“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 useherto 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 thatdespitethe 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, justaway, 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.
“Mr. Wright is a fool,” Hel said, her voice rough as she turned her face from Sam, leading the way down the hall to the investigation room. “But I’m used to it.”
“You shouldn’t have to be!” Sam argued, forcing the mess of her feelings down. This was not the time for it, not when Hel might be arrested or worse. But then, it was never the time for it, was it? “Just because your father is Professor Moriarty, they act as if you can’t be trusted, calling you Lady M, as if even saying your name is enough to bring down a curse?—”
“My fatherisa curse.”
“If you’re referring to his fondness for murdering your partners,” Sam said, “that curse is broken.” Sam had not been murdered yet. Whether that was due to Professor Moriarty’s greater designs for Sam or because of Sam and Hel’s ingenuity in escaping said designs was beside the point.
“So far,” Hel said, pushing through a set of heavy carved doors. Marble floors, patterned like a checkerboard, underlay dozens of mahogany desks. A handful of eyes fell on them and slid away, as if looking at Hel too long risked contagion.
Hel ignored them, making her way to Heathcliff’s cage on her desk. It was, of course, empty. In the month since they’d brought Heathcliff back from Paris with them, he’d become quite the escape artist. Fortunately, he never went far?—perhaps on account of all the exotic cheeses they kept bringing him?—and was presently curled in the puddle of Sam’s scarf. Hel held her hand out to the black-and-white rat, and he yawned, stretching, before scampering up her arm to perch on her shoulder.
“They think he died,” Sam whispered. “That you’re behind everything.”
Hel’s shoulders sagged. They had spared Arsène Courbet to get a lead on Hel’s father, and instead, as a last act of revenge, he’d told them the man they were hunting had perished alongside Sherlock Holmes, claiming it had been Hel all along.
It was, Sam was loath to admit, a good story. After all, what was more likely? That a man whom no one had seen or heard from since Sherlock Holmes died was secretly pulling the strings behind a shadow empire, or that he’d died alongside Sherlock Holmes, and his daughter, a woman under active investigation, was continuing her father’s legacy?
Never had Sam so regretted an act of mercy.
“There’s still time for you to go back to your books, Miss Harker,” Hel said softly, as if reading the tenor of her thoughts.
“I never left my books. It turns out they’re portable,” Sam said tartly. But Hel only grimaced. “Wait, you’re serious.” She expected this sort of thing from Mr. Wright?—who’d refused to give her a desk of her own on account that she might yet run back to the library?—but not from Hel. It hurt more than she’d anticipated.
