The Eterna Files Read online

  “You need a day to rest,” Bishop countered, trying to maintain a gentle tone, but his insistence made it strident. “I cannot have you in that office until further safety measures are installed.”

  She reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. “You did promise not to exclude me.”

  Bishop sighed. “Once I’ve confirmed that Franklin has returned safely, I suppose … If I know you won’t be alone there, I won’t palpitate with worry. Come along, then. I know I can’t dissuade you. We’ll have a look. I need Franklin’s update as much as you do.”

  Clara smiled and nearly dragged Bishop down the street. Lavinia’s chair was empty—the young woman had been instructed to stay home and her infamous actor fiancé had even stopped touring to be by her side.

  “Thank goodness you’re here and all right,” Bishop said upon catching sight of Franklin at his desk. “I’m sure you’ve some tales to tell.”

  Fred Bixby was also present, waving at them from his small desk that was covered in papers. “Good to see you, too, Bixby,” Clara said.

  Bixby nodded then returned to his work, using one finger to stab at a ledger line and follow it across the page.

  “Indeed I do,” Franklin replied, then brought a cup of coffee to his lips. He looked like he hadn’t slept since the abduction.

  No matter what she decided to do with Smith’s information, Clara felt it was now more important than ever to tie up loose ends. To arrest those who had abducted them, to keep further plots from brewing. One by one, all Eterna’s ghosts, living or dead, would either pay for their misdeeds or be set to rest.

  Franklin spoke quietly, having a hard time looking at Bishop. “Is Lavinia all right?”

  “Recovering in the arms of her dear Mr. Veil, so I hear,” Bishop replied. “He made quite the dramatic entrance into Evelyn Northe-Stewart’s home, asking after her. I’m sure he’ll incorporate the incident into one of his shows. How is Allen?” Bishop pressed.

  Franklin’s jaw clenched. “Dead…”

  Bishop and Clara both made exclamations. “Those bastards,” Bishop cried. “They killed him?”

  “No,” Franklin said quietly, a bit dazed. “At least, I don’t know. He’s said to have died in an asylum.”

  “Beg pardon?” Clara asked. Only a few months ago she’d seen the man at one of Bishop’s campaign events, as kind and boring as ever.

  “Committed!” Bixby cried, startling them. “Just like I’ll be if I don’t find out something about that damned house you all were dragged to! It’s like it’s not even there!” Ascot undone about his neck, mustache unkempt, he jumped up and darted to the office door. Not finding records of things that should be recorded was Bixby’s worst nightmare. “I’ve another hall of records to examine,” he called over his shoulder as he headed down the stairs. Clara and Franklin blinked after him a moment.

  “I guess that’s where we stand on the mansion investigation,” she said.

  “Go on,” Bishop barked. “How did Justice Allen die?”

  “Found him hanging in his cell this morning,” Franklin murmured with a shudder. “Having tied pieces of his clothes together for a noose. Seems Allen suffered a breakdown directly after the Eterna incident. No one was informed, he lived alone with only his housekeeper and I haven’t found any relatives who either knew of the breakdown or who would have had him sent to that dreadful asylum. The staff there said he’d come in voluntarily.”

  Stunned, Clara managed to ask, “And what of our paperwork? The files, whatever the British would be looking for?”

  “I searched the house, at least in all the visible areas, while the poor distract housekeeper was trying to be helpful. I told the precinct officer who arrived to watch the house for activity. The housekeeper said that the judge had burned many things in the fireplace. Surely whatever he had of Eterna went up in smoke. There was a file on his desk that I believe pertained to us but it was covered in overturned ink and entirely illegible.”

  Clara sighed. “Did you see his cell … were there any signs…”

  “His body had been taken down by the time I got there. Nothing obvious in his cell. Nothing I could derive from the guards. I asked to see his body in the morgue and was denied.”

  “Is there even a body at all then? Could it have been a ruse?” Bishop asked.

