Page 175 of Dead Beat

A faint smile played over Dawes’s lips. “If he doesn’t, we can just threaten to show up at his mother’s house.” She dropped a sugar cube into her tea, stirred it, set her spoon down. But she didn’t drink. “Will you help me clear out his place?”

Alex knew she meant Tripp’s nest and she couldn’t say no.

They spent the rest of the morning cleaning out the apartment across the street. It was less messy than she’d expected, and Dawes explained that she had told Tripp he had to keep to a modicum of hygiene if he wanted her to visit. They unplugged the electronics and packed up his few clothes. There were shelves full of sailing memorabilia and photographs of his family carefully arranged beside posed figurines.

“What are all of these?”

“Skyrim merch, mostly. Some World of Warcraft. Thrall. Arthas Menethil.”

Alex shot her a surprised glance.

“He was teaching me to play. It was fun. Relaxing. And the lore is unexpectedly rich.” Dawes picked up an over-muscled warrior with a massive sword and a heart emblazoned on his chest.

“Who’s that?”

“Leeroy Jenkins. Tripp’s favorite.” She set it back on the shelf. Then Dawes dropped down into the seat of the recliner. “I can’t do this.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I thought it would make me feel better to be around his things.” Her shoulders hitched. “I know he wasn’t … like us. But he was trying so hard. Most people don’t even bother.”

Like us. Alex wasn’t sure what it meant that she’d found herself in such extraordinary company. “He did try. And he got to be a hero in the end.”

“All for the best?” Dawes asked bitterly.

“I’m just saying he might be grateful for the exit.”

“Because he was feeding on me?”

“You knew?”

“He told me. Before the battle. He wanted me to know in case you didn’t make it. Someone would have to … to deal with him.”

A hard stone of guilt settled in Alex’s gut. What happens if you don’t survive? Who will stop me then? That night in the kitchen, she’d thought Tripp was threatening her, but he’d just been scared he would keep draining Dawes. She felt the sudden pressure of tears.

“Move over.” She squeezed in next to Dawes on the recliner. “There aren’t many good people in the world.”

“No,” Dawes said quietly, tears sliding down her cheeks.

“And even fewer good vampires.”

Dawes gulped a laugh. “True.” She wiped her sleeve over her nose. “We won. I want to be glad. I should be grateful to even be alive. But the world feels emptier to me.”

“It is and I’m sorry.”

Dawes leaned her head on Alex’s shoulder. “What do we do now?”

“I have an idea, but I don’t know if you’ll like it.”

“Does it involve lying, stealing, or punching people in the face?”

“No,” Alex said. “Just a little murder.”

Dawes sighed. “Let’s go back to Il Bastone. We’re going to need more than tea and toast for this.”

Later that afternoon, after many sandwiches, much conversation, and the deployment of the sacred whiteboard, Alex put on her coat and headed toward campus. She didn’t want to return to the dorms. She didn’t want to try to walk by Harkness or hear its bells. She had told herself she didn’t know if she was saying goodbye to Yale, but death wasn’t the only thing it was tough to come back from.

Mercy was waiting at a table at the sunlit counter of the Loop, a market and café with polished cement floors and corrugated metal walls. She was wearing a pale blue mohair sweater and a floral headband, and she looked colorful and stylish in a way that made Alex feel like an ill-tempered inkblot.