“On aship?” Sam laughed.
But Hel wasn’t laughing. “We need to pretend not to care too deeply about each other. My father can scent such weakness a mile away.”
Despite the implication that she might be murdered, a thrill shivered through her. So Hel did care?—deeply. Sam wanted, right then, nothing more than to feel the heat of Hel’s eyes on her, that sharp and fascinated gaze, the way she looked at Sam like she was a puzzle in want of solving. How she made Sam ache to besolved.
“Hel, he already knows.” Sam reached for Hel’s cheek. For an agonizing moment, Hel leaned into her touch, before pulling away, her lips scraping Sam’s palm so briefly it might have been an accident.
“He knows I find you useful,” Hel bit off. “That you’re a valuable game piece. Which is not the same thing.”
Sam’s own words thrown back at her.
“Not the same thing as what?” Sam demanded. If Hel was bent on denying Sam, she wanted her to say it.
At last, Hel looked at her, and it stole the breath from Sam’s lungs.
“You know what,” Hel rasped.
Sam was suddenly unable to meet Hel’s gaze. “So what do we do? We can’t simply avoid each other; we’re working a case together.”
“We’ll have to,” Hel said.
It was going to be Paris all over again, Sam could feel it. Hel was going to slip away, rousing the Society’s suspicion against her and leaving Sam alone with Van Helsing. Only this time, Sam wouldn’t be able to follow without making everything worse. Unless...
“What if we make a game of it?” Sam said, a plan coming together in her mind.
“A game?” Hel furrowed her brow. But she didn’t, Sam noticed, say no.
“All we need to do is tell them a story.” Sam stepped closer, warming to the idea. She’d read about this before, in her romantic detective novels, which were, admittedly, fiction. But the theory was sound. It was something she used to be good at. “A story they want to believe. Say, that you’ve finally tired of your favorite game piece...”
Hel leaned in to meet her. “And that you’re done with my deceptions.”
“Just so,” Sam said. They were so close it felt like a dare, but Hel didn’t back away.
“If this is to work,” Hel warned, her voice catching, “we’ll have to give them reason to believe we’re at odds.”
“Naturally.” Sam swallowed. “You mustn’t take anything I say to heart.” It would be harder than that, and there would be none of this?—whatever this was. At least, not in public. Unless...
“We can use a book code,” Sam said quietly, quickly. “Meet in private. Speak when no one is watching.” Perhaps do other things, beyond speak.
It sounded almost exciting when she put it like that.
“All right,” Hel said at last, leaning back. “We’ll try it. But if it doesn’t work?—”
“I know,” Sam said before Hel could say it, and she hesitated. “Are you certain you shouldn’t change your name? People won’t... react poorly?”
“There are so many Moriartys in Ireland there are nicknames for the different branches,” Hel said dismissively.
Before Sam could ask whether her particular branch had a nickname, the jingle of spurs cut her off.
“Is that so?” Van Helsing said, arms crossed, as if Hel had let slip something vitally important.
“Yes, and we all know each other, and commit crimes together,” Hel said dryly.
Van Helsing scowled. “The ship is setting off soon. I’d advise you to deboard, unless you want to swim.”
“So soon?” Sam said, surprised. “Don’t they have to resupply?”
“Apparently, some otterish sea monster has taken to destroying English ships,” Van Helsing said.
