Eterna and Omega Read online

  “Bring a few vials along, Clara,” Bishop instructed. “If it’s that property, we may have an opportunity to test a Ward in a dangerous place…”

  Nodding, she put stoppers in three glass tubes and wrapped them in a handkerchief embroidered with primroses plucked from her center desk drawer. She placed the contents in her “work reticule,” a wooden-edged box lined with velvet, reserved for carrying delicate but bulkier things while maintaining a ladylike appearance. Most useful, considering her position in society. Clara could not be seen to be working.

  “Mr. Fordham, hold down the fort with Miss Kent. You know where we’ll be if you need us, and we’ll send a patrolman if we need you,” Bishop said with the calm surety of leadership. Franklin nodded and it was obvious to Clara that he was biting his tongue at being left behind yet again. She could do nothing to change the dynamic. She and Bishop worked as partners and always had, even though Franklin was closer to her age and also gifted, and while Bishop had hired him to be the work partner his schedule in Congress couldn’t reliably offer, nothing could match the synergy with which she and the senator managed their business.

  * * *

  After the great downtown fire of 1845, most buildings were required by law to be built primarily of brick and metal, to reduce the likelihood of fires razing whole blocks and neighborhoods. So the brick-based address, on Park Avenue just north of Grand Central Depot, was a contained blaze, but it burned black and hot. Crossing the wide street and pausing on the median, Clara could see the great-wheeled fire pumpers and attached hoses, firefighters doing their best to address the highest flames on the second floor.

  A sudden thought alarmed Clara. She whipped a daintily embroidered handkerchief out of her buttoned sleeves and held it over her nose and mouth.

  “Rupert, cover your nose and mouth. Now.”

  He did, using his own, larger, white handkerchief. The tone she had used made him take orders without hesitation.

  “The chemical agent utilized in earlier attacks may still be present in the building,” Clara explained. “The flames may have sent it airborne. We can’t know if it’s inert or might still prove a maddening toxin to anyone nearby. Can you get the men to do the same as a precaution?”

  “Very wise, Clara.” Bishop strode to the captain of the fire brigade, and moments later his men began to find ways to cover their mouths and noses. Bishop returned to her side. “I suggested that from an earlier police case, there might be a poison in the air but gave few other details.”

  Clara turned at a tap upon her elbow and turned to find a familiar brown-skinned face looking up at her.

  “Josiah!” Clara exclaimed. “Did Mr. Fordham send you here?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he did,” the boy replied. “I always check in with him after he meets with the policeman on beat. He told me to come see if you all would be needing anything.”

  “Hello, young man,” Bishop said with a fond smile.

  “Senator,” Josiah replied, ducking his head.

  “Did Franklin pay you downtown?” Clara asked. The boy thought a moment.

  “Yes, ma’am, he did so, but thank you for asking.”

  Bishop fished in his pocket and handed a dollar to the boy. “That’s for telling the truth rather than saying he hadn’t,” Bishop said. The boy blinked up at him, taking the dollar and tucking it carefully in his pocket.

  “My gran’s got what some call the gift. She can tell straight if anybody lies. If I’m not mistaken, you have the gift, too, Senator, sir, so I’d best not try my luck,” he replied, getting a chuckle out of both Bishop and Clara. Fishing in the other pocket, Bishop handed over a quarter.

  “And that’s for being clever,” he said as the young man beamed. “Stay close. I am sure I’ll be wanting Evelyn’s advice and I may need her to come ’round.”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be right here for you.”

  “You always are,” Clara said with deep fondness.

  Josiah lived in the Tenderloin, a neighborhood where the blood running in the streets wasn’t just that of pigs or cattle. Injustice was a constant in the area, and Clara and Franklin were desperate to keep their favorite assistant busy, employed, and away from routine danger as much as possible. Josiah was reliable, quick, sharp, kind, and had lots of ears in different circles.

