Eterna and Omega Read online

  Sincerely,

  Lord Black

  P.S. I do hope you’ll enjoy the case of sherry I’ve taken the liberty of having sent to your address. I have it on good authority that it’s your favourite.

  Bishop passed the transcribed wire to Clara. They had been preparing for their trip to the District of Columbia when the fat envelope had arrived at the Eterna offices, carried by a Western Union messenger. The very size of the telegraphed message was impressive—it would have cost Lord Black a pretty penny to send.

  “What do you think?” Bishop asked.

  “Hard to gauge the trustworthy in a letter written in dire necessity.”

  “Try,” Bishop barked. Clara started, and he moderated his tone. “I need your instincts now more than ever, Clara. Don’t be afraid of being wrong about something or someone; don’t strive for neutrality. What do you think? Help the man or no?”

  “I don’t think we have a choice. I trust Everhart. But we have to convince the District of Columbia first.”

  That would prove as difficult a task as anything.

  “Pack for both trips. We leave for London immediately upon finishing in Washington,” Bishop said to Clara before turning to Franklin. “Mr. Fordham, I’m going to have to leave you and Reverend Blessing in charge of Stevens. Enlist Fred Bixby in any kind of record searches you need. I know he’ll want any updates from his sister, so keep him well informed.

  “In addition, I must have, tonight, as much as Stevens has of the antidote for his chaotic toxin. We’ll take it to England; you and the others can help him make more for New York. Remember, your heart must be invested in the process, whether you are making Wards or the antidote.”

  “Yes, sir, be safe, the both of you,” Franklin said, masking his own emotion, and was off, a man of duty above all else.

  Clara embraced Lavinia long and hard at the first-floor landing as she and Bishop moved to exit the offices for what would be an indefinite time.

  “You take care of the gentlemen, my dear,” Clara bid her friend softly, affectionately patting the black lace epaulet on her friend’s shoulder. “Offer them insights only you can see. Your perspective is vital.”

  “Only if you promise to do the same,” Lavinia countered.

  Clara smiled. “Promise.”

  * * *

  That night as Clara packed for the trips, she reached into her mind for any clues to help her present situation. Had she ever, in any of her iterations, encountered such a dark enemy as this? Was there comfort, not to mention advice, somewhere in any of her pasts?

  Squinting her eyes, like the day in Central Park when the visitor had bid her open her eyes to all her past lives, she sank to the floor in a pool of mauve skirts, bustling and boning, and lay back and stared up at the floral-patterned moldings of her ceiling, trying to glimpse even an angle of one of those lives, for a clue she may have missed along the way.

  “Clara, what are you doing?” came a voice behind her.

  The visitor. Clara knew what she sounded and felt like without even turning to look.

  “I’m seeking help and perspective,” she replied, keeping her floor vantage point, as there was something strangely calming about it. “What’s the point of remembering one’s past lives if they can’t help? You’re Marlowe, correct? Rose said so. It’s strange to think of you as a person and not just a figment of my imagination.”

  The visitor came closer and peered down at Clara, who blinked up at her, refusing to stand on any kind of ceremony for such a creature who came in unannounced.

  “You once told me I’m the center of the storm,” Clara stated, “and to be worthy of the squall. I’ve tried to be worthy every life, through every storm. I’m trying to see my way.…”

  “My dear girl.” The visitor, Lizzie, smiled down at her. “The storm is not a separate, external torture that loses you at sea and washes you up on some remote beach. The storm has never been outside your control. The storm is of you. Once you see your tasks from the perspective of a maelstrom, what may stop you?”

  Clara sat up finally. “You comfort someone like you’ve a hand on a rudder.”

  “Well, I do consider myself a captain. But that’s for another day. The darknesses you’re facing frankly can’t compete with the sheer life force of a creature like you. Use that. Confuse them. Stop the demons’ dread press of death by the volume of your life. I think you’ll see what I mean when it’s time to become all of you.”

  With that, she was gone again, leaving the same disconcerting sense of altered time in her wake.

