The Eterna Solution Read online

  The horn blasted again.

  Stepping out onto the walkway, he offered his arm to Clara. She took a deep breath, calmed her racing heart, cooled her burning cheeks and slid her arm onto his.

  They found the rest of their cadre assembled on the main deck, looking as groomed as ship travel might allow. Clara studied them for a moment, taking their measure. They all shared the look of wartime soldiers.

  The ship approached the busy harbor, where the brown stone spires of the still-unfinished Brooklyn Bridge impressively defied the sky. The teeming harbor and bustling city were an intricate, moving tapestry of countless colors and shapes. New York was, in and of itself, magical, inimitable.

  But she could not forget her worries about the scars, the bloodied land still reeling from slavery’s shame, and what kind of toll was taken on the magic itself? No matter the bent of her own heart, if the society itself was flawed, unjust, unbalanced from the start, what hope did this island have to Ward out more oppressive evil? They were heading into unknown territory, into a nation that took possession of land day in and day out, in ways ruthless and unforgivable.

  Perhaps that was why the Society chose New York, or any part of the U.S. territories; so much blood on the soil, for many centuries, spreading ever westward. That humankind took and retook territory across every culture did not console her; it was the kind of excuse one made to keep stealing from others.

  As open psychically as she ever was upon water, she saw, in her mind, the wafting sorrow of the Lenape tribe’s ghosts still lingering on the edges of the island just ahead of her; the atrocities of Willem Kieft and his bloody war, when men and women were chased down, babies ripped from them, heads dashed on rocks, and the severed heads of tribal leaders he placed on pikes along the Bowling Green.… A psychic scar remaining upon the tip of the island. She wished she could rewrite their suffering and exchange it for a retrospective coexistence.

  Or perhaps it wasn’t their ghosts she sensed at all, as Native beliefs of the spirit world and the afterlife were different than hers, each tribe with their own tradition. She couldn’t presume. Her guilt was the haunt here; that she was of a people who benefited from stolen land now beholden to localized magic. This was a depth of worry to address.

  Her devotedly Quaker parents, and Bishop, too, had raised her to always be aware of injury, to seek to repair it, and to live in peace. Increasingly attentive to the slightest change in her these days, the senator noticed a pall come over her and he touched her elbow as the boat made its final approach into the clanging, whistling, roaring, teeming harbor.

  “Taking in the sight of New York, all I can think is how can we protect what is so deathly flawed?” she murmured. “What is sacred or Warded ground when so much unholy slaughter came to pass here?” She felt tears rise to her eyes.

  “Advocacy is far more useful than tears, Clara,” Bishop said gently. “And I promise you I will attend to the issues as best I can. We mustn’t excuse the human need to conquer and its deadly momentum, a runaway train that left from its station the moment European powers touched this shore. It is ironic, perhaps then, that we are here with English allies, but then they, too, must join in the righting of wrongs, affixing better brakes to that insatiable engine.”

  Their entire crew, the American Eterna colleagues that had gone to fight for England and those of Omega who had boarded to return the favor, stood near to the disembarking platform, the smaller of their luggage in hand.

  Bishop turned to the company with all his powers of persuasion and magnetism radiant in a palpable aura. He gestured toward the ever-climbing skyline and teeming cityscape.

  “Welcome back to New York,” Bishop said, turning specifically to Rose and Knight, who offered polite smiles, Rose trying to stand so that Knight’s elaborate peacock feather fascinator wouldn’t tickle her face, there in the powerful cross-breeze of the rivers’ confluence at the tip of Manhattan Island.

  Bishop then turned his magnetism to his elegant peer Evelyn Northe-Stewart, who seemed to take his mesmerism as if it were a passed plate at a communal meal, and she instinctively, protectively placed her gloved hand on Lord Denbury’s back.

  The young man stood silently, expressionlessly beside her, always dressed in some simple but magnificently tailored dark-colored suit. His beautiful face, now far too drawn, seemed antithetical in the bright sun. Clara’s heart swelled with empathy for the man; torn from his family to fight old demons he thought long dead, subjected to a constant and familiar torture. The young man’s health had steadily declined and he needed to recover far away from demons’ clutches and reminders of their evil.