  The boy didn’t know all the secrets of Eterna, but he knew enough to keep quiet. From a family lineage where gifts were understood, he kept his wits about him when it came to the paranormal. Clara had made Bishop promise he’d find steady employment for the lad when he was old enough; she disliked the idea of errand runners and wanted to make them fully staff instead.

  A sunken-eyed, sallow-faced man, wearing a threadbare suit under a stained leather apron, his graying brown hair unkempt beneath a tattered cap, broke from the shadows of the neighboring building. He dashed through the cluster of onlookers and suddenly seized Clara by the arms, shaking her violently. She cried out in protest.

  “You have to stop this,” the man gasped. “Help me. Help yourselves! I thought it would end but it never ends … the cycle won’t quit—”

  Bishop pried the man off, and two patrolmen were instantly at his side to offer additional aid. The look of recognition on Bishop’s face made Clara study her attacker’s features, and in an instant, she placed him.

  This tortured soul was “Doctor” Stevens himself—a self-taught purveyor of chemical “remedies” that healed nothing. The man looked like he hadn’t slept in a year—and perhaps he hadn’t. Held firmly by the two officers, Stevens stared pointedly at Clara. She’d last seen him at his trial, where she’d testified against him after what she’d seen inside the house in question: floor carved in grim, apocalyptic texts, and gadgets and powders everywhere, intent on harming the neighborhood.

  “Is the city in further danger?” Clara demanded. “Will the old chemicals within spread with smoke?”

  Stevens shook his head. “It doesn’t survive water or fire. It’s active when in the lungs. Listen to me. What’s thought to be dead cannot be killed. The Society lives. Its tendrils have spread. The ivy is thick. They’re into growing industries and will find ways to do as much damage as possible. I don’t know what’ll go first,” Stevens exclaimed. “Possibly electric companies, highly volatile, the present ‘war of the currents.’”

  “What is this about?” Bishop asked, gesturing to the fire.

  “I’m trying to take care of anything I was involved with,” Stevens said plaintively. “Burn it all. I’ve not much time. The demons will come for me. I might not last the night.…”

  At this, the senator turned to her. “Clara,” he said slowly, an idea dawning, “him … he’s how we test the Ward.”

  “Oh. Why, yes.” The suggestion made complete sense to her.

  Wide-eyed, Stevens said, “What is it? I’ll do whatever you need. I’ve no hope nor shame left.”

  “It’s your turn to be a test subject, Mr. Stevens,” Bishop said with a grim smile.

  “The sooner the better, then,” Stevens replied mordantly.

  Bishop turned to Josiah. “Reverend Blessing and Evelyn Northe-Stewart. Dispatch them straightaway to the inn southeast of Madison Square where you’ve sent associates before, please, my good young man.”

  Josiah nodded and was off like a shot. Bishop assured the officers they could return to their business. They did so silently, seemingly glad to be rid of the strange conversation. Clara groaned as a familiar presence strode up to her with an inappropriate directness, always managing to catch her, or perhaps waiting for the precise moment, when Bishop was not at her side.

  “Why, Miss Templeton, if you’re here, this is no ordinary fire.” Peter Green, a mousy-haired investigative journalist, an annoyingly ardent admirer of Clara, and a royal thorn in Eterna’s side approached in an obnoxious green plaid coat. “If I recall correctly, this has to do with an old case of yours…” Notebook in hand, he nodded at Stevens with obvious curiosity.

  “You’ve a distres
singly accurate memory of things I’ve been involved with, Mr. Green, and as usual, I am not at liberty to discuss any particulars or insights,” Clara retorted.

  “Then set me loose on the trail of something interesting,” Green replied.

  “Women’s suffrage,” Clara countered. “Garment district fires. Slum overcrowding—”

  Green made a face. “I don’t work for the radical rags, Miss—”

  “Since when is a basic human right and safety radical—”

  “War of the currents,” Stevens interrupted. “If threatening forces are infiltrating industry, as I believe they are, scouting for evil amid the most groundbreaking of technologies would be wise.”