  “That would be my hope, sir,” Franklin replied. “I just don’t know what to make of it all. I put the local authorities on the alert and asked them to let us know what they find.”

  Clara wondered, morbidly, if everyone around Eterna suffered an ill fate … How long before all of them met their ends?

  “I’ve got to get to work. And get to the bottom of what happened,” Bishop growled, storming off. He turned at the threshold, staring from Franklin back to Clara. “Don’t let each other out of your sights. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.” Franklin bowed his head. “And I am sorry about Justice Allen.”

  “Thank you,” Bishop said, his cold tone softening as he glanced at Clara. “Loss is epidemic these days.” She looked away. “So we must be more kind and gracious than ever to those who remain.”

  She offered the senator a soft smile and he exited.

  Thanks to Franklin, Clara soon had a cup of coffee in her hand. She sank deeper into her chair, layers of muslin, ribbon, and lace rising up around her like the crest of a wave. Franklin rubbed his fingers against the firm line of his jaw.

  “So what to do now that the trail of the rest of the research has gone cold? Do we try to summon Mr. Dupris again, if that’s even possible? Another of the scientists?”

  Clara shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  “I’m sorry,” Franklin murmured. “That wasn’t very thoughtful of me.”

  “It’s fine,” she said coolly. “Go on.”

  “I’m going back to the Goldberg house,” Franklin said, and got to his feet.

  “To do what?”

  “I assume our abductors went snooping, considering they wanted to know where it was.” He flexed his hand, the hand that could see into the past in a way that still made Clara marvel at its magic. “I’m going to see what I can see.”

  “Indeed, that’s very sensible. While you’re there, will you look to see if there are other carvings I missed on the first floor? Perhaps anything on the walls?”

  “Aren’t you coming with me?” Franklin held out an arm. “You dare not go in, but you ought to be nearby. We’ll catch hell from the senator if we split up.”

  Clara thought for a moment, then rose. She’d see Franklin to the site. As Lavinia did not live far, she’d tell him she was going to visit. Instead she’d go to Columbia. Moving to a cabinet by the office door, she procured a small carpet bag.

  “Going on a trip?” Franklin asked warily.

  “In case you find something interesting to take away,” she replied.

  As they rode a jostling trolley uptown, Clara’s instinct to withdraw and say nothing was powerful, and thankfully the car was too crowded for them to talk openly about anything.

  Always cautious of her condition, Franklin accepted her declaration that she would go no closer to the house than the corner of West Tenth and Fifth Avenue. She warned him of the carvings and eerie omens within.

  “The senator will flay me if he knows I let you go—”

  “I’m not a child, Franklin,” Clara snapped. “I appreciate everyone’s care, but I’ll visit Lavinia and then go straight home. Tell me tomorrow what you find.”

  He acquiesced and parted from her, not even noticing that she retained the bag she had brought ostensibly for his use.

  * * *

  Professor McBride was not in his offices in Columbia. The few students or staff who passed Clara gave her disdainful looks, despite the fact she was dressed in fine layers of lace-trimmed muslin, with pearl buttons down her bodice and sleeves, an artful feathered straw hat, and lace gloves. All markers of her place in society and certainly nothing threatening. Just—and it pained her to
think this—out of place.

  The light flow of traffic was also to her advantage when she stood before Smith’s office, trying the door. It was no surprise that it was locked. Clara withdrew two of her hairpins and set to work.

  She’d practiced lock-picking on all the doors of Bishop’s house when he wasn’t around to notice, having decided that in her line of work it would be a very handy skill. It had indeed been one of the most helpful things she’d ever learned. As she shut Smith’s door behind her, she felt the cool draft and knew that she was not alone. Far off, she felt the first hint of a headache, but felt she would be safe for some time yet.

  One of the glass beakers in the small fireplace was alight, smoke curling in small wisps up the shaft. Clara was quite sure no one had dared enter this office.