  * * *

  Clara readied notes, one to be left in her offices for Lavinia’s information, a wire to alert Effie Bixby, and a final and perhaps most important note to be dropped at the embassy for Rose and her colleagues, detailing when she and Bishop would be presenting before Congress and attending to Lord Black’s request should they wish to escort and assist them. Clara suggested the Omega team watch Senator Bishop in action, then all travel together to London. There was no sense in not trying to act as a cohesive team. Their Lord Black was asking for help, and neither she nor Bishop sensed a trap. At least, not an Omega trap.

  Franklin’s psychometry unfortunately didn’t work off wire transcripts. If there had been time to send a full letter, he could have examined the veracity or view of the person writing the letter to judge his character, but the distinct source of author versus telegraph operator severed the connection required for his talents.

  After Franklin hadn’t been able to fight for the state in the Civil War, a loss of duty he’d been unable to forgive himself for, regardless of physical impediment, heading up the tasks on the home front suited him. Everyone in Eterna and Omega offices was focused now, in a way that the amorphous search for immortality alone never rendered fruitful specificity.

  Clara was about to ready a note to Evelyn when an instinct fluttered across her thoughts, and she smiled and put the gilt-edged paper back in her writing desk.

  There was a wafting, cold draft, and Louis appeared suddenly at her side, causing Clara a mild shudder but not a start.

  “I’ll be with you, Clara,” the ghost stated gently, “for as much of this journey as I can be, here however I can help. Due to my tether to the living world being stronger for Andre’s presence, especially on foreign soil where my spirit has no tie, he too will travel to Washington and on to London. To be of similar service.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Clara said, staring the ghost straight in his transparent eyes, “But I’m … not comfortable with his traveling with us. After what happened…”

  Impersonating Louis was something she doubted she could ever forgive Andre for. It was an egregious indiscretion, and she would not have her comfort compromised on the trip when it was her confidence that the magic required.

  “Of course, I both agree and understand. He likes to travel alone anyway and always has.”

  “Then I’ll see you both in Washington. Good night and thank you for the help, Louis,” she said warmly, and she didn’t know what else to do but blow the specter a kiss as he faded into the wall.

  As Clara packed a few simple dresses, skirts and shirtwaists, workable things, disallowing even the thought of finery, as there was no pleasure in this business, their town house doorbell rang, followed by a large dragging sound and business at the door.

  Stepping out onto the landing, she descended to hear Bishop and Evelyn mid-conversation and smiled broadly.

  “Please tell me you’ve told Gareth, and Natalie, about this decision,” Bishop demanded.

  “I don’t ask permission of my husband but I’m not rude about it, Rupert. Goodness, of course I alerted him! Natalie is horrified by the trip, naturally, but she’s made me swear not to let her Jonathon out of my sight and I’ve instructions to bring him back with me. She’ll allow herself to be distracted by the new wardrobe and gifts I left in my grandbaby’s nursery as a surprise.”

  “Evelyn, you’ve a family now, you don’t have to—�
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  “You dare to think you don’t need me? Are you not family?” Evelyn scoffed.

  “Clearly, I shouldn’t dare think, my beloved friend,” Bishop replied, bemused exasperation and deep fondness in his tone. The two of them sensed and turned to Clara at the landing in concert.

  “I knew you’d turn up,” Clara said, tapping her temple. “And thank God for it, my favorite medium!”

  “I’m going to make sure your congressmen do what they are told,” Evelyn declared. “And then, I’m not leaving England until I know everyone in that horrible Society is good and dead and incapable of reanimation!”

  Everyone was focused indeed.

  * * *

  Bishop was grateful that his abilities of mesmerism had first manifested in concert with his Spiritualist teachings, when the throes of boyhood had been cast off for the responsibilities of adulthood and his career was well under way. He hated to think what use he might have put mesmerism to before he’d learned the necessary qualities of temperance, patience, and justice.

  For Bishop, mesmerism was the ability to bring a person or persons under his thrall and persuade them unto whatever aim he thought was best for them.

