The Eterna Files Page 8

  Spire ignored this. “I need more information about your American operative. Will he return? How embedded is he?” Black shrugged. “Does the man even receive orders,” Spire pressed, “much less obey them?” Black shrugged again. Spire cleared his throat, managing to keep his tone level. “You do realize, Lord Black, this vagary makes me uneasy.”

  “I’m sure it does.” The lord smiled. “You’re a man who hates uncertainty. But I, my good man, thrive on it!” he exclaimed, lifting one hand in a flourish. “I love losing myself in everything I don’t know. Curiosity, Spire! That’s what will keep us alive; immortal. Curiosity!”

  Spire remained unmoved by Black’s enthusiasm and handed over the decrypted message. “Miss Everhart is excellent with codes,” he blurted, unable to hide how impressed he’d been.

  “Our veritable wizard with ciphers. Blakely is too, in his way.” Black smiled mysteriously. “I’ll soon prove the full talents of your team to you.” Unsettled, Spire opened his mouth. Black continued with a scoff; “I can read you like a book, Spire. You don’t discount Miss Everhart because her intelligence is so obvious. You deem the others lunatics.” Black finally read the message and frowned. “Oh. One of America’s team survived after all and is being trailed.”

  The nobleman looked up at Spire. “With this news, I don’t know when our man will resurface again. He’s slippery, with a mind of his own. He gets us what we need, so he’s worth the headache.”

  “Known aliases?” Spire asked.

  “He sports variants of what may be his actual name, Gabriel Brinkman, though can we really ever be sure?” Lord Black smiled again, fondly, as if taken up by the romance of a spy’s life. “Ask Miss Knight if her gifts offer us a sense of where he’s gone off to.”

  “If my job is security services, sir, with all due respect, I truly doubt a medium is my foremost weapon. A weapon, rather, would be my foremost weapon.”

  Black laughed, though Spire had not intended to be amusing. “Mr. Spire, let me make something quite clear to you. The nature of your job is multifold. Sometimes you’ll have to be a policeman. Sometimes a spy. Sometimes a diplomat. Sometimes a liar and cheat in the name of England. Sometimes a soldier. And sometimes you’ll have to be a believer. You’re an extremely capable and talented man, but it is becoming increasingly clear that believing is the one thing you cannot do. And that’s a task worth working on.”

  “I will do my job, sir,” Spire said, careful to keep a level tone. “Please give me details, names, operatives, everything about Eterna on all clearance levels and precisely what you expect of me. I can do nothing with phantoms, whether I believe in them or not. Good day, milord.”

  Without a further word, he turned on his heel and strode away. “Try to enjoy your appointment, Mr. Spire,” Black called after him amiably.

  Spire nodded without turning around. For Spire, there was nothing enjoyable about work at cross purposes with logic, but Black’s enthusiasm was something to marvel at.

  As Spire stepped out from under the arches of the club, leaving Foley’s scowl behind, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man in a somewhat theatrical cloak approach quickly on the cobblestones. He had a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his face and his suit was too tight, revealing lines of a muscular body. Spire shifted to evade him but the stranger seemed determined to collide with him.

  Spire moved quickly to his right, but not before something landed over his head—a hood, something made of fabric anyway, dark and full of smoke. Spire struck out and felt a satisfying punch land somewhere in the central body mass of the caped man, but someone else dragged him back against the Parliament bricks. He gasped involuntarily and whatever acrid scent was in the hood overwhelmed him and he sank to his knees as everything faded to black.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  “You saw … how they died…” Clara murmured, staring at the bloody key.

  Oh, God. That would mean Franklin had seen Louis’s death.… She’d been shocked at how seeing an amorous note from him she’d hidden in her desk had pierced her like a lance. Her brilliant, seductive Louis, so full of life …

  “Yes,” Franklin said.

  Clara was staring at Franklin in horror when the door swung open and they both jumped.

  Senator Bishop strode into the room, which immediately felt smaller for his presence.

