“Just a little?” Van Helsing objected under his breath. Sam felt her lips twitch into a smile, despite herself.
“Miss Harker’s right,” Hel said, ignoring them both. “Being poisoned might explain why we saw ghosts, but even if there was some subliminal way to ensure the hallucinations were consistent, they wouldn’t have shown up on the photographs. Nor could they have left marks on Miss Harker’s arms.”
“Fair point,” Van Helsing admitted grudgingly.
Sam hesitated. “There is one more thing.” She uncurled her hand. In it, there was a bee, a curl of paper no bigger than a pencil shaving glued to its back. Her hand shook. She tried to steady it.
Hel’s attention sharpened; she stepped forward, almost involuntarily. Sam dropped it into Hel’s hand.
“Is that a bee?” Van Helsing said, sounding puzzled.
“It’s a message from my father,” Hel said as she uncurled the sliver of paper, staring down at it intently. Written in blue ink, in a looping, angular hand?—smeared as if in haste?—were the words:I never see thy face.
“A riddle?” Van Helsing frowned. “Why would Professor Moriarty send us a riddle?”
“Why does my father do anything?” Hel drawled.
“But you must know what it means,” Van Helsing said. “You’re his daughter.”
“I keep telling people, we aren’t close,” Hel said.
“Is he saying he misses you?” Van Helsing ventured. Sam could see it, though she didn’t credit Hel’s father capable of the sentiment. A sequel to the prodigal son message Hel’s father had sent her. The implication that if Hel were only to come home, all would be forgiven.
Hel didn’t dignify that with a response.
“It’s a quote,” Sam said as naturally as she could. She’d thought this part through. Everyone would expect Sam to know a quote from literature. Which of course, she did, seeing as she was the one who’d written it. “‘I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire.’ It’s from Shakespeare’sHenry IV.”
Van Helsing stared at her. “You just know that?”
Everyone except Van Helsing, apparently. “Researcher, remember? The real question is what it means.”
And this was the hard part. Sam couldn’t answer; she had to wait for them to put the pieces together or let them fall where they may. To do otherwise would be too suspicious. If they didn’t figure it out... But Sam had nothing to worry about.
“The Hell-Fire Club,” Hel said.
“The secret society of demon worshippers?” Van Helsing exclaimed.
“I don’t think theyworshippedthe demons,” Sam hedged. “It was mostly high society rakes looking for some sacrilegious flavor to their drinking and debauching, with a little demon summoning on the side.”
“Oh, because that’s so much better,” Van Helsing said dryly.
“But weren’t they driven out a century ago?” Sam asked, as if she didn’t know.
“It’s not the people, but the place. It’s on Montpelier Hill, though I’m afraid it’s little more than a haunted ruin at this point.” Hel looked at Sam sidelong. “I suppose we ought to check it out.”
“How do we know it’s not a trap?” Van Helsing said.
“It’s probably best we assume it is,” Hel answered.
Montpelier Hill was the end of the line. Sam stepped out of the train onto the weathered wooden platform, the wind whipping her skirts. Van Helsing and Hel followed close behind. They were the only passengers to ride that far. The whistle blew, the train chugged off, and then they were alone.
Scraggly linden trees and worn grey stones pocked the forlorn hills. In the distance, clouds caught between the teeth of spruce. And there, on top of an odd circular raised mound that Sam knew marked a rath: the ruins of old Hell-Fire Club.
They threaded their way up the hill, avoiding the spiny yellow gorse. Hel bore a large black case over her shoulder with the ease of a gentleman carrying his suit after dinner, her long tan coat snapping in the wind behind her. Van Helsing was decked out like a vampire’s nightmare, with a large silver crucifix on his chest, an oversized exorcism book hanging from a chain on his belt, and vials of holy water in bandoliers.
Sam remained in her grey wool walking suit with fur trim?—she had hopes it would blend into the cloud-scudded sky?—but with a newly purchased pair of brown oxfords. They were hideously sensible, but Hel’s critique still echoed in the hollows of her mind:She’s dressed in white, for one thing. For another, she’s wearing heels... and she’s a hazard with a firearm besides. If he doesn’t see her coming, he’ll certainly hear her, and then she’ll be useless once he does.
Well. There was nothing Sam might do about the “hazard with a firearm” part. But as for the rest, she didn’t want to give Hel reason to leave her behind.