  “To those joining us here for the first time, the senator, Clara, and I, and the whole city, thank you,” Evelyn added, turning to Spire, whose expression was more a grimace. Everyone knew this was no tourist trip.

  “But of course and we are happy to be here!” Lord Black exclaimed with a bob of his top hat. His cream-colored suit with a golden ascot and light blue waistcoat made him appear like clouds, sun, and sky, a perfect visual companion to his warm tone and ever-cheery disposition.

  Andre Dupris, in his usual vibrant style of russets and bright accents, a light green cravat magnifying the piercing quality of his hazel eyes, glanced around at the bustle of the nearby docks as if getting his bearings. Taking in nearly everyone in the company, he avoided looking at Effie, who stood adjacent. His expression took on an air of finality, and Clara understood what was about to happen.

  “My friends, before we disembark and go on our ways, I must confess: This is where I leave you. Not because I do not wish to fight fires here in New York, but there are similar conflagrations in New Orleans, as I have seen reported in what papers I could find. The Crescent City is another port town, another bulwark where the Master’s Society and their corporation sought to sully industry. You have, in yourselves, an impressive company; New York has the best and brightest.

  “New Orleans can claim only its beleaguered but passionate communities, the economic struggles of Reconstruction and the ghost of my brother, in his final rounds, struggling to make sure whatever has been upturned is righted once more.” He spoke quietly, and Clara assumed that, as she did, he still battled with the strange grief that was losing Louis over and over again; having parted with his mortal coil first, they were hit by secondary waves of loss whenever Louis’s ghost came and went.

  Clara was sure Andre, like her, did not begrudge his twin brother peace, but goodness how he was missed, in death as in life; his spectral presence as much a balm and help as his mortal flesh.

  Andre continued. “Of course my city will always have its art, heart, and indomitable soul. No demon can come for what is inherent.”

  No demon can come for what is inherent. That phrase echoed in Clara’s ears as if spoken in a cavernous cathedral. It echoed with the resonance of lives past, which always meant it would be important, now and in the future.

  “I can’t bear to see the reverend, or Mr. Stevens,” Andre added. “Please. If I see those dear friends, I’ll want to stay and help them. But New Orleans, she needs…”

  “Go on to the Mississippi, Mr. Dupris,” Bishop said. “I agree that it is best if we spread our knowledge and experience. We know that Apex had holdings in New Orleans, and we cannot abandon that charming city.”

  Ephigenia Bixby’s face was unreadable as she adjusted the calico shawl over her layered eyelet dress. Clara was ever impressed by her coworker’s impeccable mettle. But the way she stepped toward Andre, hands clenching the sides of her shawl, made Clara think she was not ready to part.

  “Now. My inimitable Miss Bixby,” he said solemnly, looking straight into her eyes, “I wish to say in front of our friends and colleagues that you are the finest woman I have ever known. Should you wish to come to New Orleans, I would be honored, and the city would gain a beloved sister in you. There are … kindnesses for people like us. Allowances for our heritage, a pride in our Creole class, to which you would be welcomed. Plea
se consider it.”

  “I shall, most heartily, Mr. Dupris. I make that visit a promise,” she replied earnestly as color mounted in her cheeks.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” he said, a fond sparkle in his eyes. The work had bonded them indeed, and if Clara wasn’t mistaken, they’d calmed something within one another. She could see anchors in storms, ships in ports, when she took a closer look at what their bodies seemed to say; at the unspoken words of their entwined auras.

  “To the rest of my fine folk,” Andre said, turning to the rest of them, “I will wire you when settled. I remain tethered to you in heart and soul. Louis … taught me that such a bond is an indelible, unbreakable cord. I tie my soul to you and may all of you be bound to me.”

  “If there is a finer sentiment, I cannot dream of one,” Lord Black said, stepping forward to clasp the man’s hands in his in a fond gesture. “Thank you, friend, you’ve been a great asset.”

