Chapter Thirteen
Amiens Street Station, Dublin (Stáisiún Shráid Amiens, Baile átha Cliath)
Two Days Before Samhain
“Miss Harker?” Van Helsing’s voice came muffled from the other side of the door.
Sam startled awake, her legs sprawled and tangled in her sheets, her honey-blonde hair straggly with sweat.
She blinked blearily at the muted light that washed over the room, listening to the rain still tap-tap-tapping on her window.
The pounding came again. “Miss Harker, Mr. Wright is on the line for you.”
“Mr. Wright?” Sam stood up a little too fast, the world dizzying.
What could Mr. Wright possibly want? He wasn’t in charge of this case, didn’t even have the clearance.
Besides which, shouldn’t Mr. Wright want to speak to Van Helsing?
He’d made it clear enough he didn’t trust Sam and Hel.
Though, it occurred to Sam that perhaps the two had already spoken.
“Were you asleep?” Sam could hear the frown in Van Helsing’s voice. “It’s nearly noon.”
“Thank you, Van Helsing,” Sam said quickly. She was becoming unnaturally nocturnal. “I’ll be down directly.”
Sam swiftly pulled on a grey walking suit embroidered with large black diamonds at the hem and a smart burgundy bow tie, astutely aware that her curls were a mess, her matching hat askew.
She knocked on Hel’s door as she passed, but there was no answer—not that Sam could blame her.
She felt the sting of guilt at how she’d left things.
Not that it had been entirely Sam’s fault.
In the foyer, the concierge was waiting for her behind a massive mahogany desk.
“Miss Harker.” The concierge nodded and handed her the earpiece.
Sam took it, only to nearly drop it at a rustling sound.
She looked over to see a gentleman with a cane and bowler hat, reading a newspaper.
The newspaper. It had been the newspaper.
This was what came of too little sleep. It had her jumping at shadows.
Van Helsing eyed her from where he stood by the door, looking concerned. Before he could get any ideas, Sam lifted the earpiece and cleared her throat. “Samantha Harker speaking.”
“Miss Harker,” Mr. Wright said. She could hear his frown over the line, surprise etching his tone. “Are you . . . all right?”
Sam wished people would stop asking her that. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mr. Wright said. He drew in a breath, as if he didn’t relish what he had to say next. “Miss Harker, it has come to my attention that you have been compromised.”
“Compromised, sir?” she said as evenly as she could. She could not break down in the foyer—she would not. The man reading the newspaper tugged his hat low, glancing at her from under the brim. He must have overheard her. She’d have to be more careful. She turned her back on him.
“Perhaps the better word is haunted,” Mr. Wright said, distance crackling over the line. Sam’s gut twisted. So Van Helsing had spoken to him after all.
“Sir, I assure you—” Sam started, her voice low.
“You can assure me that you will catch the first ferry back to London,” Mr. Wright said firmly.
“Don’t bother with your things, I’ll have Mr. Van Helsing send them after you.
Once you’ve arrived, don’t go back to your flat—come directly to the field office in London.
There, we can ensure your safety while we deal with eradicating this haunting of yours.
I’m sure you understand how imperative it is that you arrive before nightfall, given the timing.
To be frank, I’m astonished Mr. Van Helsing didn’t phone me earlier.
This is cutting it rather close. I’ll have a talk with him when this is over. ”
He may have kept talking, but Sam couldn’t hear him over the ringing in her ears. She couldn’t go back. Not yet. Not when she still hadn’t found her grandfather.
“Sir, with all due respect, I’m a field agent,” Sam cut in, realizing only too late that she’d been too loud, spilling secrets in the foyer when they were supposed to be undercover.
She glanced over her shoulder to see the man with the newspaper adjusting his bowler hat.
She turned away again, lowering her voice.
“Would you ask this of Mr. Van Helsing, if he were the one haunted?”
“But you aren’t like other field agents, are you, Miss Harker?
” Mr. Wright said. “You can’t use a firearm, can’t defend yourself.
You’re a researcher in the field, which, admittedly, I’ve come to realize is not without value.
But you’ve become a liability. What would have happened if Mr. Van Helsing hadn’t been there the night you were ambushed?
Besides which, if I understand matters correctly, the Viscount and the Duke have already succumbed to just such a haunting.
Do you mean to tell me you’re a better field agent than they? ”
“Certainly not, but—” Sam began.
“My dear Miss Harker, I was willing to indulge your interest in the field for a time, on account of my great fondness for your family,” Mr. Wright said.
