But Hel was unrepentant. “I’m going to pull the veins out of his throat and strangle him with them.”
“What? No, we’re not doing that. Listen, I’m angry too, but we will not gun Lord Lusk down in the streets, let alone... whatever else you were suggesting,” Van Helsing said. He had, somehow, entirely missed the object of Hel’s wrath. Which, Sam thought, was probably for the best. “Lord Lusk will answer for the hellhounds along with his other crimes in a court of law.”
It occurred to Sam how strange it was that Van Helsing wasn’t suggesting they report the Vespertine to the authorities. They, like the Golden Dawn, practiced the forbidden arts: alchemy, ritual magic, and prognostication. Besides which, they’d admitted to endeavoring to connect with the Otherworld, which was to say, monsters. Ordinarily, this was all it took to set Van Helsing off about “evil” and “putting you down for your own good.”
Then again, the Vespertine and Golden Dawn drew their members from the upper echelons of society. Whoever he might report them to, they doubtless knew. In fact, they might well be members themselves. The forbidden arts, it seemed, were notuniversallyforbidden.
“This Alice,” Hel said offhandedly, as if her mind were somewhere else, strangling M. Voland with his own veins, perhaps. “What did you say her family name was?”
Sam hadn’t, and she hesitated, not quite sure why she resisted telling her. Perhaps because she was another channel. Perhaps because Hel had that look about her, as if Alice were a clue?—and Sam didn’t want the other channel to be a clue. “Grey,” she said at last. “Her name is Alice Grey.”
“I’ve heard that somewhere before,” Hel muttered.
“Are we entirely certain it was Lord Lusk behind the hellhounds?” Sam said. “Mr. Bishop knew Mr. Enfield, too. What’s more, he seemed”?—afraid, furious, not himself?—“desperate.”
“It’s not Bishop,” Van Helsing said dismissively. “He wants in the Vespertine. Why would he murder them?”
“But whoever it was, they didn’t murder anyone,” Sam pointed out. “Besides which, Mr. Bishop had just threatened them; you don’t think the hellhounds are exactly the sort of thing he’d do?”
“I think that’s certainly what someone wants us to think,” Hel said, and she gestured to the bottom of Sam’s dress where the silk was torn, from where the hellhound had caught her. It took Sam a moment to realize what she meant.
“The silk?—it’s not burned!” Sam exclaimed.
“It’s more than that,” Hel said, and she drew the curtains over the windows. At first, Sam still didn’t notice anything. The three of them bent closer, peering at the hem of her black mourning gown. Then she saw it: The edges of the tear, where the threads had been teased apart by the hellhound’s teeth, flickered pale fire, and yet, there was no heat.
“Is that phosphorescentpaint?” Sam exclaimed.
“A preparation of phosphorous alchemically altered to stave off the smell, and the horrific chemical burns customary when working with a substance that ignites when exposed to air,” Hel said grimly. “You might remember it from the papers, a case solved by those Baker Street detectives.”
Those Baker Street detectives... Hel was referring to Sherlock Holmes, one of London’s brightest luminaries, until his light had been extinguished by none other than Hel’s father. Sam remembered reading about a case in which a dog’s jaws had been coated in a phosphorous preparation that burned with pale fire, giving the hound an Otherworldly appearance, in an attempt to frighten rival claims to a fortune.
Van Helsing scowled. “Do you mean to claim your ‘father’ is behind this?”
“Don’t be absurd. We didn’t see anyone outside, which meant they were hiding, and my father would never deign to crouch in a bush,” Hel said. “But that’s not what you mean, is it?”
Van Helsing thought Hel had arranged for the hellhounds. Of course he did. Detective Lynch had told him that Professor Moriarty was dead and that his daughter was responsible for his continuing crimes, and Van Helsing believed him, the way he believed any man more than the women he worked with.
Van Helsing crossed his arms. “Can you prove you didn’t?”
“I’m afraid that’s not how justice works,” Hel said. “So, you tell me: How am I supposed to have done it? You’ve been watching, haven’t you? When did I have the opportunity?”
“That presumes you’d need to do it yourself,” Van Helsing said. “If you’re who Detective Lynch says you are, you might have a host of people to do things for you.”
Hel snorted. “If I’m who Detective Lynch says, you have no hope of stopping me.”
Van Helsing bristled. “Is that a threat?—”
“Peace!” Sam said, looking between them, exasperated. “Can we just pretend, for a moment, as if we’re working together? Van Helsing: Why would Hel have shared her suspicions about her father if she were the one framing Mr. Bishop?”
“Who knows her motivations? It could be part of some larger plot to get us to trust her,” Van Helsing said, but he looked away.
“And you,” Sam said, turning on Hel, “must you bait him?”
“If he didn’t make it soeasy?—” Hel began, but Sam gave her a hard look, and she sighed. “Fine. I suppose it’s time we talk about my father. Do you know the Devil’s greatest deception?”
Sam had heard this one before. Knew it from the sermons at the pulpit. But still, fear skittered over her skin.
“He convinced the world he did not exist,” Sam whispered.
