Strange Beasts

by Susan J. Morris

“There’s too many,” Hel said. “We don’t have time to check them all.” “Then it’s a good thing we don’t have to,” Sam said, realizing even as she said it that it was true. Hel frowned. “What do you mean?” “The perfume he made for the victims⁠—it’s a French euphemism for death,” Sam said as she scanned the titles. Rimmel’s Book of Perfumes, The Call of the Wild, The Migration of Birds . . . “He murders the men he accuses of indulging in the sin of lust with their own mistresses. And he tried to convince us the alchemist had been murdered by his own creation. Which means Arsène won’t have chosen just any book for his key. He’ll have chosen something poetic.” At last Sam’s eyes fell on a slender volume she’d almost skipped right past. A book of myths entitled The Riddle of the Sphinx. Perfume, he’d said, is like the riddle of the sphinx: she has a dawning, a noontide, and a twilight. “It’s this one!” Sam said, plucking the book from the shelf. “I’m sure of it.” “Well done. I’ll read. You search.” Sam flipped through the book as Hel called out the numbers from the opera house murder, piecing together the message, number by number. Where⁠—the⁠—dead⁠—sleep⁠—Dutch⁠—man⁠—in⁠—snake⁠—skin⁠—boots. “Van Helsing,” Sam said. Trust Van Helsing to have boots so notorious that even Hel’s brother had heard of them. “That tip this morning,” Hel said. “He’s headed to the catacombs.”