Wayward Souls (Harker & Moriarty #2)

Chapter One

The Royal Society for the Study of Abnormal Phenomena, London Field Office

Six Days Before Samhain

Samantha Harker folded her hands on the scarred mahogany table, grateful her emerald-green riding habit would disguise any hint of sweat.

Her fingers itched to adjust the tortoiseshell comb half tumbling from her honeyed curls, and she reeked of road dust and warm horse.

She wished she’d been given time to change or, if she were wishing, to bathe, but the men who’d accosted her had been . . . most insistent.

Flickering gaslights illuminated burgundy walls bristling with rowan-wood stakes and silver knives, iron-studded whips and heavy crossbows.

Beneath them, hand-scrawled maps and diagrams of monsters fought for space with apothecary cabinets, their hundred tiny drawers brimming with poisons and holy relics.

This was where every hunter in the Royal Society for the Study of Abnormal Phenomena prepared to go on assignment.

Where Sam prepared, ever since that business with the Beast in Paris, when she’d first left the haven of her library to venture into the field, chasing the ghost of her grandfather’s numbers.

It was also, apparently, where agents were interrogated about their partners.

At least, it was when their partner was the notorious Lady M—rebel daughter of the criminal mastermind Professor Moriarty.

He’s a whisper of information, Hel had said of her father, a nudge on someone’s baser instincts.

A finger on a domino whose effects spiral out in unseen designs.

She’d also said Sam ought to punch him in the mouth.

“It’s a simple question, Miss Harker.” Mr. Wright’s chair creaked as he leaned forward.

The director for the Society looked every inch the gentleman explorer with his salt-and-pepper beard and flared moustache.

His petrified hand, courtesy of a cockatrice, was tucked into his silver waistcoat.

He might have come from tea with the king, save for the whiff of blood that clung to his cane, which Sam knew hid a blade.

Sam didn’t know the two men sitting to either side of him, but given the stiffness in Mr. Wright’s posture, they outranked him.

“Did you or did you not witness Miss Moriarty murder Dr. Gastrell?” Mr. Wright repeated, pulling her attention back to him.

“Doctor,” Sam corrected.

“Your pardon?” The man to Mr. Wright’s right was weedy and monocled, in a tweed jacket and tan breeches, as if he were on a brief respite from a fox hunt, which, as far as Sam knew, he was.

“Did I or did I not witness Dr. Moriarty murder Dr. Gastrell,” Sam clarified. “Unless, of course, she’s been stripped of her doctorate?”

Mr. Wright sighed. “Fine. Did you or did you not witness Dr. Moriarty murder Dr. Gastrell?”

Sam smiled. “I didn’t see her shoot him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, for the love of—” The man on Mr. Wright’s left looked to be of a height with Sam, but broad as an ox, in a leather duster and black gloves.

A part of his jaw had been replaced with a brass replica, and whenever he took a puff on his pipe—a curved ivory thing that gave the unnerving impression of his gnawing on a bone—smoke leaked between his metal teeth.

“Did Dr. Moriarty lock Dr. Gastrell in a basement with vengeful spirits, bar and salt the door, and hold it shut until he stopped screaming, or not?”

“If by ‘vengeful spirits,’ you mean the young women—”

The brass-jawed man waved a thick hand. “The origin of the spirits is hardly relevant to this deliberation.”

“I’d argue it’s exceptionally relevant, sir,” Sam cut in. “Given there wouldn’t be any vengeful spirits if Dr. Gastrell hadn’t murdered them.”

“He was human,” Mr. Wright said sharply, as if that excused a little murder. But of course, that wasn’t what he meant. He meant Dr. Gastrell’s victims weren’t human anymore, even if they had been once.

At least three young women had gone missing in East London.

Three young women who, according to the match girls who worked at the factory nearby, had all answered adverts for Dr. Gastrell’s practice.

Sam had seen sketches of them on broadsides plastered to the walls in East London, under hand-scrawled headlines that read Missing.

It was nothing the police were concerned with—young women of that variety went missing all the time.

Besides which, it must be noted that these women were hardly ladies.

Who was to say they hadn’t simply run off?

Or tried to seduce Dr. Gastrell and, having been rebuffed, fled in shame?

That sort of thing happened all the time, according to the police, and Dr. Gastrell was, after all, a doctor.

Sam near bit through her tongue at that.

There was a man at the market in Covent Garden who sold suspensions of radium and called it medicine, it didn’t mean it was good for you.