  Clara glanced at Mr. Stevens and back to Green, noting that Bishop was striding back to their cluster, scowling at the presence of the unwanted.

  “Mr. Green, how many times have I insisted that you not pester my ward—”

  “We’re just about to send him off in pursuit of something interesting,” Clara interrupted. “He’ll scout for anything particularly odd or infernal infiltrating this city’s burgeoning electrical grid, won’t you, Mr. Green? Give it time. I don’t want to see you for a good long while, so dig deep and make yourself scarce but useful for a change.”

  Green set his jaw. Whether he would or wouldn’t comply didn’t matter, having him gone was the thing. In her years fending him off, he found her independence and the fact she held a job—beyond the acceptable female occupations of clerk, nurse, or teacher—a bit too fascinating and novel for her taste. She didn’t want to be his journalistic model for the new woman. She just wanted to be herself, to live free, equal, and in pursuit of noble work without judgment.

  “If you’ll excuse us.” Bishop led her and Stevens away from the frustrated Green.

  “Mr. Stevens,” Clara began as she and Bishop flanked their subject, walking away at a clip from the now controlled blaze, “tell us how you came to this terrible place, these dire acts, and what you expect of the night to come. You say you won’t last the night. How so?”

  “The Summoned are coming,” Stevens warned, “and from what I understand, if you have turned on them, they will tear a body to smithereens.”

  Clara winced.

  Stevens continued, “For those involved in Society business, to leave or defy it is certain death. It is only a matter of time for me, just like everyone on Tourney’s list. The last of the ring were dying even as I left England to clean up my old mess here. Now that I accept death, any moment left of life I spend trying to mitigate my time in hell.”

  Clara glanced at Bishop, who nodded. She spoke carefully. “I’ve three Wards that we believe—we hope—can provide protection. But they can be useful only if released into a neutral space—one that hasn’t been tainted by invitation to devilry.”

  “Unlike that damned spot I set fire to,” Stevens said with a nod.

  “Are there other properties to cleanse—I hope not all by arson?” Clara asked.

  Stevens shook his head. “The police did a good job with that before. I don’t think there are any further portals, but I wasn’t the only operative and we never met as a group.” He took a breath and spoke again, sounding almost like a professor giving a lecture. “You may remember from the trial, Moriel’s Master’s Society champions three types of mortal offenses: soul splitting, reanimation, and chemical alteration.

  “These serve as ‘offerings’ to the shadows that Moriel summons from the depths. They also serve as weapons. That will be the next phase—full deployment of all three.”

  Clara held back a shudder. “Where?” she pressed.

  “I’m not sure how widespread. I know London and New York are the chief targets, along with several other industrial cities. You’re a senator, Mr. Bishop, you have to warn your colleagues.”

  “So it would seem,” Bishop said grimly. “Tell me, is the British government involved in the Society, or is it its own entity?”

  “I do not believe its acts are sanctioned by the Crown, though Society leaders were all aristocracy. I had very little contact with them when I was in England, just kept my head down and nodded to the occasional demon-possessed body spying on my shop.”

  Clara’s few investigations had only scratched the surface of the issue. She wondered who in England might be feeling the same way—like a failure for not having seen the bigger picture.

  They soon reached a merchant boardinghouse, a fine-looking brick edifice with brownstone detailing.

  “Take a room there facing the street,” the senator ordered. “My associates and I will be in the inn across the way,” he added, waving at the building opposite.

  “I will light a candle in a front window of whatever room I have taken,” Stevens said.

  Clara handed over the vials, clasping her hands over Stevens’s. This simple kindness seemed to move him nearly to tears. Recalling Louis and Barnard’s notes, she said, “It might be helpful to add something personal to one of the vials, something meaningful to you, since the dark forces seem relational…” He nodded. She kept her hands upon his, allowing a flow of her own life force to charge the items. “To active the Ward, light it afire.”

  Stevens laughed hollowly. “I shan’t have any trouble with that.”

