Abraham Stoker didn’t want to leave the Americas. Everything he’d seen in Crescent City only bolstered his belief in a supernatural world beneath the surface, led by immortal vampiric royalty.

  He was also no fool. The less settled western regions of America had led him and his friends into far too many scrapes with death in such a short time. Wild was no exaggeration.

  Leaving was no longer a choice. It was a requirement in order to keep Harker by his side. He’d already lost one companion on his mission of madness. Losing another wasn’t in the cards.

  “I shall miss this place,” he said, staring out at the smokestacks of Crescent City. Some fueled industry. Others were the result of burning homes in the chaos of monsters being unleashed.

  “I won’t,” Harker said flatly.

  Bram sighed, laying a hand on his shoulder. “It just feels like we were so close.”

  “Close to death,” Harker said. “Wasn’t everything we saw proof enough?”

  “It proves the hypothesis. Yes.” Bram nodded. “The experiment, however, never ends.”

  “It has for me.” Harker turned on his heels and followed the line of civilians roaming down the docks. US Military directed people onto a ship. They’d set up posts throughout the city, marching in to clean up the mess caused by James Crowley.

  “We killed a man,” Harker whispered.

  “We did no such thing,” Bram argued. “That man was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Harker’s face blanched. “Wrong pl—Bram, we helped lure him out there to be… what?”

  Bram shook his head. “What happened was inevitable, my boy. Such is the way of things. When dealing with unknown variables, we have to expect unknown ends. No one intended for this outcome.”

  “Yet it happened all the same,” Harker said, bowing his head as he continued toward the ramp.

  Bram let a few moments pass in suitable solemnity before saying, “At least I’ll have a permanent souvenir,” and motioning to his bum leg.

  “I don’t know how you jest about such things,” Harker snapped.

  “One must find the lighthearted, even in the direst of things.”

  Someone ahead of them got out of line and was roughly corrected by soldiers with rifles. Harker watched with terror.

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  “You two, move along. Let’s go.” An officer signaled them up the ship’s ramp. Bram had to give his friend a nudge to get him moving.

  “You just need a rest,” Bram said, using the rail for support.

  “I need a lifetime of it,” Harker replied, twisting his corncob pipe. “And a warm shepherd’s pie. And decent tea.”

  Bram chuckled. “All of that and more.” Bram squeezed his arm and gained his attention. He stared for a few seconds. They were refined, educated men. Even he admitted it was uncomfortable seeing Harker caked in grime and dried blood.

  “Thank you, my dearest friend, for sharing the adventure of a lifetime with me,” he said.

  Harker’s eyes glazed over. “I only wish we weren’t returning one short.”

  “She always said she’d die young.”

  “She always tried hard at it too, the loon.” They shared a laugh, exchanged a sober nod. Harker wiped his eyes. “I’m starting to wonder if we’re the crazy ones.”

  Bram smiled. “Madness and genius are strange bedfellows. Now, let’s get you that rest.”

  They made their way down into the cabins. Harker lent Bram a hand on the descent, but Bram refused to allow his injury to become a hindrance.

  They were tight quarters, which had been an issue on the ride over from Ireland after leading such a posh life, but not anymore. Bram had slept in far worse conditions since. Their bunks were in a common space. Most of their belongings had been lost or destroyed, though what they could rummage from Laveau’s house remained. Some clothing and other effects, but most importantly, Harker’s sketch journals documenting everything they’d seen.

  Months ago, Harker had dragged both their trunks. Now, Bram and he stowed only small bags under the beds together before sitting to catch their breath.

  “You know, some time back home might be good,” Bram said, wincing as he pulled his leg onto the cot. He barely got the sentence out before Harker climbed up to the top bunk. “Sleep well, my friend. Remind your nightmares of the time you sent a minion of Hell back to the Devil’s arms.”

  Harker leaned over to gaze down at Bram. “Quiet with that.”

  Bram chuckled. “As if anyone would believe it! You… using a shotgun.” He scoffed in playful mockery.

  “Very funny,” Harker said, shifting back. The upper bunk bounced as he made himself comfortable.

  Bram scooted to the edge of the bed and looked up. A man lay in the bunk across the corridor, far to the inside where mostly only shadow could reach. He wore bloody rags and a hood over his head.

  “Heading home?” Bram asked.

  No answer.

  “Sir?”

  The hooded man turned, and Bram swallowed the lump in his throat. His face bore the sign of burn marks, like he’d been caught in a fire. Even his hair was singed away, leaving a scaly, bald head.

  “Are you alright?” Bram asked. No doubt this was the result of the chaos in Crescent City. Poor fellow.

  “I’ll heal,” he muttered.

  Bram leaned in. “Is that a Syrian accent I detect?”

  “Similar.”

  “Where from then?”

  “You wouldn’t remember it.”

  “Try me.”

  He rolled his head back the other way and grew silent. Which for Bram, only intrigued him more. Unending curiosity was his blessing as much as his curse.

  “Are you headed to Ireland?” Bram asked. “As you can surely tell by my accent, it’s home. Though I prefer to think of myself as a child of the world.”

  “It’s a stop on the way,” the man said, still facing away.

  “To where?”

  Again, the mysterious man went silent. And nothing made Bram Stoker itch more than a lack of answers, no matter how mundane the question.

  “It’s a long ride ahead of us as neighbors, good sir,” Bram said. “We might as well get along.”

  The man exhaled low, almost like a growl. Then he shifted, dark eyes boring right through Bram—as if into his soul. In a way, that made him both deeply uncomfortable, and confoundedly intrigued.

  “I have a child to visit,” he said. “In Transylvania.”