“Perhaps the better word ishaunted,” 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 canassureme 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.
Acamera. The man was taking photographs of Sam?—with hishat.
“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 hiswhat?” 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.”
