoot down the stairs. Then she took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

  “Baby!” her mom cried, lunging toward her.

  Alex squinted against the spring sunshine and tried not to actually recoil. “Hi, Mom. Don’t hug—”

  Too late. Her mother was squeezing her and Alex hissed in pain.

  “What’s wrong?” Mira asked, pulling back.

  “Just dealing with an injury,” Alex said.

  Mira bracketed Alex’s face with her hands, pushing the hair back, tears filling her eyes. “Oh, baby. Oh, my little star. I was afraid this might happen.”

  “I’m not using, Mom. I swear. I just got really, really sick.”

  Mira’s face was disbelieving. Otherwise, she looked good, better than she had in a long time. Her blond hair had fresh highlights; her skin was glowing. She looked like she’d put on weight. It’s because of me, Alex realized with a pang. All those years that she looked tired and too old for her age, she was worrying about me. But then her daughter had become a painter and gone to Yale. Magic.

  Alex saw Mercy hovering near the alley wall. Snitch.

  “Come on,” Alex said. “Come in.”

  She was breaking Lethe House rules by allowing outsiders into the Hutch, but if Colin Khatri could show Lance Gressang how to portal to Iceland, she could have her mother and her roommate in for tea.

  She glanced at the Bridegroom. “Not you.”

  He started moving toward her and she hurriedly closed the door.

  “Not who?” said her mother.

  “Nobody. Nothing.”

  Climbing the stairs left Alex winded and dizzy, but she still had enough sense to be embarrassed when she opened the door to the Hutch and let them inside. She’d been too out of it to realize just how bad her mess had gotten. Her discarded blankets were crumpled in a heap on the couch, and there were dirty dishes and containers of spoiled food everywhere. Now that she’d had a breath of fresh air, she could also tell the common room stank like a cross between a swamp and a sick ward.

  “Sorry,” said Alex. “It’s been … I haven’t been up to housekeeping.”

  Mercy set to opening the windows, and Mira began picking up trash.

  “Don’t do that,” said Alex, skin prickling with shame.

  “I don’t know what else to do,” said Mira. “Sit down and let me help. You look like you’re going to fall over. Where’s the kitchen?”

  “On the left,” Alex said, directing her to the cramped galley kitchen, which was just as messy as the common room if not worse.

  “Whose place is this?” asked Mercy, removing her coat.

  “Darlington’s,” Alex said. It was true in a way. She lowered her voice. “How did you know I was here?”

  Mercy shifted uneasily. “I, uh … may have followed you here once or twice.”

  “What?”

  “You’re very mysterious, okay? And I was worried about you. You look like hell, by the way.”

  “Well, I feel like hell.”

  “Where have you been? We’ve been worried sick. We didn’t know if you’d gone missing or what.”

  “So you called my mom?”

  Mercy threw up her hands. “Don’t expect me to be sorry. If I disappeared, I hope you’d come looking.” Alex scowled, but Mercy just jabbed her shoulder with her finger. “You rescue me. I rescue you. That’s how this works.”

  “Is there recycling?” Mira called from the kitchen.

  Alex sighed. “Under the sink.”

  Maybe good things were the same as bad things. Sometimes you just had to let them happen.

  * * *

  Mercy and Mira were a surprisingly efficient team. They got the garbage packed away, made Alex shower, and got her an appointment at the university health center to get on a course of antibiotics, though she didn’t go so far as to show them her wound. She said she’d just been dealing with some kind of flu or virus. They made her shower and change into clean sweats, then Mira went to the little gourmet market and got soup and Gatorade. She went back out again when Alex told them she’d had to throw away her boots.

  “Tar,” she said. “They were ruined.” Tar, blood spatter. Same difference.

  Mira returned an hour later with a pair of boots, a pair of jeans, two Yale T-shirts, and a set of shower sandals that Alex didn’t need but thanked her for anyway.

  “I got you a dress too.”

  “I don’t wear dresses.”

  “But you might.”

  They settled in front of the fireplace with cups of tea and instant cocoa. Unfortunately, Alex had eaten all of Dawes’s fancy gourmet marshmallows. It wasn’t quite cold enough for a fire, but the room felt snug and safe in the late-afternoon light.