  “I’ve been a coward,” Andre countered sharply. “I appreciate your giving me a chance at redemption. All of you have taken part in my transformation. I am less bitter a man, for all the horrors I’ve seen. Perhaps it takes monsters to cure a man from becoming one through a hardening of the heart.”

  This notion seemed to hit the assembled company like a small push toward a mystery solved. From what Clara knew of this man, he had grown indeed. Louis’s influence was obvious, a bit of the mad chemist and poet-philosopher bequeathed unto his twin.

  The ship horn blasted and the plank lowered.

  Andre tipped his hat, a brown bowler with an orange feather, picked up his bag, and walked away. Like Lord Black’s, his style made him notable against a sea of somber tones. They watched him go on ahead until his flair was lost in the shifting sea of Manhattan’s constant coming and going. Clara assumed he would seek out the nearest ship heading for the Mississippi.

  “So, let me ask my good New Yorkers,” Lord Black began, clapping his hands and returning their attention to one another. “Once you’ve gathered your things, as we Brits have the lighter loads coming here on emergency, where should we meet? Which of your ghastly anomalies shall we attend to first?” He smiled gamesomely, platinum hair and bright blue cravat tousled in a harbor gust. The dear man was undaunted. Clara’s heart warmed.

  “Lady Liberty first,” Clara, Evelyn, and Bishop chorused at once, Clara continuing, “If you please. Her poor hand. We’ve a hellfire to put out.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Once the team reassembled outside Eterna’s Pearl Street offices—where none of their staff was in—after returning luggage and freshening up in actual washrooms rather than cramped quarters and insufficient basins, three hired cabs managed to take their company up the angle of Broadway to Madison Square Park.

  Rose, Clara, Spire, and Bishop took one cab; Black, Miss Knight, and Effie followed in another. Evelyn Northe-Stewart would join them later, after seeing that Lord Denbury was safely reunited with his wife and child.

  While hardly matching the Arcadian splendor that was Central Park, Madison Square was a welcome swath of green among the bustle of theaters and retail palaces. Throngs of well-dressed ladies met there to walk the only avenue where society allowed them to stroll unaccompanied by a chaperone. The Sixth Avenue stretch known as Ladies’ Mile featured palatial stores showcasing the latest in international fashion.

  It had always offended Clara that the only place that society’s judgmental hand allowed her to be seen without a designated shepherd was focused solely on dressing prettily and spending money. Clara could have been that kind of woman, trapped on a pedestal. Instead, with the full support of her hardworking guardian, she had refused the beautifully gilded cage.

  For a moment she watched the birds of those cages strut about, hold their hats against the wind, pick up the folds of their skirts and dart laughingly out of the way of trolley car and carriage with their fellow flock of extravagant plumage. While she admired some of their fashion, she didn’t want their lot. Her work was unlike that of most women but it was her own, and in happier times had given her much satisfaction.

  Nearing the park, the carriages slowed; the horses stamped and whinnied, sensing something off in the atmosphere around them. Animals had a pure, untainted clairvoyance Clara found at once both unnerving and inspiring.

  On the southern side of the square stood an elaborate pedestal constructed to showcase the hand of Bartholdi’s Statue of Liberty. This gift, which hopefully would one day rise on Bedloe’s Island, represented Edouard de Laboulaye’s hope to cement France’s identity as a democracy and to honor the United States’ own revolution. Her sister sculpture already stood proud beside the Seine in Paris, but fund-raising efforts for Lady Liberty had stalled and the arm and torch had been left standing in Madison Square Park.

  It really was a sight to behold. Uncanny and entirely out of scale. A hand. A hand bigger than the struggling park trees.

  Just a hand with a torch, as city leaders remained ill at ease about the “signal” she would send in the harbor. Rabble rousing, thought the elite of the city, disquieted about the thousands of unwashed masses who arrived on Manhattan’s shores year after year, pouring in from around the world.

  It wasn’t the copper hand or torch itself that was the present trouble. It was the fire leaping from the sculpted flame. Green fire. Not because of copper patina, but something foul that smelled of sulfur. Fire and brimstone, if someone were to think too long on it.

