“Not really, no. It doesn’t suit me.”
“Self-interest then,” Van Helsing tried. “A man is dead. After what you said in there, you do realize how it looks.”
“Oh, whatever shall I do,” Mr. Bishop said tonelessly. “A pity looks don’t constitute proof, isn’t it, good sheriff? You could simply punish those who look the part, let free those who can simper convincingly enough. Alas, poor soul, you must make due with evidence and facts. And so, I leave you to it.”
Tipping his hat to Sam and Hel mockingly, Mr. Bishop left Van Helsing seething in his wake, strolling toward a glossy black carriage pulled by shaggy black horses. The carriage was gilded with flame moulding, out of which twisted human faces caught in the throes of torment, terror, and, in a few cases, what looked perilously like ecstasy?—like souls caught in the fires of Hell. Some of which were apparently masochists.
Sam felt a twist of envy. Not at the carriage, which was a bold choice to say the least, nor his choice of styling himself a duke of Hell. But at his devil-may-care way of dealing with the world.I can feel things and still deal with them,Sam had said. But all the caring, the guessing, the diminishing of herself... it was exhausting. What would it be like to just stop? Sam wondered. To justbe.
Van Helsing sighed and, before Sam could stop him, rapped on the front door with his knuckles. It swung open, and Van Helsing narrowly dodged a punch, twisting sideways just in time to watch it sail past his nose.
“Oh! I’m terribly sorry about that,” Mr. Keene said, his face falling when he saw who it was?—or rather, who it wasn’t. He ushered them in and shut the door behind them. “I thought you were someone else. Whatever were you doing outside?”
“Investigating a murder. Who exactly did you think I was?” Van Helsing said, as if he didn’t know. Which, Sam had to give him credit, was clever. It occurred to her that he did this often?—pretending ignorance to see what cards you might show him. It was a tool she’d used herself. But she hadn’t thought he’d have reason to learn it. Generally, it was a skill one picked up when one was underestimated, by those who took a distasteful amount of pleasure in explaining things one already knew. But who would dare do that to the great Van Helsing?
“Mr. Éamonn Bishop,” Mr. Keene said, his mouth making a moue of distaste. “Have you had the displeasure of his acquaintance? It’s my understanding that quite a few people have become perhaps more familiar with his appetites than is strictly appetizing, in the wake of his exodus from Rome.”
“Unfortunately, we have,” Van Helsing said sourly.
“Pity him, if you can,” Mr. Keene said. But Sam wasn’t paying attention. She’d caught the strangest whiff of... sulfur? But no one else seemed to notice. A vision, then? Except it seemed as if it were coming from under the door. “His soul is empty, and so he tries to fill it with everything he can find in the hopes that he might feel something. What’s worse, he lacks imagination, presuming all men to be of the same villainous?—”
Hel’s eyes widened. “Get?—”
An explosion rocked the house.
Chapter Eleven
Ashdown Manor, Skryne, County Meath (Scrín Cholm Cille, Contae na Mí)
Three Days Before Samhain
Hel threw herself over Sam, slamming them to the ground just as the door blew off its hinges, splinters showering around them. Sam’s ears rang. Hel’s mouth was moving, she was pulling Sam to her feet, but Sam couldn’t hear her over the screaming, couldn’t seem to focus her eyes past the forest of legs running every which way in front of her. Van Helsing was nowhere to be seen.
Smoke rolled in like fog off the ocean, flickering with eerie white light. Blinking away tears, Sam caught glimpses of something moving in it. There was a growl that she felt more than heard. The man to her left cried out as his legs were pulled out from under him, and he disappeared backward into the smoke, his fingers scrabbling at the too-slick marble.
Blood. There was blood on the tile.
The claw marks flashed in her mind, gouged in the wood that boarded up the windows. Sam forced herself to focus, even as her head swam, to pick apart what they might be dealing with.
She needn’t have bothered: A black dog stalked through the smoke?—its body an exercise in brutality, its jaws dripping with pale fire.
A hellhound. Sam’s whole body went cold, as if the ghost had returned and frozen the breath in her breast.
You will regret it,Mr. Bishop had said. The man was said to have sold his soul to the Devil at the crossroads on a moonless night.
Hel brushed back her long tan coat and drew her revolver, taking a stand in front of Sam. Without warning, the hellhound lunged. Hel shoved Sam out of the way, and it sailed past her, pivoted, and snapped at the hem of her dress, yanking her to the ground. Sam shrieked as she hit the marble floor, the fabric tearing. The marble exploded as bullets rained down around her. The hellhound let go and vanished back into the smoke.
Hel cursed, reloading her revolver with bullets engraved with the sign of the cross. “You have to get out of here!”
Sam nodded as she scrambled back to her feet.Right.
“Not that way.” Hel grabbed her before she could break for the servants’ door. “Deeper in.”
It took a moment for Sam to understand: Hel meant for her to try to steal secrets from this mysterious society, whatever it was, during the confusion.
She threw Hel an incredulous look. She couldn’t be serious. Why should she want to leap from one danger to another? Besides, she wouldn’t even know where to start. She wasn’t the one with a criminal education?—she couldn’t even pick a lock, for goodness’ sake!
The smoke thickened. Somewhere beside her, there was the snap of jaws, and a woman’s wail was cut short.