  “How long are you here for?” Alex asked. It came out with an ungrateful edge she hadn’t intended.

  “First flight out in the morning,” said Mira.

  “You can’t stay longer?” Alex wasn’t sure how much she wanted her to. But when her mother beamed, so happy to be asked, Alex was glad she’d made the gesture.

  “I wish I could. Work on Monday.”

  Alex realized it must be the weekend. She’d only checked her email once since she’d holed up in the Hutch and hadn’t read any of Sandow’s messages. She’d let her phone go dead. For the first time she wondered if the societies had continued meeting without Lethe to oversee them. Maybe activity had been suspended after the attack at Il Bastone. She didn’t much care. She did wonder if her mom could afford a last-minute cross-country flight. Alex wished she’d extorted some money from Lethe along with that grade bump.

  Mercy had brought notes from the three weeks of classes she’d missed and was already talking about a plan of attack before finals. Alex nodded along, but what was the point? The fix was in. Sandow had said he’d make sure Alex would pass, and even if he didn’t, Alex knew she didn’t have the will to catch up. But she could pretend. For Mercy’s sake and for her mother’s.

  They ate a light dinner and then made the slow walk back to Old Campus. Alex showed her mom the Vanderbilt courtyard and their shared suite, her map of California and the poster of Leighton’s Flaming June, which Darlington had once rolled his eyes at. She let Mira coo over the sketchbook she’d tried to make herself pick up once in a while for the sake of appearances but admitted she hadn’t been drawing or painting much.

  When her mom lit up a bundle of sage and started smudging the common room, Alex tried not to melt into the floor in embarrassment. Still, she was surprised at how good it felt to be back in the dorms, to see Lauren’s bike leaning up against the mantel, the toaster oven topped by boxes of Pop-Tarts. It felt like home.

  When it was time for Mira to head back to her hotel, Alex walked outside with her, trying to hide how much it took out of her just to descend the few steps to the street.

  “I didn�
��t ask what happened and I’m not going to,” said Mira, gathering her glittery scarf around her neck.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s not for you. It’s because I’m a coward. If you tell me you’re clean, I want to believe you.”

  Alex wasn’t sure what to say to that. “I think I may have a job lined up for the summer. But it means I won’t be coming home.”

  Mira looked down at her shoes, handmade leather booties she’d been getting from the same guy at the same craft fair for the last ten years. She nodded, then brushed tears from her eyes.

  Alex felt her own tears rising. How many times had she made her mother cry? “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  Mira drew a tissue from her pocket. “It’s okay. I’m proud of you. And I don’t want you to come home. After all of those horrible things with those horrible people. This is where you belong. This is where you were meant to bloom. Don’t roll your eyes, Galaxy. Not every flower belongs in every garden.”

  Alex couldn’t quite untangle the wave of love and anger that rushed through her. Her mother believed in faeries and angels and crystal visions, but what would she make of real magic? Could she grasp the ugly truth of it all? That magic wasn’t something gilded and benign, just another commodity that only some people could afford? But the car was pulling up and it was time to say goodbye, not time to start arguments over old wounds.

  “I’m glad you came, Mom.”

  “I am too. I hope … If you aren’t able to manage your grades—”

  “I’ve got this,” Alex said, and it felt good to know that thanks to Sandow she wasn’t lying. “Promise.”

  Mira hugged her and Alex breathed in patchouli and tuberose, the memory of being small. “I should have done better,” her mother said on a sob. “I should have set clearer boundaries. I should have let you have fast food.”

  Alex couldn’t help but laugh, then winced at the pain. No amount of strict bedtimes and trans fats could have kept her safe.

  Her mother slid into the back seat of the car, but before Alex closed the door, she said, “Mom … my dad…” Over the years, Mira had made an effort to answer Alex’s questions about her father. Where was he from? Sometimes he told me Mexico, sometimes Peru, sometimes Stockholm or Cincinnati. It was a joke with us. It doesn’t sound funny. Maybe it wasn’t. What did he do? We didn’t talk about money. He liked to surf. Did you love him? I did. Did he love you? For a while. Why did he leave? People leave, Galaxy. I hope he finds his bliss.