“But you had to know it wouldn’t last. Your continued presence in the field not only puts you in danger, it compromises two of my best agents, causing them to place themselves at greater risk to protect you. ”
The worst part was he was right—the black feathers, the song, the blackouts. She couldn’t tell them about any of it. And she still had no inkling as to the whereabouts of her grandfather, couldn’t even be certain he was still alive. Did she really have the right to put her fellow agents in danger?
“Come home, Miss Harker.” Mr. Wright’s voice was soft. The man with the newspaper shifted, adjusting his bowler hat. Again. “Isn’t it about time you were done playing field agent?”
There was something strange about that bowler hat. She didn’t recognize the make, for one thing. For another, the crown was slightly misshapen, and there was an odd distortion in the bond—a glint of refracted light where there should be none.
A camera. The man was taking photographs of Sam—with his hat.
“Miss Harker?” Mr. Wright said, that frown back in his voice. “Miss Harker, are you there?”
“I’m sorry, there appears to be some distortion on the line,” Sam said. “I can’t quite make you out.” And she hung up the phone. Van Helsing’s brow creased with concern.
Summoning her most winning smile, Sam sashayed over to the man with the newspaper, wishing she’d had time to get herself properly in order.
“Excuse me, sir,” Sam said, honeying her voice. “Do you happen to have the time?”
The man bolted, dropping the newspaper like the excuse it was. If she’d had any doubts before, she didn’t now.
“Van Helsing!” Sam cried, as she rushed after him. “Stop that man! He’s spying on us, taking pictures with his hat!”
“With his what?” Van Helsing exclaimed. The man clutched the hat to his head and charged for the door.
Van Helsing moved to block him, arms extended, as if he were a wild animal and not a man, but the spy only raised his cane, twisting the top.
Liquid jetted into Van Helsing’s eyes. He cried out, face purpling as he gasped, tears streaming from his eyes.
The man shoved past him, the front doorman hurriedly getting out of the way. He wrenched open the door; his hat flew off his head, pinned to the wall by a bowie knife. Sam whirled to see Hel stalking down the stairs, another knife already in her hand. The man turned, reaching for his hat.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Hel warned, hefting the second knife.
Cursing, the man fled. Hel grabbed her knife and yanked it out of the wall, catching the hat with a twist of her wrist.
“Was that your father’s man?” Van Helsing demanded, his eyes puffy and awash with tears.
“Not necessarily,” Hel said. It might have been the Vespertine, or Detective Lynch, for that matter. She flipped the hat over. There was a clever camera concealed within it—flat with a small lens meant to be concealed in the band of the hat.
“This might prove useful,” Hel murmured, brushing the dust from the hat. “I’ll put this away. Then we ought to get going.”
“Wait, go where?” Sam asked.
Van Helsing looked at Sam narrowly. “Mr. Wright didn’t give you any instructions?”
The ferry. The order to come home.
“I’m afraid not,” Sam lied. She couldn’t leave. Not yet. “What happened?”
“Word just came in from Detective Lynch. They found the bodies,” Hel said, sparing Sam a glance over her shoulder. “Tangled in a fisherman’s nets. The theory is the tide swept them out of a sea cave in Lusk.”
Which meant the victims of the Wild Hunt weren’t disappearing. They were being murdered.
The nearest train that might take them to Lusk to see the bodies was across the River Liffey. This required Sam, Hel, and Van Helsing to crowd into a rowboat with nearly a dozen dockworkers, all of whom spent the journey sneaking looks at Hel. But that, at least, was entirely the woman’s own fault.
Hel had emerged from the Shelbourne wearing a pair of wire-framed spectacles with dark circular lenses.
Together with the rat perched on the shoulder of her long tan coat, one might have been forgiven for mistaking her for some sort of crossroads devil.
If a far more tempting one than might be found in scripture.
Van Helsing had raised an eyebrow when she’d emerged. “Do I want to know?”
“Probably not,” Hel had admitted.
Sam’s stomach was hollow as she clutched the Viscount’s box camera, her mind churning over the same few details.
The crinkling of the Viscount’s eyes when he told a joke, and his boisterous laugh after he’d told the punch line.
The Duke’s quiet chuckle, even when he pretended to be reading.
They would never argue over their shared love of romantic detective stories again, or worry about whether a duckling had accidentally imprinted on the lobster the Duke’s cook intended for dinner.
She hadn’t known them well, but they had been good men. They hadn’t deserved to die.