  “What’s this, Mr. Smith? A hint? Please remember I’m here to help and I am on your side, and I honor your life, your loss, your legacy,” she murmured quietly. The cold draft that had been directly upon her seemed to dissipate. If that was Professor Smith, he was giving her a wide berth.

  She went to the mantel and bent, one hand keeping the skirts of her favorite cornflower blue dress well clear. With the other, Clara picked up the iron tongs from the set of fireplace tools. Collaring the smoking beaker, she moved it and its low-burning contents, which appeared some kind of soil or coal mixture, onto the marble-topped mantel. She took care to position it where it could not fall onto her head or her skirts.

  Trading the tongs for the poker, she stuck the implement up the chimney and traced its tip along each side of the square shaft until the pointed tip jostled against something metal. Removing the white gloves she had no wish to ruin, she reached up and found a rectangular tin.

  She pulled on it gently but it did not move. Clara shifted position to look up into the shaft. The object seemed to be hanging from a nail. Lifting the box disengaged the hook that had secured it to the nail and she was able to retrieve the sooty box and set it on Smith’s desk.

  Wiping the box down with a handkerchief plucked from her sleeve, she shook it and heard papers shifting. That was enough. Clara deposited the box in her small carpetbag, wiped her hand, and replaced her glove.

  “Thank you, Mr. Smith,” she murmured to the room. “If you can hear me and you see my Louis, tell him … that I miss him,” she said, swallowing hard.

  Grasping the bag’s wooden handles, she listened for footfalls at the door. When there was utter silence, Clara set Smith’s door to latch lock behind her and slipped out again as unannounced as she’d arrived. Her hint of a headache receded as soon as she left the room.

  In the hackney home, Clara rubbed her temples, the starched lace of her cuffs scratching irritatingly at her cheek, wanting to think but feeling like she was standing in a sinking quagmire.

  She wanted to sit with papers and dream, like Louis. Darling, truly dead Louis; still dreaming and inventing, even as a spirit. Perhaps he was dreaming more purely than ever, being pure energy, devoid of a body.…

  Clara felt on the edge of some breakthrough; she felt something tingling at the corners of her brain, something she had missed. She did not want the Eterna project to go forward but she did want to understand what drove Louis, what drove all of them to unveil the secrets they discovered. She wasn’t interested in the science or medicine of it—it was the spirit of the work that captivated her.

  Stepping back onto Pearl Street, she took a deep breath; the evening had begun to settle though the city never truly did.

  Lamplighters did their work on some streets while electric lamps flicked to life on other blocks. Clara thought for a moment about the mix of the old ways and those that would likely soon become commonplace. New York was forever a city in transition, always striving, moving forward, trying to save time, save hours, save life.… She felt that she was poised in a similar place, trapped between old and new, surrounded by her many past lives but seeking yet another future. Clara shook herself out of her reverie.

  Something caught her eye. Someone.

  A young man—he couldn’t have been older than sixteen—stood across the street, wearing a modest brown suit and trousers. He was standing directly under an electric street lamp. Cocking his head slightly to the side and taking a wide stance, he stared at her hungrily. Improperly. She narrowed her eyes and fixed a stern expression on her face, descending the small stoop to the sidewalk.

  As she turned toward home, she saw the lamp gutter above the young man. In the flickering light, she seemed to glimpse human silhouettes floating around him … dark, opaque silhouettes, like those that encouraged her to find the files.

  The light blew entirely, with a pop that made her jump. Clara hastily turned away, lest she be thought rude, staring at the boy. She also turned away because something about the young man’s face and those black, smoky shapes terrified her.

  Everything that caught her eye of late seemed haunted. So, thusly, she was haunted.

  Something clicked into place within her mind.

  She thought about the single defining characteristic of the papers listing three city’s respective magics. Each had their own regional components, items to create a sense of boundaries for the compound, that it be tied to this country’s soil and governance. But then there was one recurring theme. One word, even.

  Charge.

  That was it; the idea nagging at the corners of her mind.

  Bishop thought that meant something spiritual and Clara knew he was at least partly right. But charge had many meanings and connotations.

