Eterna and Omega (16 page)

“But there was no banishment,” Stevens continued. “A Ward is helpful in keeping danger at bay, surely, but what about banishment? As a child, I used to see ghosts. The more I told them to go away, the less they came, until one day I didn't see them anymore. Unfortunately, these dark forces are no ghosts. They need a force equal to their own, something to push back against.

“The trouble was finding
my
magic,” he said, looking each of them in the eye, as if he was living for the very first time. “What could I call sacred and personal when everything had gone so dark and horrid?”

He showed them a small, ragged-edged daguerreotype of a woman. “My aunt, who raised me. She'd always been sickly, but she never made a worry over it, not a sound really, just suffered all her life in silence. When she died, I resolved to go into chemistry and see if I could make people's aches and pains go away. Then I was lured into the Society. I lost track of the reason for my work.”

He indicated a torn edge of the remembrance. “I put the corner of Auntie's likeness into the second mixture Miss Templeton afforded me, along with a strand of my hair, and the whole of a pendant of St. Luke I'd been given as a child. I wasn't named for the saint, but Auntie insisted, ‘Luke, you'll be the death of me, please wear this to protect you, you impetuous boy…'” Tears in his red-rimmed eyes spoke of ill health and strain.

“The chain broke long ago, but I always carried the medallion in my pocket. Because it meant something to her, it meant something to me. And who knows, maybe it's helped keep me alive thus far. I put that right into the vial. Lit it all up, as you said—the catalyzing power of fire I know well. I looked the Summoned in their nonexistent faces and said, ‘No, I will not be taken.' And wouldn't you know it…”

Stevens, either a born storyteller or, like Ebenezer Scrooge, he was reborn unto a new personality after the most harrowing test, had his audience all leaning in and their teas and coffees gone cold.

“They hesitated, there,” Stevens went on, “as if confused, clearly reluctant to be sent off. The vial lit up brighter than any fire. Once the contents had been reduced to ash,—save the saint, he of course weathered the elements without tarnish—I threw the contents at them and they vanished, as if I'd blown them out like a candle. Wisps of blackness, then nothing.”

Everyone collectively took a breath.

“And then,” Stevens continued, “I slept. I honest to God slept, for the first time in years. It's a miracle, whatever is up there in the heavens be praised.”

“Indeed. I only hope this is a result we can repeat,” Clara stated.

“How do we know you're telling the truth?” Bishop asked pointedly. Stevens stared at the senator with more earnestness than she'd ever seen, perhaps the expression of a man on the gallows suddenly reprieved.

“He is,” Evelyn said firmly. “The spirits assure me.” She turned to Stevens. “Your Auntie Mim is proud of you. She forgives you for the candlesticks. She knows you were just trying to afford a nice gift for the girl, she's sorry it didn't work out.”

Stevens burst into sobs. Evelyn blinked as if coming out of a reverie. Clara knew, from years attending séances with her and Bishop, that Evelyn was often unable to stop the spirits from using her to send messages. Everyone took to their cold tea and coffee until Stevens regained himself. Blessing offered his handkerchief, at which Stevens mumbled thanks.

“How can I next help?” the haunted man said suddenly. “I was prepared to die. And I am still, but if it is not my time yet, let me further your causes while I can.”

This redemption helped Clara feel that her Eterna hadn't entirely done harm.

“Help us make more Wards,” Clara said. “We'll need to place them all over New York, and people may have to learn to make their own, depending on how widely these ‘Summoned' attempt to permeate.”

“I should be happy to,” Stevens said, “but I've no place to live at present. Everything I had belonged to the Society—”

“My mission includes rescuing animals,” Blessing said. “I've a kennel uptown with a small shack on the property. If you are willing to look after the animals, particularly the dogs, you may live there. Help with the Wards, and, if there's any more of that dread toxin that you unleashed upon this city, you'd best make up a cure.”

“Gladly,” Stevens replied.

“Good, then, get to it. Thank you, Reverend,” Bishop said, rising, handing a bill to the disapproving innkeeper who did well enough to keep quiet.

