Chapter Eight #2
Even after all they’d been through together, Sam found it hard to believe that this was the same man who had once hung rapt on her grandfather’s stories, who had been obsessed with memorizing the endless variations of dragons and their Latin names, sketching them in his journals and in the margins of books.
He’d been able to tell you their ranges and diets, how to distinguish a northern Welsh dragon from a southern by the shape of its wings, and their age from the mottling of their scales.
Now, he cared for nothing but how they might be killed.
What would he do when they were all of them dead—make a castle of their bones and live in it like some fell king? He sounded, Sam thought, like the Wild Hunt. Only instead of the souls of men, he rode for the souls of monsters.
Before Sam could tell him so, Hel laughed.
“Destroy the Wild Hunt?” Hel said. Sam forced herself to draw in a deep breath. It was dangerous, the way she’d begun to overlook the sound of Van Helsing’s spurs. It made her reckless. Made her forget what he was: a hunter. “Do you know how many unforgiven dead there are in Ireland?”
“How could I possibly know something like that?” Van Helsing said.
“They are legion. Uncountable,” Hel said. “Even you cannot murder them all. It would take your whole life, even should you scythe through them like wheat, and that’s if they didn’t consume you first.”
Van Helsing waved a hand. “I don’t need to kill all of them. Just their leader. Cut the head off the monster, and it will fall.”
“Unless it’s a Hydra,” Hel drawled.
“Or Detective Lynch is correct,” Sam pointed out, “and they’re not acting of their own volition.”
“Does it matter?” Van Helsing frowned. “They’re monsters. The solution is always the same.”
“Of course it matters,” Sam said. “If it’s not their will, they will keep hunting no matter which or how many of them you slay—if it is even possible to do so, which I must remind you, we have no evidence that it is.”
Van Helsing crossed his arms. “And why do you think there’s someone behind it? They’re monsters. They need no reason to kill—it’s what they do.”
“Because in Ireland, the Wild Hunt is an opportunistic predator,” Hel said.
“They take those they come across in their wild rides, those whose attachment to this world is worn and threadbare. Unless these men were foolish enough to call them down by name, they ought to have been safe. Someone is targeting them, marking them days in advance.”
“Marking them days in advance?” Van Helsing scoffed. “How could you possibly know that?”
Sam could hold it in no longer. “Because I’m next.”
“What,” Van Helsing said flatly.
Hel spread the photographs atop the books. Sam watched Van Helsing’s face as he took in the ghosts haunting the Viscount, the Duke, Mr. Enfield . . . and Sam. His eyes widening as he recognized the ghost who had attacked Sam the night before.
“Her?” Van Helsing sounded cross, and it took her a minute to realize he was talking about Sam and not the ghost that had tried to kill her. “But she doesn’t fit the profile.”
“She doesn’t have to, does she?” Hel said. “They took the Viscount and the Duke for their interference.”
“Because they were a threat,” Van Helsing said, and it struck Sam then that he was actually jealous.
Jealous because the Wild Hunt wasn’t after him, that he wasn’t marked for death!
God save them from the man’s pride. “It’s that damned camera, isn’t it?
Give it to me.” He reached out for the box camera.
“It’s not,” Sam said, pulling the camera close.
Though she did harbor doubts about Miss Shinagh, they weren’t the sort of thing she felt comfortable expressing to a man who considered himself judge, jury, and executioner of the Otherworldly.
“The ghost haunting the Viscount was different. If it was the camera, they would be the same.”
“You cannot remain here,” Van Helsing said. “Surely even you can see that. You—Miss Moriarty. Make sure nothing happens to her. I’ll contact Mr. Wright. We’ll get her on the first boat back to England.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hel said. “Let her go back to England, and you’ll have no way of knowing if the threat follows her. Besides, we have three days before the ghost re-forms. She should be safe until then.”
“Three days for a common specter, not a creature powerful enough to make the paintings bleed,” Van Helsing said. “She goes home. This is not up for debate.”
“You’re right,” Hel said. “It’s not. Until Mr. Wright orders her home, it’s her decision.”
“We don’t even know if I’m actually next,” Sam pointed out. “All we know is that I’ve been marked.”
Van Helsing scowled. “Fine. We’ll take shifts outside Miss Harker’s room at night.
The moment the ghost stitches itself back together, all we need do is—wait.
” Van Helsing swept the photographs aside, leaving one staring up at them: the jagged crenellations of a Gothic castle surrounded by a thicket of tangled blackthorns.
Van Helsing swore, Sam’s safety forgotten. “I knew he was hiding something.”
“Who?” Sam asked. As far as she could tell, that was a castle.
“I was there this morning.” Van Helsing stabbed at the photograph with his finger. “When I came for him, Lord Lusk had already checked out, and so I was forced to go afield. Reception at the Shelbourne directed me there. To Castle Lusk.”
Which was to say, the primary residence of Lord Lusk.
“It appears we’re not the only ones to think Lord Lusk has something to do with the disappearances,” Hel mused.
Mr. Enfield, the Viscount, and the Duke—that was three out the five known victims that Lord Lusk had reason to want gone. Mr. Enfield might have threatened to expose their relationship; the Viscount and the Duke might have seen something compromising.
“But what could he possibly have against me?” Sam asked.
“It might not be about you,” Hel said grimly. It might simply be that she worked for the Society; there was a reason they were undercover after all. Or rather, they were supposed to be. Secrecy, it seemed, was scarce when you were accompanied by a loud Dutchman.
“Right.” Sam winced. Though she didn’t understand why she should be singled out and not Hel or Van Helsing.
“There’s still the matter of how he would have controlled the Wild Hunt,” Hel said. “To say nothing of haunting people.”
“That’s what I aim to find out,” Van Helsing said grimly. “Fortunately, I know exactly where he’ll be.”
“Mr. Enfield’s funeral,” Sam said.
“It won’t be until tomorrow at the earliest,” Hel pointed out. “They still have to prepare the body.”
“Good,” Van Helsing said. “That gives us time to get ready.”
Sam glanced out the window. The darkening sky meant curfew would be upon them soon. October days were terribly short in Ireland. At least, Sam thought, they wouldn’t be missing any sleep.