  They were not far from Thomas Edison’s Pearl Street dynamos, wonders of the modern world. She suddenly felt called toward their electrical whirr … their charge. And called toward someone who created in her a spark.

  She opened the door to the home she and Bishop shared together, intent on asking him whether electricity could also be a factor in overarching Eterna theory, preferably over a nice, long, lovely dinner.

  Behind her, all the lights on Pearl Street went out.

  That’s the trouble with electricity, Clara thought. Can’t be relied upon.

  Nor could her emotions, flickering like an unstable bulb. It was clear almost immediately that the senator wasn’t home. She went upstairs to her room. Moments later she slipped a note under the door of Bishop’s study so he would know she was home safe, then locked herself in and penned notes in her diary, making lists, fleshing out a plan that she hoped would help set everything to rest.…

  Eterna was full of the restless living and the restless dead. It needed to die once and for all. If England wanted to pursue a literal dead end, then let them be the ones damned for it.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  Spire watched Everhart as she stared out the window of the Millbank offices onto the teeming, jostling narrow waterway of the Thames, the next duty upon them. He wondered if she felt nervous.

  He felt frustrated. Grange and the Metropolitan had managed to keep several people in custody and alive; trials would be held regarding the Tourney business within the month. But Tourney himself was dead, and most of those still alive knew very little. Spire practically burned with desire to question them, to determine if they knew more than they’d revealed, but that was impossible, and not only because he was no longer on the force.

  The Omega team had been busy: communicating with Brinkman in a flurry of wires, preparing the route for today’s exchange of material, vetting the remainder of the new scientists, and making sure the facility was ready for them and secure.

  * * *

  “Are you a believer, Miss Everhart?” he asked, moving to stand with her by the window. “In the supernatural?” he clarified.

  “Does my answer really matter to you?” she asked. “Would it change anything?”

  Spire stared at her. “No. No, I suppose it wouldn’t.”

  “I’m not,” she replied. “Not really. But, I should say that if certain elements of this work prove themselves, I will believe them when they do. I hope you
will respect that.”

  There was no possible response he could make to that declaration, Spire realized.

  The clock struck. It was time for them to take their places.

  “Are you ready?” Spire asked. She nodded.

  Spire had to assume the rest of his team was in place. Unease gnawed at him, as if he could’ve created a better plan if he’d thought a little longer. Too late now. But was putting Everhart right into the thick of things the best call? Lord Black had rejected Spire’s request to delay in order to prepare more thoroughly, insisting that Brinkman’s material be sent on the first mail packet possible.

  Thankfully he’d have Grange and Phyfe on hand—he’d been allowed to use a few trusted Metropolitan contacts. This comfort countered his unusual sense of dread.

  Miss Everhart cleared her throat, the sound stirring him, and he looked up to find she was at the door. “Are you coming?”

  Spire joined her at the threshold, glad she did not seem to have the doubts he did, chiding himself for worrying about her ability to accept a bloody suitcase.

  * * *

  Rose didn’t think she had any reason to be nervous, yet she was. She shifted in her boots, feeling the gentle sway of her thick layered skirts, then realized she should stand still, lest nervous movement be a tell. At the turn of the quarter hour, a large black carriage drawn by horses accessorized with green and silver feathered plumes barreled across Longacre as if the dogs of hell were nipping at its heels. Though the carriage and its haste were as expected, the vehicle’s speed was so at odds with the generally lazy pedestrians that Rose thought some passerby would surely take notice.

  She detached her arm from Spire’s and walked toward the vehicle, which slowed as she approached. The driver tipped his hat—again according to plan, the same plan that had dictated her outfit: a fine green dress and a black crepe hat, which driver and passenger would look for.

  The carriage’s window curtain was drawn, but Rose glimpsed the shadow of a single figure within. She drew near. The window opened and the person inside—still unseen save for black gloves—offered Rose a small, black, leather-bound, rectangular case.