Eterna and Omega (36 page)

“Get good rest tonight, Gabriel,” Moriel ordered. “I'll want your help whipping all my minions into quick shape and get them marching tomorrow.”

“I will, Majesty.”

“Good night, Father,” said the demon disguised as his boy.

“Good night.”

Brinkman walked up the grand, dusty stairs to one of the smaller guest rooms, where he lay atop the covers and gave himself his own last rite.

 

CHAPTER

TWELVE

Clara was awake at the break of day, having rested deeply by the grace of some higher power, her seizures forcing the issue by exhausting her physically, despite the whirlwind of thoughts that hadn't stopped their rapid spin since arriving in England.

Lord Black escorted her and Bishop to a nondescript brick industrial building in Millbank, with an expansive view of the busy, noisy Thames, and held the door for them. As they stepped in, they heard a strange sound above them and a little pop, like that of a photographer's flare, and as the door closed behind them, they noted a contraption with a paper ticker above the door that recorded the time, the numbers, and the silhouettes of the three forms in the door frame in an unembellished overexposed print upon the thin strip.

“Not a bad idea for our offices,” Bishop said to Clara, who nodded and took in the open, cavernous three-story space before them, a metal stairwell connecting the floors in simple, industrial grandeur.

Lord Black descended a stairwell and bid them follow him into a lower-ceilinged room with rows of long wooden tables and narrow windows looking out to the street, bars across the panes for protection. Not much light came in, but Clara deemed it a better work environment than a cellar—clearly better than the shuttered horror of the last Eterna work, and she marveled at the rows upon rows of small glass tubes, all layered with sediment, water, and various substances of provenance she could not determine.

At the back of these rows, on a tall stool, sat a man who seemed straight out of a fairy tale book, a sorcerer of ancient times, his dark hair offset by silver streaks and a long blue velvet robe draping from a thin body.

“Dr. Zhavia,” Lord Black called gently. The man, so focused on his work, started but looked up with a smile. “I don't mean to disturb you, but—”

“New company? Who's this?” The man shuffled up the aisle between the tables toward them, youthful energy offsetting the wizened appearance. His accent was thick and seemingly Russian Jewish to Clara's ear, theirs being a prominent population of recent New York immigrants.

“May I introduce the heads of the American Eterna Commission, Senator Rupert Bishop and Miss Clara Templeton,” Lord Black stated. “Dr. Zhavia has been working tirelessly since Miss Everhart wired us your Warding advice, Miss Templeton, and we're grateful to have had some time to prepare them.”

The man studied the two of them with such scrutiny it would have been unnerving if he hadn't had such an excited look on his face.

“Oh, my friends,” he said, nearly bouncing on his feet. “Gifted. Gifted, gifted.” He lifted an aged hand to hover around Bishop's forehead, fingertips fluttering as if plucking strings of an unseen instrument. “Mesmerist, ah…” He then turned to Clara, hand hovering near her ear. “Hmm. Heart of the matter. Extrasensory talent attuned to more worlds than one. Ah, what a joy to see my people!” He withdrew his hand, and Clara and Bishop exchanged a surprised glance before the doctor waved them over to a nearby table. “Come, come, you'll understand this.” He peered at Clara. “You will best. Your idea, the Wards?”

“Our commission's idea, yes,” Clara replied. “The Wards were developed by Louis Dupris, Andre's brother, and we've implemented them. Speaking of Andre, where is he?”

“Warning friends of his who live in the city to take care today. Louis … ah, yes, the ghost twin. Brilliant man, brilliant. Localized magic—so simple and so effective with the right hearts.”

“May I ask your recipe?” Clara asked, gesturing to the rows of glass vials.

“Oh yes!” He lifted a vial and pointed to each layer as he explained.

“Water of the Thames, of course, as every river is the heart of its city,” Zhavia began. “Then dirt from as many different hallowed grounds that I and my associates could find. Thankfully, I have rabbi and Spiritualist Christian friends who helped gather all the various sacred sediments from around the city,” he said with a grin, as if he were a delighted elf ready to shower the world with the good tidings of water and silt. “Mixing them, of course, as no one place is sacred for all people. Then a layer of dust from the stones of Parliament, as that is a throne of freedom we must protect from the deathly shadows,” the wizardly man concluded with a bow of his head.