  “It should burn strangely,” Clara explained. “That’s the hope, an effervescence more than a flame.”

  Bishop added quietly, “While we will be nearby, I cannot promise we’ll be able to help if there is an issue.”

  “This is my cross to bear, unfortunately,” the tired man said with a sigh. “But I take it up willingly and will try to make something right of this if I live.” He turned away, holding the vials as though they were sacred relics.

  “We will pray for you,” Bishop assured him.

  Stevens turned at the stoop. “That’s more than I deserve, sir, but I’m grateful.”

  They crossed busy Twenty-third Street to the grander, taller-storied building opposite, an angled stone’s throw from Madison Square. A boutique inn rather than boardinghouse, the premises were more intimate than the bustle of one of the area’s fine hotels, which would not have suited their purposes.

  The hostess knew Bishop upon sight due to more recent business meetings conducted under the eaves of her tavern but had to put the pieces together on Clara.

  “Senator, sir, and … Miss Templeton, it’s been years, haven’t you grown up beautiful! Business of the state or a bit of holiday?” the elder, round-cheeked woman said with a smile from beneath a wide lace bonnet.

  “If I’m on holiday, Mrs. DeWitt, I’m loath to leave my house as I don’t see the place enough,” Bishop declared. “This is business. Is a suite looking out over Twenty-third Street available? With an adjoining room for Clara?”

  “One just opened up,” the innkeeper replied. “Any special requests?”

  “Two additional associates of mine, Mrs. Evelyn Northe-Stewart and Reverend Blessing, are en route. Do let them in, their presence is most valued.”

  “Of course, Senator,” Mrs. DeWitt said, handing him two keys.

  The finely furnished second-floor rooms, connected by a door that Bishop unlocked and flung open, smelled of fresh flowers. Their white lace and damask fabric–covered furnishings stood in sharp contrast to the thoughts of dark, demonic shadows ready to descend upon their nearby test subject.

  Clara looked out over the hectic cacophony that was Twenty-third Street and noted the lit candle in a window opposite, also on the second floor. “There he is.”

  A form was at the window. Was it a demon, or Stevens? She waved. He waved back.

  “Clara,” Bishop admonished, “don’t let him know which room we’re in—”

  “He knows we’re here, Rupert, and in a room that faces a window. There are only so many—”

  “I don’t want him running directly to you with a demon in tow.…”

  “Then why did you call in Reverend Blessing, if we won’t try to help Mr. Stevens?” Clara said, aghast at the thought
. Bishop stared at her and after a long moment, sighed as he smiled.

  “My heart. Always reminding me of the right thing to do, even when I’m doing what I think is best to protect you.”

  His smile drew one from her, which turned into a blush. She moved away and made a show of inspecting her room so that he didn’t see her color.

  It wasn’t long before their friends arrived: Evelyn, whom Clara had seen so recently, and the fascinating Reverend Blessing, ever dressed in the black vestments and white cleric’s collar of his Episcopalian faith. It had been a long while since they had met. Entering the room, the tall, dark-skinned man with hints of gray in his short black hair offered Clara a smile as big as his heart.

  Evelyn had introduced them to the reverend; she’d met him at various charity functions and they became allies in the Spiritualist community. A black priest who worked as a hospital and National Guard chaplain as well as substitute preacher in a diverse range of communities throughout the city, Blessing helped the others understand the communities that were not part of their elite world, and did so with love and impressive stores of patience. The reverend had been experiencing an increasing call toward exorcisms.

  “Did Josiah come in with you?” Clara asked Evelyn.

  “No, he had to wait out front,” the older woman said with a deep scowl. “The woman at the door didn’t even seem to want to let Reverend Blessing in, and insisted she had clearance to admit only two.”

  Clara donned Evelyn’s scowl and darted downstairs immediately. Striding past Mrs. DeWitt, she opened the front door and found Josiah standing on the stoop. When he saw her, his face lit up. She gestured him in. He shook his head, his expression saying everything. The landlady must have made it very clear his kind were not welcome.