“I’m certain you’ll manage,” Mr. Wright said. “Trinity Library has one of the greatest collections of books in the United Kingdom. I’m assured you’ll have full access for the duration of the assignment. You do remember how to request research materials from the field?”
“Why are we just hearing about this now?” Hel cut Sam off before she could respond. Which was probably for the best.
“We’re not,” Mr. Wright said. “The last field agents we sent out after them disappeared, too.”
“So you’re sending us,” Hel surmised. “Glad to know we’re such valuable members of the team.”
“You’re Irish, and Miss Harker’s American. Even better, you’re both Irish Catholic,” Mr. Wright said. “I’m afraid you’re the least objectionable field agents we have at the moment.”
The Irish were famously unkeen on talking to the English?—and the Society had never had an excess of the un-English?—so it very nearly made sense. Except for the fact that Wright had just interrogated Sam on the matter of Hel’s loyalty. Not to mention his ongoing suspicions as to Sam’s willful channeling. So why was he sending them on a mission into the heart of the Moriarty empire?
Sam ought to let it be. One didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Of course, that was because it was often filled with metaphorical Greeks. But in the end, she couldn’t help herself.
“I thought you didn’t trust us?”
“I don’t,” Mr. Wright answered. “That’s why Van Helsing is going with you.”
Chapter Two
The Royal Society for the Study of Abnormal Phenomena, London Field Office, the Closet
Six Days Before Samhain
“This is intolerable,” Sam said the moment they made it through the War Room and into the Closet.
It wasn’t really a closet, of course. It was a chamber adjoining the War Room, with moss and golden fern wallpaper, mahogany privacy screens carved like lace, and a large brass mirror rumored to be haunted. The walls were hived with dark wood shelves on which crowded a vast assortment of travel chests, and it was on this account that it was affectionately known as the Closet. As field agents, Sam and Hel were each permitted to maintain a travel chest within the Closet for the ostensibly rare occasions on which they wouldn’t have time to go back home before shipping out again.
Sam clambered up the ladder, attempting to balance as she yanked on the iron handles of her travel chest. It didn’t budge. She tried again, her biceps protesting. Sam didn’t remember it being quite so heavy. Then again, the last time she’d moved it, it had been empty.
“I can’t believe he’s sending Van Helsing with us!” Sam managed, struggling with the trunk.
“The only thing that’s hard to believe is that it’s taken him this long.” Hel had already shrugged out of her coat and suit jacket and slid the pin out of the collar of her shirt.
Sam gave a little cry as she nearly overbalanced. A hand on the small of her back steadied her.
“Thank you,” Sam gasped as she climbed down, shaking a little. She would grab what she needed and borrow a carpetbag; the travel chest could just stay up there until it rotted.
“Let me,” Hel said, rolling up her sleeves.
“Oh, I?—um.”
Hel brushed Sam aside, pulling her trunk down with ease, the only sign of strain written in the flex of her forearms, the tug of cloth between her shoulder blades. Sam’s cheeks flushed.
“Here you go.” Hel handed the chest to Sam, who nearly dropped it but managed to make it appear as if she were simply setting it down. Right in the middle of the floor. As one did.
“Mmmm,” she managed, caught between pique and something else entirely. Not daring to look at Hel, Sam gathered up an armful of clothing and fled behind a privacy screen.Get a hold of yourself, Sam!She resisted the urge to slap her own cheeks. Hel was just being helpful, which was what partners did for one another. They werehelpful. The way Sam helped Hel when it came to people.
But ever since the Beast, there had been this... terrible fury inside her mind. It rose within her at the most inopportune times, choking her if she attempted to swallow it down. She tried to tell herself it wasn’t hers, that it was some remnant of the perfume that had turned her into a Beast, but she knew that for the lie it was.
Something had awakened within her. Where there had been fear, there was wrath. It was becoming a problem. Perhaps this was what happened to channels when the corruption took root?—when they began tobreak.
Nerves simmered beneath her skin as she tugged off her riding habit and began the process of wriggling into her white wool-and-velvet traveling dress. She’d just sewn in a new petticoat after the whole “setting the old one on fire” business. It still smelled vaguely of smoke.
Being a field agent was a terror on one’s wardrobe. Sam knew she ought to exchange her fine fashions for more sensible attire. She’d nearly twisted an ankle on more than one occasion and ruined more dresses than she dared recall. But every time she forced herself to consider it, a part of her shriveled up and died. Fashion was the only language in which Sam had always felt free to express herself. It was a kind of armor against the world, as much a part of her as her rabbit-brown eyes. Besides which, there was value in being underestimated.
“What am I supposed to do, Hel? I can’t?—I’m not...” Sam stumbled; she couldn’t make herself say that she was a channel, not within Society walls. Not when someone might hear. “I’m useless with Van Helsing watching.”
Hel snorted. “You’re not useless. I never would have solved the riddle of the Beast if it weren’t for you.”