  Dressed in a black frock coat with charcoal trim, silk waistcoat, and gray ascot, he was an elegant study in gray scale. The senator wore his prematurely silver hair longer than was fashionable, usually curled neatly behind his ears, the edges brushing his shoulders. It was rather mussed now, and Clara knew this meant he had been raking hands through it in worry or distress.

  Stormy, steel-blue eyes reflecting the silver of his hair, he swiftly drew near to Clara, his sharp gaze locked onto her, examining her with a deep scrutiny that was both thrilling and unnerving.

  “Something went wrong,” he said quietly. “I can feel it.”

  Clara nodded, glad he got right to the point. “Yes. I left you a note.”

  “Ah, thank you, my dear,” he said softly, “but I’ve not been home to see it. The New Jersey caucus was a frightful mess and needed a day’s work. Coming in from the ferry, I went directly to check on the laboratory.” The senator swallowed hard. “Nothing is there. No one. Perhaps the team moved it? Save for a few old books and equipment, everything is gone.”

  “I think, sir,” Franklin began carefully, “I may know where they…”

  “Died,” Clara whispered, willing herself to keep calm and maintain smooth countenance. “They died yesterday.”

  “Dear God.” Bishop closed his eyes and murmured a little prayer. This afforded Clara a moment to press tears well back behind her eyes, willing herself to drink saltwater down her throat rather than lose her composure here.

  “You’ve a lead?” Bishop turned to Franklin. “Did your gift of past-sight play a role?”

  “It did, sir. This key revealed an address,” Franklin replied, displaying the item.

  “Well done, my good man,” the senator declared. Even Franklin was not immune to the senator’s charm; he displayed a flash of pride at the compliment.

  “I am sure it’s where something happened,” Franklin added, “but I saw no bodies. We found the key mere moments ago and have no idea who left it for us. It was not here when we were last here. I should know. I cleaned.”

  “How curious.” Bishop fiddled with the knot of his neckwear, a custom of his when musing. “My contact in the House of Lords has told me English eyes are spying, but what they know, why the lab and the scientists are all disappeared, the origins of this key; I haven’t a clue.”

  “I don’t suppose today would be the day you’d care to reveal your contacts? Anything that may have led to this?” Clara asked, an edge to her tone.

  “Clara, don’t start, please,” Bishop said wearily.

  Once the Eterna Commission had been put into place, she and Bishop had been relegated to figureheads, nothing more. Bishop was granted more clearance than Clara, though even his knowledge was limited. For Clara, being set apart from the project she had helped birth and allowed no interaction with the theorists or the laboratory, was infuriating. Her resentment of the circumstances had only grown through the years.

  “I dreamed the British are coming,” Clara stated. “It was one of those dreams; the kind that can’t be ignored. So you might want to start trusting me with more information, senator.”

  Bishop turned to her and her breath caught at the sight of his deeply pained expression. He spoke with earnest solemnity. “I take my English contact with a grain of salt, but I always trust your dreams, Clara. And it’s true. You’re no longer a child. I can only do so much to protect you. Anything I’ve ever withheld, it’s been for that reason alone.”

  There was a tense silence. Clara wasn’t sure whether to feel better or worse.

  “We must determine what happened,” Bishop continued, breaking the tension with dire
ctives. “Keep watch for a certain ‘Brinkman.’ He’s been here a few years. He came to light—and my attention—while aiding a British lord beset by paranormal circumstances. Brinkman is fond of travel. Get your man on the books to look for variants of his name.” The senator turned to the door, coat flowing behind him. “Are we going to find this place or aren’t we? Come on.”

  * * *

  The three were silent as they rode uptown on a swaying trolley car. They hopped off before the car veered towards the open plaza and tumult of conjoining streets that was Union Square, walking west toward Fifth Avenue.

  In the distance they could hear the swelling chants of a labor union rally, a coalescing force that took to the open park regularly. Clara wondered briefly what had sparked this protest—perhaps the most recent garment district fire, in which six women had burned to death. Life and death shared such close quarters in New York City. They strolled now along a pleasant, residential block, just a block south of that latest conflagration. Chaos and calm, separated by a street or two.

