Sam wanted to be angry with Miss Shinagh for being willing to sacrifice Van Helsing, for being willing to sacrifice Sam if it came to it, but could she truly say she wouldn’t do the same if the Wild Hunt came for Hel?
Or when it came for Sam?
She wished Heathcliff would come, that she might have some company at least. Sam turned the key in the lantern beside her bed; the flame flared. Feeling her way through the dark forest of her bedchamber, she padded over to the door, illuminating the shadow of someone sitting on the other side. Settling her back against the door, Sam sank down to the carpet, cradling the lantern in her hands.
“Hel?” Sam whispered.
There was an uncomfortable creaking of leather on the other side of the door. Her heart sank. Not Hel, then.
“It’s Jakob,” Van Helsing said. Sam’s heart sank.Oh.
“Jakob?” Sam said. “Who is that?”
“You know who it is.” Sam could’ve sworn she heard Van Helsing’s scowl.
Sam closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the door. “I knew a Jakob once, when I was a girl. But I’ve since been informed we’re not children anymore.”
“We’re not,” Van Helsing said. “Which means that by now you should know that if you’re going to punch someone, it shouldn’t be in the mouth.”
Sam flushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had requirements for saving your life. Sorry, I mean yourimmortal soul.” Something that should matter to him, considering the way he went on about murdering Sam to save hers.
“Your hand hurts, doesn’t it? I know it’s tempting, to punch someone in the mouth to stop them talking. But teeth are made for cutting skin and flesh.” The way Van Helsing spoke, it was like he was telling her a recipe. So matter of fact about his violence. “It may hurt them, but it will hurt you too.”
Sam believed this applied to most violence. But that wasn’t what he was talking about.
“It’s much more effective to punch them in the solar plexus, knock the wind out of them,” Van Helsing said. “No air, no more words.”
And so this was his attempt at... what? An apology? A thank-you? Sam thought she’d liked him better before whatever all of this was. At least when he’d been cruel, she knew what to do with him. How to think of this man who had stalked her and saved her, who had threatened to kill her and seemed to think she should thank him for it.
“Is that truly all you have to say to me?” Sam asked.
Van Helsing considered the question for a moment. “If you must hit someone in the mouth, slap them. You won’t hurt yourself that way.”
“You’re impossible,” Sam huffed. It was a mystery why she even tried. Only, she didn’t want to go back to bed, back to her grandfather’s numbers. It wasn’t just that she hadn’t found him?—she still had no idea how to even start. She’d thought there’d be some clue, some Moriarty game... But if there was a game, Sam hadn’t been invited to play.
For a moment, there was silence between them. Then, so soft Sam thought she might have been imagining things: “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?” Sam asked, afraid for a moment that he meant sneaking out with Hel to break into Mr. Enfield’s apartments.
“Save me,” Van Helsing said. It was the same question she’d asked him when he’d barged into her room to save her from the ghost?—when he’d let slip her Christian name.We’re not friends.Sam had thought the acknowledgment would bring her pleasure, but somehow, it only made her tired.
Sam lolled her head against the door. “Must there be a reason?”
“Miss Shinagh wasn’t wrong. You would be freer without me.” Something about his intonation and the hitch in his breath made Sam think that he had been about to say something more, but had thought better of it.
Sam frowned. She hadn’t thought of Van Helsing as possessing anything as human as feelings?—being more like the monsters he hunted ever since his father had forged him in the fire of his anger and expectations. But right then, he sounded... sad.
“Do you remember,” Sam said, in lieu of an answer, “you used to sketch the monsters from my grandfather’s stories? You’d memorize all the facts about them and write them in the margins, like a monk illuminating a bestiary.”
“I remember,” he said, more gravel in his voice than she was used to. “Is that why you spared me?”
“Why did you stop?” Sam asked.
For a time, as she watched the flickering flame of her gas lamp, Sam thought he wouldn’t answer. But then, softly, as if afraid someone would hear: “Do you know how much harder it makes it to know their names? When all you’re supposed to do is kill them?”
Sam’s brow furrowed. “Youlikekilling things.”
“I like protecting people,” Van Helsing corrected. “I’m good at killing things.”