“I'll escort you to the place,” Blessing said to Stevens. “I hope you like dogs. Between Henry Bergh and I, and our ASPCA associates, we've rescued more than we can easily take care of ourselves.”

“That will be a joy as well, Reverend,” Stevens stated earnestly.

“Our associate will bring you the ‘recipe' for the Wards,” Bishop told him, “and you'll be responsible for collecting the necessary items. Depending on how many we'll need, you'll have help. You'll be checked upon regularly, if you even think—”

“As long as I live, you'll have my thanks, service, and loyalty,” Stevens said.

*   *   *

Clara kept calling hours. Not because she was being courted or because she was so woven into the social fabric of New York society that she needed such formalities, but she did have a valued associate who preferred tea and sumptuous fabrics to the hard chairs and inconveniences of an office.

Years earlier, Mrs. Evelyn Northe-Stewart had explained, in a conversation over dinner, “Rupert, the girl needs calling hours. She needs a
semblance
of being a lady, of tending to the duties expected of her. That office you've put her up in is hardly conducive to the kind of talk ladies need to have to really get to the heart of matters. We need to be surrounded by lace and demure comforts, so that in a world owned by men, we appear inoffensive while we slowly and sweetly move to dominate.”

This had made Bishop grin and his eyes light up. Clara had instituted the policy that week.

It was Evelyn who had been Clara's primary visitor in the years since. Clara had few acquaintances and fewer friends; the nature of her work and her epileptic condition kept society, and much of the rest of the world, at bay. And it was Evelyn who came to call the day after Stevens had gone off with Blessing, with a familiar face in tow, a young woman displeased at having been brought along.

The housekeeper let Mrs. Northe-Stewart and her daughter-in-law into the fine parlor, where Clara had opened the curtains wide. It being another gray day, the light did not hurt her gold, delicate eyes as much as bright sun did. While Clara was hardly a shrinking violet, she was a “sensitive” in nearly every meaning of the word.

Clara greeted Evelyn and Lady Denbury warmly, the former, elegant and statuesque, always at the cutting edge of fashion, the latter, pretty, auburn haired, and dressed in similar finery, likely at the advice of her stepmother, helping a middle-class girl who had married above her station. The younger woman looked tired, and Clara doubted it was because of the young child at home. Natalie Whitby, Lady Denbury, displayed the kind of weariness that comes from nightmares and spiritual unrest.

The housekeeper brought them tea.

“How are you feeling, Clara?” Evelyn asked in her best maternal tone. “Have you had your … visitation?”

“I have.” They hadn't had time to discuss Louis since the medium had connected his spirit to Clara. “It's been informative. Hard, but … carrying on Louis's work is what I am meant to do.” She spoke circumspectly, for there were things Clara didn't feel comfortable saying to anyone other than Evelyn.

“There's much you may be meant to do, Miss Templeton,” Lady Denbury said in an encouraging tone.

“Clara, please, Lady Denbury,” Clara insisted, not for the first time.

“Natalie, then, Clara,” the young woman replied, somewhat to Clara's surprise. Her voice shifted, becoming less personal. “I'm here because I'm having nightmares, and as you may recall—”

“They're portents,” Clara said.

“Yes.”

Clara readied herself for yet more difficult news. “Well. Do tell.”

“I've had … visions … of a man … in a cell,” the young woman said slowly, her cheeks flushing in frustration and shame. “Bear with me as I speak, I beg you. Selective Mutism no longer keeps my tongue in shackles … but … when speaking of the horror, I sometimes seize up.”

“Oh, Natalie, how I understand,” Clara assured her. “I seize up quite literally when surrounded by supernatural onslaughts, I uniquely empathize. Continue when ready and comfortable. I am grateful you're here. I know you wanted nothing to do with this after your case was settled.”

Lady Denbury nodded. She took a sip of tea and visibly collected her nerves, squaring her shoulders, her bright eyes sharpening with determination. When she continued, her speech was much more fluid.