  For them.

  Not for him.

  This was the most vital of distinctions.

  Only in extreme circumstances had he ever used this power. Much as he wished to mesmerize the world into equality and sensible justice, that was not what he had been called to do. He knew the ability was as much a danger as a gift, and that kind of guiding of minds was rightfully the province of a divinity, not a fallible mortal.

  He’d spent the entire train ride to the District of Columbia deep in meditative thought, silently gathering up power and thrall as if it were a stream behind a dam, ready to be burst open upon Capitol Hill. Clara did not once for a moment disturb him, only offered a supportive smile whenever he turned her way. She kept the deep, contemplative silence that was so comfortable between them, a quality that spoke of their old, familiar souls.

  Evelyn had chosen to travel in her own compartment, similarly wishing for peace. With deep sensitivity often came a penchant for solitude. Leaving luggage at the station, the three strolled onto the grand Mall as a quiet, confident team, and within a matter of an hour, the operation was under way.

  * * *

  Bishop managed to call a special session of Congress together—to be entirely honest, he’d mesmerized the vice president into calling a special session—in the Capitol building’s grand Senate Chamber. In a matter of hours, the space filled with restless men in fine black frock coats and satin top hats, toting ubiquitous cigars of the most expensive quality.

  Many stared at Bishop with contempt, particularly the Democrats, unhappy at having been called away from their dalliances or respites on a matter they clearly doubted was an emergency despite the strange occurrences reported in a few city papers. Not all senators were present, as Congress was between sessions, but enough were accessible that Bishop felt he had a quorum.

  At this point, whether they believed him or not didn’t matter. Bishop would tell them exactly what to do, whom to trust, and they would do it, not to honor his dear, dead Mr. Lincoln, or the grand, progressive ideals of the Republican Party, not for partisan gain, but so that the devils could not win.

  There was no time for any margin of error or pride.

  He climbed atop his own Senate desk to see them all more easily and to ensure that his voice would reach every corner of the great room.

  “Gentlemen, I have gathered you here today to address a dire threat. A complete coup, an entire overthrow of our way of life and freedoms, may be at hand. An evil organization, the Master’s Society, has taken aim at this country’s ideals, using supernatural means to terrorize and injure our population, targeting industry and perverting the dead. You need but look to newspaper reports in New York, Boston, and New Orleans to know I speak the truth.”

  Bishop felt he owed these men an explanation, in the hope that even though they’d have only a hazy recollection of these proceedings, they could know in their hearts they were doing the right thing. This conviction would bolster the hold of his mesmerism as well.

  “Our great cities will be held hostage unless we act now. Protective Wards are being created in New York, and similar compounds will need to be created across our nation’s industrial centers. Look to your local Spiritualists, mediums, healers, and ask for their help Warding your cities. My New York office stands ready to advise you.

  “This is not witchcraft and superstition. This is life and death, angels and devils. This is not about belief in anything but the love of mankind and the places you call home.

  “We recently bled and died together as a war-torn country. Let us not have another war. If we do not fight this good fight, our entire world will be overthrown.

  “England faces this same threat, and we must be allies with our former governess, uniting with her now in a mutual struggle.

  “What say you, will you Ward your wards?” Bishop cried, and the air around him crackled. The fine silk of his black frock coat buffeted his frame as if there were a breeze, and the crowd leaned in, rapt, his presence and thrall holding all breath.

  “Shall we submit to darkness, or shall we protect against it? Do you rise to this challenge, my Congress?”

  “We do,” they chorused, not in a droning trance, but genuinely moved.

  Bishop stepped down from the New York delegation desk to a smattering of applause. With careful deliberation, as if lifting the bow off of the strings of a violin at the conclusion to a beautiful serenade, he broke his hold over his fellows.

  “As you were, gentlemen,” he said quietly.

  Within moments, everyone began to speak as they roused from their reverie. At Bishop’s direction, they would think what they were about to do was as much their idea as his. Men formed a line to shake his hand and congratulate him and ask if there was anything else that they could do for the cause.

