She ran her hand along the edge of the crucible. Could this thing burn me new? Make it so I’d never have to see another ghost or Gray or whatever they decided to call it? And would she even wish for that now?
Alex remembered Belbalm asking what she wanted. Safety. A chance at a normal life. That was what had come to mind in that moment—the quiet of Belbalm’s office, the herbs blooming in the window boxes, a matched set of teacups instead of the chipped mugs of jobs lost and promotional giveaways. She wanted sunlight through the window. She wanted peace.
Liar.
Peace was like any high. It couldn’t last. It was an illusion, something that could be interrupted in a moment and lost forever. Only two things kept you safe: money and power.
Alex didn’t have money. But she did have power. She’d been afraid of it, afraid of staring directly at that blood-soaked night. Afraid she’d feel regret or shame, of saying goodbye to Hellie all over again. But when she’d finally looked? Let herself remember? Well, maybe there was something broken and shriveled in her, because she felt only a deep calm in knowing what she was capable of.
The Grays had plagued her life, changed it horribly, but after all of those years of torment, they’d finally given something back to her. She was owed. And she’d liked using that power, even the alien feeling of North inside her. She had enjoyed the surprise on Lance’s face, on Len’s face, on Betcha’s. You thought you saw me. See me now.
“You have to take your clothes off,” said Dawes.
Alex unbuttoned her jeans, trying to hook her fingers into the waist. Her movements were slow, hampered by pain. “I need your help.”
Reluctantly, Dawes stepped away from the shelves and helped shove the jeans over Alex’s hips. But once they were around her ankles, Dawes realized she needed to take off Alex’s boots, so Alex stood there in her underwear while Dawes untied her boots and yanked them off.
She stood, eyes jumping from Alex’s bruised face to the tattooed snakes at her hips, which had once matched those at her clavicles. She’d gotten them after Hellie told her there was a rattler inside her. She liked the idea. Len had wanted to try tattooing her in their kitchen. He’d gotten his own gun and inks online, insisted it was all sterile. But Alex hadn’t trusted him or their filthy apartment and she hadn’t wanted him to leave a mark on her, not that way.
“Can you lift your arms over your head,” Dawes said, cheeks red.
“Uh-uh,” Alex grunted. Even forming words was getting difficult.
“I’ll get shears.”
A moment later, she heard the snip of scissors, felt her shirt pulled away from her skin, the fabric sticking to the drying blood.
“It’s okay,” said Dawes. “You’ll feel better as soon as you’re in the crucible.”
Alex realized she was crying. She’d been choked, drowned, beaten, choked again, and nearly killed, but now she was crying—over a shirt. She’d bought it new at Target before she’d come to school. It was soft and fit well. She hadn’t owned many new things.
Alex’s head felt heavy. If she could just close her eyes for a minute. For a day.
She heard Dawes say, “I’m sorry. I can’t get you in. Turner will have to help.”
Was he back from the market? She hadn’t heard him return. She must have blacked out.
Something soft moved over Alex’s skin and she realized Dawes had wrapped her in a sheet—pale blue, from Dante’s room. My room. Bless Dawes.
“Is she in some kind of shroud?” Turner’s voice.
Alex forced herself to open her eyes, saw Turner and Dawes emptying cartons of milk into the crucible. Turner’s head moved back and forth like a searchlight, a slow scan, taking in the strangeness of the upper floors. Alex felt proud of Il Bastone, the armory with its cabinet of curiosities, the bizarre golden bathtub at its center.
She meant to be brave, to grit her teeth through the pain, but she screamed when Turner lifted her. A moment later, she was sinking beneath the cool surface, the sheet unwrapping, blood staining the goat’s milk in veins of pink. It looked like a strawberry sundae cup, the kind with the wooden spoon.
“Don’t touch the milk!” Dawes was shouting.
“I’m trying to keep her from drowning!” Turner barked back. He had his hands cradled around her head.
“I’m all right,” said Alex. “Let me go.”
“You’re both nuts,” said Turner, but she felt his grip ease.
Alex let herself sink beneath the surface. The cool of the milk seemed to seep straight through her skin, coating the pain. She held her breath as long as she could. She wanted to stay below, feel the milk cocoon around her. But eventually she let her toes find the bottom of the crucible and pushed back to the surface.
When she emerged, Dawes and Turner were both shouting at her. She must have stayed beneath the surface a little too long.
“I’m not drowning,” she said. “I’m fine.”
And she was. There was still pain but it had receded, her thoughts felt sharper—and the milk was changing too, becoming clearer and more watery.
Turner looked like he might be sick, and Alex thought she understood why. Magic created a kind of vertigo. Maybe the sight of a girl on the brink of death descending into a bathtub and then emerging whole and healthy seconds later was just one spin too many on this ride.
“I need to get to the station,” he said. “I—”
He turned and strode out the door.
“I don’t think he likes us, Dawes.”
“It’s okay,” Dawes said, picking up the heap of Alex’s bloodied clothes. “We had too many friends already.”
Dawes left to make Alex something to eat, claiming she’d be famished once the reversion was complete. “Do not drown while I’m gone,” she said, and left the door to the armory open behind her.
Alex lay back in the crucible, feeling her body change, the pain leaching out of her, and something—the milk or whatever it had become in Dawes’s enchantment—filling her up. She heard music coming from the tinny sound system, the sound so staticky it was hard to pick out a tune.
She dunked her head beneath the surface again. It was quiet here, and when she opened her eyes it was like looking through mist, watching the last traces of milk and magic fade. A pale shape loomed before her, came into focus. A face.
Alex sucked in a breath, choking down water. She burst through the surface, coughing and sputtering, arms crossed over her breasts. The Bridegroom’s reflection stared up at her from the water.
“You can’t be here,” she said. “The wards—”
“I told you,” his reflection said, “wherever water pools or gathers, we can speak now. Water is the element of translation. It is the mediary.”
“So you’re going to be showering with me?”
North’s cold face didn’t change. She could see the dark shore behind him in the reflection. It looked different than it had the first time, and she remembered what Dawes had said about the different borderlands. She must not be looking into Egypt this time—or whatever version of Egypt she had traveled to when she’d crossed the Nile. But Alex could see the same dark shapes on the shore, human and inhuman. She was glad they couldn’t reach her here.
“What did you do to me at Tara’s apartment?” North said. He sounded haughtier than ever, his accent more clipped.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Alex, because it felt truer than most things. “There wasn’t really time to ask for permission.”
“But what did you do? How did you do it?”