  That was what made working on Eterna somehow plausible in New York to begin with.

  Though the day was warm, Clara couldn’t stop the shudder coursing up her spine. To defray her fears, she focused on the firm plod and subtle scrape of Franklin’s uneven stride. It was a strange comfort, that sound, something so fallibly human.…

  The air was sweet—well, sweet in that early summer New York way—and laced with a tinge of horse manure. There were no clattering trolleys or rails on this bastion of residential properties. The block was quiet, peaceful … and oddly free of pedestrian traffic.

  Clara felt the change in atmosphere and knew they drew closer to their destination. Bishop felt it, too—she saw that in the hesitation of his firm, purposeful step, the subtle tilt of his head. The hairs on the nape of Clara’s neck bristled and rose.

  The Eterna team had usually hidden in plain sight, in various industrial locations where deliveries of goods would not be suspect, but this location was unexpectedly residential.

  “What’s the address?” Clara asked softly.

  “Is anyone listening?” Franklin countered.

  The three looked around. Passing pedestrians, the occasional buggy, hansom, or cart. No one seemed interested in them. No faces in windows. No doors ajar. One learned to look for the signs of a city that was listening. New York had much to listen to; it was the perfect place to hide. But it was a city that also might not hear you scream.

  A sudden voice rang out from across the street. “Miss Templeton, Mr. Fordham, and Senator Bishop. Together again?” A familiar face tipped into view beneath a bowler hat. Clara sighed, aggrieved. “I’ve missed you, Miss Templeton!” called the man, who looked roughly near Clara and Franklin’s age, late twenties. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”

  Peter Green, journalist for the New York Tribune, had first encountered Clara during an investigation into grave robbing years prior, and had pestered her ever since. Brown hair poked out from beneath his hat; his dark blue frock coat and a long striped ascot somehow made him seem even taller than he was, with their angular cut and strong vertical lines.

  “Nothing about Miss Templeton is any of your concern,” the senator quipped.

  “What’s brought you to this fine neighborhood?” Green asked, ignoring the two men and focusing entirely on Clara.

  “You know, Mr. Green,” Clara said with a bite in her voice, “that I’m not at liberty to tell you that. As I say every time you manage to run into me.”

  Green crossed the street to stand near them on the sidewalk, speaking more quietly. “It has to do with your secret initiative, the one that’s been years in the works—”

  “I will have you arrested, Mr. Green,” Bishop stated calmly.

  “On what grounds?” the journalist whined. “I’m not trespassing—”

  “But you’re following us,” Bishop interrupted.

  “You’re flattering yourselves.” Green laughed. “I happen to live a block away.”

  “You do follow Miss Templeton,” Franklin growled. “It isn’t gentlemanly. You’ve been warned—”

  “If a journalist takes being threatened seriously,” Green said, shaking his head, “he needs to rethink his profession. For the record, I follow Miss Templeton because she’s interesting and clearly up to something. All the great New York detectives—of which you are not one, Mr. Fordham— rely upon dogged investigative journalists. You should see me as a resource, not an enemy. As for what the senator here is up to, I’m always intrigued—”

  “Would you like me to report you to the local precinct?” Franklin asked with a gamesome smile. “I believe Lieutenant Kaminski is on the beat at the moment.”

  “Ah, Kaminski, good man.” Bishop nodded, folding his arms. Everyone glared at Green.

  Green sighed. “Can’t blame a man for trying to get a story.” Seeing he’d get nothing more out of the three, he strolled away, occasionally glancing back. The investigators stared after him until he disappeared around the corner.

  “Every good operation needs an irritating, nosy busybody,” Bishop muttered with a chuckle.

  “Could you not simply mesmerize the man to keep his distance?” Clara asked. Only she and Franklin knew about that particular talent of the senator, who, out of pride, hardly ever utilized his powers of persuasion.

  Bishop shrugged. “Tails can keep us vigilant,” he replied, then took a breath, looking not at the whitewashed building they’d paused in front of but the next one over. “This one,” he murmured. “It’s been years since I saw the paperwork, but I think Malachi Goldberg lived here.”