  The great arm emerged from a stone pedestal; a stairway at the rear gave access the arm. To the side of the structure stood Franklin Fordham and the reformed chemist Mr. Stevens.

  Bishop had wired the office when they’d be arriving and attending to the matters of request, this being the first. Their team was clearly awaited by these two weary men who had remained behind to guard the city. Clara could see worry, fear of failure, and shame on their faces.

  “Thank you for returning as soon as you could,” Franklin said to the group.

  A stocky, auburn-haired man who wasn’t half as imposing as his stature, Franklin was nearly Clara’s age and had been sought out by her in visions and premonitions, a reconnection from a past life. He had been brought into the Eterna Commission to help expand the department’s reach, a man with a melancholic heart and a shocking gift of psychometry. He seemed surprised by the British contingent.

  His usually neatly trimmed beard was unkempt, his eyes were deep-shadowed, and the tilt in his posture due to his bad leg was more pronounced than usual. His smile was genuine and his relief palpable at the sight of his colleagues. The poor, dear heart, Clara thought. He was not made of stern stuff.

  “Of course, Mr. Fordham,” Bishop replied. “We never intended to abandon you. There is much to discuss, and actually much to celebrate despite so many aftereffects still lingering.”

  Clara turned to Mr. Stevens, who looked just as tired as Franklin but not nearly as harrowed. Upon their arrival, he had accepted a hug from her with a small sound of joy and appreciation, as if he had been offered treasure. His work with Eterna had given the former criminal—who had once been in league with the Society—a resurrected spirit.

  Just then, out of the corner of her eye, Clara saw a familiar presence strolling up the street, gaze focused intently on her. She did not bother to hold back her audible groan at the sight of the lanky, thin man in a plaid suit that did him no justice. He wore a brown bowler low across his forehead; light brown hair poked out in tufts from beneath the brim.

  Instinctively, Bishop stepped toward Clara as the man reached the group. He glanced up at the torch, then cocked his head with an infuriating expression of playful curiosity, focusing his attention once again on Clara.

  She sighed. “Mr. Green. I should have known you’d miss me and search the city over to find me out.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s been dogging me about you this morning and in my exhaustion I let slip I might see you,” Franklin muttered. “He read English papers and assumes it’s
all related.”

  “Green. The prize thorn in my side,” Bishop declared. “Come to make yourself useful?”

  “That has only and ever been my aim,” the man replied as if offended.

  “Paying too close attention to Miss Templeton along the way,” Bishop reprimanded him. “It is ungentlemanly, Green.”

  “You’ve been gone awhile,” the reporter replied, “and therefore free of my attentions. Where were you?” When he received no answer, he gestured to Bishop and Clara’s companions and asked, “And who are these fine fellows?”

  “Tourists,” Harold Spire declared. “The senator and Miss Templeton are expert guides.” His London accent made all his consonants more pronounced. Rose said nothing, simply smiling primly at Spire and then turning wary eyes to Green.

  “Listen,” Green said. “Allow me to be of use. I saw a strange man around this torch, in workman’s clothes, carrying something that he did not have with him when he descended. I assumed he was with the commission responsible for the statue, but it was not long after that I noticed the odd fire, so I thought perhaps there was a connection. When I went to your offices to see what you might make of this, I found the place quite understaffed.” Franklin opened his mouth to retort when Green continued.

  “I have watched the arm for the past several days. This park is my haunt, and before you ask, I have not seen that man again.”

  “Was there anything odd about him, physically?” Spire asked, his policeman’s habits immediately taking hold. “Anything about the eyes?”

  “Yes, actually, I was profoundly unnerved by him,” Green said, for the first time in the conversation looking visibly shaken. “He caught my eye as he took to the pedestal, looking around before darting up the stairwell. His eyes were dark, and shined oddly, like those of an animal at night when they catch the light from a lantern.”

  Her team and their allies shared a look. Possessed, then, Clara thought, her stomach sinking. There were still tainted properties and active possessions. Shouldn’t this all have died with Moriel?