Still, there's no denial, just the snap and snarl of her voice saying don't you dare with no remorse, no excuses. As though he's the one to blame--and maybe in another way, he is.

He'd known something was wrong. He'd known it the day he met her, an untamed rusalka in a black henley, sweltering in the Vanderbilt common room. He'd known, even if he hadn't had the proof. Lethe never should have let her past the gates, shouldn't have trusted her with their secrets, shouldn't have taught her more about the power magic could hold. Instead, they welcomed her, he welcomed her, unaware of the danger, the weapon she willingly made of herself.

Murderer. The word is too small to encompass what she'd done. Ariel Harel's spine had been snapped in three places. Mitchell Betts's organs rendered to pulp. The photograph of what remained of Leonard Beacon's head had sent him in search of the ginger candies he only used on prognostication nights.

"How am I supposed to look?" he says, and he can hear the sharp edge in it. "What am I supposed to say, Alex? What specific reaction were you anticipating from me, because if it's something other than this, I'd love to know."