“I didn't. And I hate that my husband remains in London. I hate that anything has been asked of him. But that's not your fault, Clara.” She took another deep breath before continuing,

“To the nightmare. I saw … Moriel, to be specific, the ringleader of the Master's Society. There were images of pure torture, along the lines of the experimentation we dealt with ourselves, but now burgeoning on an almost, I shudder to think,
industrial
scale. Moriel planted harrowing, horrid seeds and the trees of his work bear fruit of the highest evil.”

“He is not dead, then?” Clara said, aghast. “Was Moriel not sentenced to death in England?”

“Perhaps he was, but we don't know for certain,” Evelyn replied. “We all thought Stevens was done for, after all.”

Looking older than her years, Lady Denbury shifted in her chair. “The beast's petty, personal motive against my husband has been supplanted by something far greater. My dream may not be literal, but that which Moriel woke gathers again. One can never truly kill evil, just displace it for a time.” She leveled her gaze at Clara. “My telling you of this is the extent of my involvement. I cannot have the demons sniffing about me, my house, my husband or, Christ forbid, my child.”

“Agreed, Natalie, entirely,” Clara said. “Well, then. I've been feeling a burning need to go to London. This confirms it. When should I leave?”

“Don't act hastily,” Evelyn cautioned.

“I'm not being hasty. When action is incited, when a chess piece is placed upon the board, why, if I make a countermove, am I hasty? You and Rupert—”

“Clara, it isn't only the timing. I've a caution for you.”

Clara pursed her lips. “What else have I done?”

“Don't be so quick to be defensive,” Evelyn scolded. “This is something I foresee. You are a captivating spirit, and people and forces are drawn to you. Be careful the company you keep.”

The medium refilled her teacup, speaking in a measured tone that Clara could not ignore. “Every morning that God grants us, the universe offers a finite amount of energy. Every day is a choice in how vitality is utilized. Hope is measured against practicality, dreams pitted against fears, indulgences weighed against sacrifices. Love strains against loss. Every day our angels battle our demons.

“To rise to such challenges is a daily election, each day a new opportunity, and we must surround ourselves with fellow soldiers who make the decision to fly with us rather than entrench us deeper into a squelching pit.”

Clara allowed this wisdom its appropriate breadth and space. After a moment, she sought further clarity. “Are there those around me now who seek to drag me down?”

“Perhaps. Those who may need more than you are able to give. Be careful of excess weight.”

Clara nodded, unsure whom Evelyn might mean. The woman's message needed to be taken in and digested, like a hearty meal.

“London has its thrall,” Evelyn added. “It is a captivating city. I adore it. But home is here.” Her expression was far away, wrapped up in old memories that she did not disclose.

As the ladies sipped tea, Evelyn asked questions about her grandchild. Fighting the Society had resulted in a few romances and increased families, despite all its horror.

Clara knew with the same certainty of her past lives that she was not to have a child herself, similar to Evelyn. Sometimes those with gifts had to be different kinds of mothers to the world, in ways the world would not expect, and likely not often understand.

The women took their leave, and Clara read the notes she'd kept in a personal diary around the time of the Stevens trial, and notes on an earlier interview with Lady Denbury, then just a mere museum curator's daughter. It had been only a couple of years, but they felt like lifetimes past. She made some new notes about this recent talk.

That evening Clara nearly fell asleep at her writing desk at home, slumping over, so she shifted into bed, and it was the rare night when slumber took her swiftly, the moment she lay down. She was awoken only by the eerie, strange sounds of electrical surges from Edison's nearby power plant, and she hoped there wouldn't be another disaster on the street that night.

*   *   *

G. Brinkman—a man who went by many various names—awaited his current quarry on Pearl Street.

He had already advised Lord Black that this man might be of use as a weapon when the black tide of Master's Society terror was finally ready to pour forth from the floodgates that had been for years now merely experimental.

Brinkman liked to think he was at the center of all important goings-on. He'd had his hand, one way or another, in a great deal of the Empire's successes industrially and internationally. Not that it came with honors; his work was private, quiet. So then was his pain, loss, terror, and constraint. The Crown would never know or understand what drove him to the lengths he would have to go.