And if there was one thing Sam had learned in her encounter with the Beast, it was that when women whispered, you listened, even when the police didn’t. Especially when the police didn’t.

And then the good doctor had the audacity to complain of a haunting.

“Miss Harker,” Mr. Wright said, a warning in his voice, “we have had this discussion before, and I’m not inclined to have it again.”

“But—”

The foxhunter cleared his throat almost delicately.

“No one is questioning the effectiveness of Miss—Dr. Moriarty’s actions, if, indeed, they were hers, which we have yet to establish.

Only the unacceptable loss of human life and deviation from Society protocol.

I’m sure you understand. We have a reputation to maintain, after all.

” And a budget, Sam thought bitterly. “So if you’ll answer the question: Did Dr. Moriarty’s actions, direct or indirect, lead to Dr. Gastrell’s death? ”

Sam closed her eyes. It was always going to come to this eventually. These men knew what answers they wanted, and they wouldn’t stop until they got them. It didn’t help matters that they were right.

“Yes,” Sam admitted at last. “But—”

“Good,” Mr. Wright interrupted. He was going to dismiss her; she could feel it. He was going to cut her off and stop her from saying anything that might exonerate Hel. And suddenly, it was intolerable, that these men would use her to end Hel’s story.

“What did I tell you?” The man with the brass jaw waved a hand. “Like father like daughter.”

“If I may,” Sam cut in sharply. “Whether her actions were warranted or not in this case, it is my professional opinion that despite the best efforts of her father—”

“If he’s still alive,” the foxhunter muttered.

“Dr. Moriarty’s risk profile remains well within the norms of the Society’s field agents,” Sam pressed on, as if she hadn’t heard him. “To dismiss an agent with Dr. Moriarty’s remarkable record would be to the detriment of the Society.”

“Thank you for your report.” Mr. Wright didn’t even look up from his file as he waved her away. “You’re dismissed, Harker.”

Fury wicked through her, so hot it stole her breath.

Sam and Hel had found bones buried beneath the floorboards of Dr. Gastrell’s practice, for goodness’ sake.

His victims’ organs had been auctions on the shadow market.

He’d been responsible for the creation of three vengeful spirits—all of whom had been laid to rest with his singular death.

But that wasn’t in question, was it? It was whether women who were already dead were worth fighting for.

It was whether Hel was worth fighting for.

The men leaned back, as if Sam were already gone, discussing whether they ought to have lobster or steak for dinner. Hating herself for it, Sam swallowed her fury and left, the taste of ash on her tongue.

She found Hel outside, leaning against the wall between a statue of Perseus holding the head of Medusa and an oil painting of Ophelia drowning beautifully.

As ever, Hel wore a long tan coat and black suit, her tie a slash of crimson at her neck.

Her revolver had been confiscated when they’d returned after their latest assignment, and its holster sat empty at her hip.

It looked wrong—Hel disarmed. But they were fools if they thought it made her any less dangerous.

“There are easier ways to free yourself from the shackles of employment, Harker,” Hel said, pushing off the wall, bringing herself alongside Sam as she strode down the darkly ornate hall.

She didn’t know where she was going, just away, as if she could outpace her emotions if she only walked fast enough.

“I’m just so tired of him treating you like that! I can’t—”

Hel caught her hand, and Sam lost her words. They were close—so close, Sam could breathe in the electrifying scent of her, the gunpowder and rosin. Ginger curls escaped her black trilby hat like so many snakes, her eyes the gleam of broken glass.

Sam’s eyes traced the line of Hel’s crooked nose before dropping to her lips. Desire tangled through her, sharp and brutal and impossibly complicated.

It had been a month since Sam had changed into a Beast and fallen asleep with Hel’s fingers knotted in her fur, and despite their stolen glances and lingering touches since, Sam still wasn’t certain what they were to each other, other than important.

Or at least, Hel was important to Sam. The past few days had Sam wondering if she’d imagined the whole thing.

Sam wet her lips. “Hel—”

Hel dropped her hand and nodded at the wall—no, at the ampoule of Gorgon blood Sam had very nearly knocked over with her wild gesticulating.

Sam flushed. She wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing.

That this was the second time she’d nearly knocked over the Gorgon blood—which really ought to be kept somewhere more secure; the last time a vial had shattered, it had taken weeks to weed the venomous serpents out of the air vents—or that she’d thought Hel had been about to kiss her.