“Of course,” Bishop agreed. Bishop and Clara couldn't help but share in this effervescent man's beaming smile.

“And,” he said, gesturing to the little sprinkle of brown flakes atop the sediment, “tea leaves. Without them, this just ‘wouldn't be a civilized affair,'” Zhavia added, affecting an upper-class London accent that roused a chuckle out of all of them, Black the most.

“Wonderful,” Clara stated, “truly. Do you have any idea if it works? Have you been able to test it, perchance?”

Here the joyful man turned somber.

“I wish I hadn't such cause, but unfortunately, I did. Last week, my rabbi had his small temple vandalized, and a member was killed there, out on the steps. An act of hate. The horror of the place had to be resolved.” He gestured to a vial. “I set the Ward alight, lit by a temple candle, and it sent off lurking shadows. I left that candle with my rabbi, and I was told that candle still has not gone out!” He brightened. “I'll take any miracle I can get.”

“So will we. Thank you, Dr. Zhavia. Your work is
vital.
” Clara picked up a vial and studied it. “Hello, England,” she murmured to its contents. She pressed it to her sternum, to the blessed talisman that had been a gift from Louis, the carved stone bird that flew below the layers of her clothing. At this, there was a small shimmer of light.

“Ah!” Zhavia exclaimed. “Look at that. You can simply light it by your breath, you are so full of life!” He peered up at her with his dark eyes. “Many lives.”

“Yes, I'm aware I've had many,” Clara replied.

“Bring them all with you!” he said with a laugh, tapping the vial she held. “Call upon them all!”

She withdrew an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve, wrapped the vial tightly into its folds, and tucked it between buttons and behind a chemise layer to rest against her skin, armored by her corset bones, ready for the fight.

“Let's box it all up,” Black stated. “I brought the largest of my carriages for this purpose. Trunks we fill here will serve as our distribution area near to Spire's lookout.”

“If we want to be doubly protected along the route,” Bishop added, “I suggest doses of the mood toxin antidote be distributed. In case Moriel has a second store other than the destroyed warehouse. There should have been a box of the cure deposited here.”

“Indeed, a wise precaution.” Black nodded. “We can mix it into that water barrel there,” he said, gesturing to a metal frame over a basin where a banded wooden barrel trailed a small capped hose. “Bring along what we have here. We'll have the masses drink from a few tin cups, or pour it into their own flasks; it will serve as a bit of odd communion. Come, let's load it all and see how the lookout fares.”

“If you don't mind, I wish to be with my congregation tonight,” Zhavia said. “We will be in a group near Parliament.”

“Of course.” Black replied.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Bishop said, striding forward to shake the man's hand. He bowed his head.

“We are, all of us, beholden and thankful,” Zhavia replied, bowing in turn to Clara. “And you stay strong, madame, anchor that you are.”

Clara nodded, not knowing exactly what he sensed, but her biddings from mysterious, gifted elders were similar enough not to question the prophecy.

*   *   *

Per Spire's plan, by midday, Grange's men had erected sturdy “construction” scaffolding around the base of the hefty Alexandrian obelisk. The “needle,” which had been a gift that arrived only four years earlier, now overlooked the Thames rather than ancient Heliopolis, its twin having gone to New York the year prior. Once the structure was secure, Clara, Rose, Black, and Spire ascended to their stations. Below, Bishop was handing out the glass vial Wards to the crowd, flanked and assisted by Andre and Effie.

Bishop's mesmeric persuasion was working well, though Clara was not sure how much it was needed—the assembling bystanders seemed eager for any kind of souvenir. Those who did not have matches were given a box, and by the time an hour had passed, Bishop had given out a few hundred Wards.

As for the wooden-barrel station to administer the chemical antidote as a preventative measure, it didn't take long for a line to gather near the base of the needle for a free sip of “tonic” winkingly disguised as gin.