  He looked at the gallery above. Clara was staring at him, smiling broadly, her bright green-gold eyes wide and her face flushed. Bishop in part hoped she had not been caught in the same thrall as his fellow legislators, and in part he did.

  Now that the lawmakers were persuaded toward protection, the remaining members of the Eterna Commission would help disseminate Wards locally and submit other city recipes from Louis and Barnard’s files to their designated locales. It would take time, but all the affected cities would soon have an aid to stem the tide and then reverse it.

  Soon he’d have to repeat this little trick in London, with their infamous Parliament. While he sincerely hoped the British would be as amenable to his preternatural persuasion as his congressional colleagues, something told Bishop he had a certain advantage on home soil. It was, after all, part of the magic.

  Seeking courage, he glanced back up at the gallery, to Clara. She nodded. He was convinced she was sharing his thoughts.

  Clara wasn’t alone in the galley. A few paces off stood Andre Dupris, who carried a parcel of Wards, with the pale grayscale ghost of his brother floating between Andre and Clara. To Clara’s left, Evelyn Northe-Stewart was applauding Bishop’s performance.

  The woman to Clara’s right, to whom she was speaking knowingly, Bishop assumed must be Rose Everhart. This likely meant that the three people beside her—a small, nervous-looking man, a tall, black-eyed woman in a bright gown that seemed too flashy for day wear, and a darker-skinned woman in a head scarf whose expression reflected profound grief—were the other Omega operatives.

  Though Bishop had extended the invitation to Washington, he, Clara, and Evelyn had left New York without awaiting Omega’s reply, so he was most pleased to see them, warmed by this show of trust. A full team indeed, watching him perform. If the British contingent had shown up in solidarity, it meant they had faith in their former colony after all, and his confidence was thoroughly bolstered. Time for a trip to merry old England to do all of this again, hoping for the best.r />
  * * *

  For their journey, Bishop and Rose had between them decided on the fastest ship, not caring about fine accommodations. Space was small, spirits were cordial—and the trip offered opportunities for further intermingling and bonding.

  Rose continued to relate to Clara as her missing sister, feeling that old ache of something lost finally assuaged.

  “With you,” Rose said to Clara as they sipped tea on the upper deck on a crisp morning, “the life I had chosen, a lonely life of work and solitude, now feels more full; there are possibilities ahead.”

  “I’ve chosen the very same life,” Clara replied. “We are twins indeed, in so many ways. We see the world in much the same way. Whatever sent my soul to America, it was because we were meant to become greater separately than we would have been had we been together all along. I have to believe that.”

  “I agree.”

  “Twins are like that,” Louis murmured, hovering near.

  Rose noticed Clara glancing at a patch of air that looked as if light was caught in some sort of gauze or film. She asked, “Forgive me, Clara, but I must ask. Are you communing with a ghost? I see the faintest irregularity in the air just there and feel a bit of a chill.”

  “Yes, Louis is here,” Clara replied, gesturing to the air beside her. “Louis, Rose Everhart, my age-old sibling, Rose, Louis Dupris, my … muse.”

  Rose was glad she was matter-of-fact about ghosts and in fact treated them as if they were alive, simply with different particulars. Somehow Clara made it all seem perfectly normal, which was in itself a gift.

  When Louis was not around, Clara told Rose of their relationship and alluded to a certain aching and unresolved strain between her and Bishop. Now and then Rose would say something about Spire, and Clara would look at her knowingly. Having a friend, a true kindred spirit—not just her distracted relation who was more like an empty body than a confidante—made Rose feel buoyed.

  She’d deliberately turned away from what society prized about women in an effort to stake out her own territory, but here was proof that she didn’t have to forsake sisterhood. Clara’s example perhaps meant that she didn’t have to give up entirely on the idea of male companionship either. Clara bucked convention and societal traps and still made room for caring, however much of a loss Louis had been and a complication Bishop might be. A more full life … Provided they stopped the shadows.