Page 158 of Hell Bent

“I thought you were dead!” Alex wailed at the top of her lungs.

“Good God,” said the Praetor. “It’s really you? I’d been given to understand that, well, you were dead.”

“No, sir,” Darlington said as he disentangled himself from Alex, his hand at the small of her back like a hot coal. “I had just slipped into a pocket dimension. Dante and Oculus were kind enough to petition Hayman Pérez to attempt a retrieval spell on my behalf.”

“That was most inappropriate,” Walsh-Whiteley scolded. “I should have been consulted. The board—”

“Absolutely,” Darlington agreed as Alex continued sniffling. “A terrible breach of protocol. But I must confess, I’m grateful for it. Pérez is tremendously gifted.”

“That I can agree with. One of the best of Lethe.” The Praetor studied Darlington. “And you just … reappeared.”

“In the basement of Rosenfeld Hall.”

“I see.”

Dawes, all but forgotten on the stairs, cleared her throat. “Something to eat, perhaps? I’ve made cheese toasts with smoked almonds and a pumpkin curry.”

Walsh-Whiteley’s eyes traveled from Dawes to Alex and on to Darlington. The man might be pompous and prudish, but he wasn’t a fool.

“Well,” he said at last, “I suppose most things are best explained over a good meal.”

“And a good glass of wine,” Darlington added, shepherding the Praetor through the parlor.

Alex glanced through the window to where she could see the glittering eyes of the demons, gathered in the shadows between the houses across the street. At least they were keeping their distance. Darlington’s attack on Not Hellie must have spooked them.

“Should I poison his soup?” Dawes whispered as she passed.

“You’ve had worse ideas.”

The lunch was long, and Darlington and Alex could only pick at their food. They needed to fast for the descent. The conversation revolved around Sandow’s death and Darlington’s disappearance and the particulars of the supposed retrieval spell Pérez had performed. Alex wondered if Darlington had been such an excellent liar before he’d become part demon.

“Aren’t you hungry?” the Praetor demanded as Dawes set down a warm apple crostata and a pot of crème fraîche.

“Portal travel,” Darlington said. “Terrible on the digestion.”

Alex was famished, but she just sniffled and said, “I’m too emotional to eat.”

Walsh-Whiteley jabbed at the air with his fork. “Maudlin nonsense. There’s no room at Lethe for delicate sensibilities. This is why the Ninth House is no place for women.”

Inside the kitchen a loud crash sounded as Dawes made her feelings known.

“Are you up to attending tonight’s wolf run?” the Praetor asked Darlington.

“Certainly.”

“I think you’ll be pleased with the way our Miss Stern has progressed. Despite her dubious background and lack of education, she’s acquitted herself well. I can only assume as the result of your tutelage.”

“Naturally.”

Alex resisted the urge to kick him under the table.

When Walsh-Whiteley had finished the last bite of his crostata, and downed the last sip of his Sauternes, Alex walked him to the door.

“Good luck tonight, Miss Stern,” he said, cheeks rosy from the wine. “I’ll expect your report by Sunday at the latest.”

“Of course.”

He paused on the steps. “You must be relieved Mr. Arlington has returned.”