With these measures in place, to the best their team could manage, the bystanders were doubly protected from whatever offenses would appear. Clara hoped Parliament itself could withstand the next hours.

The sun had just sunk into that curious, golden hour when light appeared its most mysterious when the first noise alerted the crowd to the unfolding events …

The forthcoming display began with a low, long, deep horn blast. Looking down toward Waterloo Bridge, Clara could see nothing in detail, just the suggestion of a crowd moving in their direction.

At length, the extensive procession was close enough to be seen from those on the obelisk: ensigns and standards—family crests, but none from prominent London gentry. The banners were carried by dim-looking men, women, and children who didn't look fully awake. They were either drugged or possessed—perhaps both.

“Odd … I don't know any of those families,” Lord Black stated.

A bright glow alerted Clara to the next phase of the display. “Oh no…” she said ruefully.

“What do you see?” Spire asked.

“Coming up to the crossing at Waterloo Bridge. Likely a host of ghosts,” Clara replied. The two men squinted.

“I don't see anything,” Black commented.

“Even my own spectral sight is limited and changes depending on circumstance. It is never consistent. However, that which is coming closer is an unmistakable horde of spirits,” Clara explained.

“Will the crowds see the ghosts?” Spire asked.

“Some may, most will not,” Rose replied. “This may be the same sort of display Clara and I saw in New York, on a far larger scale,” she said. “And even there, while I doubted the populace all saw the ghosts, everyone was affected, especially as the ghosts were tied to dead bodies. That's what we can't see from here. It's the bodies that are the worst of it … But that's likely where the electricity will come in.”

Black rummaged in a canvas bag, withdrew a wooden box, and lifted the lid. Inside was a sparking coil with a small buzz emanating from it. He shut it again promptly.

“Dreadful,” Lord Black murmured, holding the box and watching as the next section of the procession came within a few hundred meters. “I don't see forms exactly, but there is a ghostly glow in tow, I am seeing a change in the light. A thought struck him and his eyes lit. “I wonder if this will lure out our most elusive department!”

At this, Rose and Spire sighed in tandem.

“There is, supposedly, a department that specializes in specters,” Rose explained, seeing Clara's bafflement, “but we've found no actual evidence of them, just stories of a small band of men and women charged with spectral policing…”

“Like that small band of men and women there?” Clara asked, pointing toward Parliament. “They are mitigating some spirit onlookers. I can see them doing so.”

“By God, that's them! Oh, look, Spire! I've got to meet them!” Lord Black could not contain himself. He set the box aside, dashing down from his post in a few gangly leaps and headed toward the long-rumored “hidden department.”

“Lord Black, this isn't the time for—” Spire barked, then growled in irritation at being ignored. He turned to Rose. “I'll only be a moment. I can't let him get lost in this fray, I'll bring him right back.” He darted after the nobleman.

*   *   *

The Guard had felt the pull toward the governmental heart of the city in unison during a shared pint or two at their favorite Bloomsbury pub. As a result, they came upon the parade from the direction of Westminster and positioned themselves at Westminster Bridge, among a battery of Metropolitan Police. The police were milling about in nervous efforts to keep the public from going past them.

The mouth of Westminster Bridge held a particular power for this group of six men and women: It was where they had first met, youngsters drawn to the heart of the city and to their collective fate. They always stood a little taller and more sure of themselves on Westminster.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we ask you to stay on the east side of this blockade; no one is allowed to watch the event from the Parliament side,” said a uniformed young man, approaching The Guard.

The lean, ostentatiously dressed man with flaxen hair, Lord Withersby, stepped forward and with a wave of his hand shooed off the officer, who wandered away, dazed. The six men and women moved undeterred toward the throng of bystanders.

“Do any of those families mean anything to you, Rebecca?” Alexi, mounted on a black stallion, asked the tall, severe-looking woman walking alongside. She now and then patted the stallion's muzzle if he began huffing about having to plod along instead of keeping his usual speedy gallop.

“Not a whit,” the headmistress replied. “To be fair, I don't know my heraldry very well, I haven't needed to at the Academy, but as far as I can tell, those crests are of lines long deceased or decried.”