  The building in question was a dark red brick with brownstone detailing, a basic, unremarkable town house save for the pall of dread that seemed to hang over it. A film of smoke and dust ringed each black-trimmed window frame. The building’s cloistered air was off-putting on such a well-lived street.

  The feeling the building exuded was one of a held breath. Clara hoped whatever the building wished to exhale wouldn’t be too overwhelming. Bishop sniffed the air, squinting up and then scanning slowly down the structure as if he were a building inspector, but Clara knew his consideration was far more spiritual in nature.

  “The structure isn’t teeming,” Bishop concluded. “Something is off about the place, but does it require extra precaution? Clara?” Her name was a request for confirmation.

  “Not yet,” she replied. “It won’t be comfortable, but we can take the time we need.”

  A fine mahogany brougham passed behind them as they descended the stairs to the lower-level entrance, which was shaded by a black iron overhang that protruded from the face of the building like a mourner’s veil. Rivets in the wooden door signaled that a layer of metal had been added. The door bore vague smoke marks that tinged the threshold and added to the general air of menace.

  “Open the door, please, Mr. Fordham,” Bishop commanded. He turned to Clara. “The moment you begin to feel the aura—”

  “If I do, then I will exit,” Clara assured him, steeling herself. Neither of these men knew the keening ache in her heart, the fear of what they’d find within, and she could not let on. “I would hope after all these years you trust I’m not cavalier about my condition, but I will not let it exclude me from our work.”

  Bishop nodded.

  Franklin withdrew the bloodied key from his coat pocket and he slid it into the lock. The latch fought a moment before yielding, squealing on hinges that sounded but did not look rusted.

  A peculiar metallic scent accosted Clara’s nostrils with the strength of smelling salts. The outside light filtering past the shaded entrance revealed a dark hallway with a wooden staircase leading up on the left and a closed door down to the right. The sheet of metal indicated by the exterior rivets had been affixed to the inside of the door and bore, near the handle, a terrible image.

  The oxidized print of a hand.

  Clara shuddered and forcefully shut down the part of her mind that
insisted on imposing horrific iterations of Louis’s demise onto this eerie setting. She owed it to his memory to keep herself together. She pressed trembling fingertips to the protective talisman under her bodice and said a prayer for strength.

  A great deal of soot and ash drifted about on the floor in the draft from the open door. Clara prayed she was not standing in someone’s remains, but had the sinking feeling she was—they all were. That’s why there were no bodies. The team all went up in dust.…

  They stepped into the first room.

  “This is the room I saw,” Franklin declared.

  In a typical home, the space beyond the pocket doors they stepped past was likely used as a parlor, but instead of settees and console tables and genial discussions of the weather, there were slate-topped wooden laboratory tables where coiled gas burners with small-nozzled jets sat between an array of glass containers. There were wooden stools at each station and a scattering of steins and coffee mugs surrounded each place.

  Across the room towered a hefty bookshelf that held formidable tomes and various brass instruments that reminded Clara of astrological tools. The long, rectangular room sported greenish satin wallpaper above wooden paneling; the velveteen floral flocking of the paper was the only remnant of the room’s past life as a place of teacups rather than tubes and beakers.

  The whole of the wooden paneling that covered the lower four feet of each wall was charred in an odd pattern that never rose above the paneling. The greenish satin was unmarked save for the occasional searing lick of flame. The damage did not appear consistent with a normal fire, and Clara had seen many, for New York had no shortage of conflagrations.

  The residue on the walls was slightly yellow. The scent in the air was bitter and sour. Sulfuric.

  It was hard to acknowledge the presence of sulfur and not think of hell.

  Clara wondered suddenly—though not for the first time—if her idea had not been born of a divine and loving God; if it sprang, rather, from some less amenable force.

  Bishop had trailed them into the room and now she saw his body stiffen, as hers had within the constraints of her corset. She knew he could feel the distressing vibration of the room just as she could. He turned to her.