Eterna and Omega (39 page)

Clara willed back tears and turned back to Bishop, stalwart. He was there with a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you for your help, Rupert. You are my rock.”

“He was right, you know,” Bishop said. “You saved the day, you brilliant woman. I'll never let you forget it.” He held out his arm and she took it with a wide smile.

Captain Grange appeared, seeking Spire, and launched into his report even as Spire gently helped Rose to her feet.

“Sir, madam, pardon me please,” Grange said breathlessly.

“Yes, my friend,” Spire replied. “Go on.”

“I have received a report via wire from precinct to precinct that your colleagues, Mrs. Northe-Stewart and the rest of your team, are safe. They had to remove the portraits from the estate to finish their work because of an electrical fire that blew out the entire place.” Grange paused, then said hesitantly, “They described a man as … standing directly in the middle of a lightning blast. There was no evidence of him after.”

“You will say that man died in that fire,” Spire said.

Clara was glad to hear Mosley would get his freedom after all.

“Yes, sir. Understood. Mrs. Northe-Stewart and the rest of your team have been taken to an inn north of the city to rest.”

“
I
am headed home for a stiff drink,” Black announced, having descended to join the group on their level, Effie quiet behind him, still looking around warily, and Clara wondered what of the proceedings she had seen, and what she could only have sensed. “Where you're all invited to stay the night,” Black added. “I think it might be best if we stay close, considering.”

Rose nodded. “Yes, sir, that would be best.” Still holding on to Spire for support, she reached out a hand to clasp Clara's.

“Can your men coordinate cleaning all this horrible mess up, Captain Grange?” Black asked. “In addition, perhaps ask some of the various clergymen to … help people with whatever they saw?”

“I'm wondering what the hell
I
saw—” Spire said, almost under his breath.

“‘Hell' being the operative word,” Grange stated. “But yes. Our men will handle cleanup. Go in peace, friends. I believe, if I may, that the worst is over, but I'll have to be more sure of it when I wake up in the morning and the whole world hasn't gone
more
mad than it did tonight.”

“Tomorrow will be a brighter day,” Bishop assured him. “The momentum is in our favor now.”

 

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Lord Black's residence had been such a pleasant safe haven before, and so was it again, for those who took Black up on the invitation. Effie and Andre wished to stay with other friends, and no one took offense at anyone's preferences.

The embrace between Black and his lover at the front door was long and fond, and after a moment, Francis pulled back with a blush and ushered everyone in. “There's a roaring fire for you to shake off the horrors of the day,” he declared, “and a vat of spiced rum.”

“Don't mind if I take a cup or two of that.” Spire chuckled.

“May all my lives be praised we survived to see this night through,” Clara murmured, collapsing onto the settee before the welcome fire.

“I feel like I've lived several lifetimes today, and I don't even believe in more than one,” Spire said, eagerly accepting a mug of liquor from Francis with a warm thanks before leaning toward Clara. “I ask now not for your mysticism but for your opinion. Is our age doomed? Is there more of this to come?”

Clara thought a long moment before speaking with very careful words.

“At the beginning of this century the world presented itself as more innocent, full of incalculable possibility. We were a hopeful, optimistic people with the possibility to be generous. Now, for all the powers of the modern age, all the freedoms and conveniences, there are so many more complications as each mechanization comes with a cost. Innovation is necessary across every front, but there are times when I long for simpler days.

“If that's what Moriel had advocated,” she continued, “simple peace rather than an absurd return to feudalistic dictatorship, who could have argued against simplicity? But simplicity should not come at the cost of modernity and broader societal freedom.”

“Certainly not,” Black agreed, and bid Francis sit on the arm of his chair by the fire. He did so, and Black folded his hands over his beloved's knee.

“You speak so clearly about the early part of this century, Miss Templeton,” Spire said with a bit of awe.

“Because I remember it,” Clara replied. Spire blinked at her. She continued. “Memory, experience, emotion, evocative details, the finer points of a past life, and the contexts in which it was lived all mix in the air like sensual fog. Those of us skilled enough can pluck out distinct moments from our elder mists. Sometimes we cherish what we've found in the gloam, as all such lost heirlooms should be treasured when they find a safe heir.”

“That's beautiful,” Rose said.

“She is,” Bishop agreed.

Clara blushed.

“Our next task is to be sure our country is similarly protected as we have tried to do here,” Clara continued. “The Society has holdings in America, so we must systematically disassemble any remaining framework that exists. Those from the Eterna Commission who remained behind should have things well in order, but this trip has proved full of terrifying new insights.”

“Do let our department know how we can be of service,” Lord Black offered. “I believe we have felled the beast today, but tell me if other death throes in your country need any of our resources.”

“Thank you, milord.” Bishop nodded.

There was a long silence before Clara felt the weight of the day collapse upon her and she rose to her feet. “Whether nightmares and constant replays of the horror and loss we've faced tonight will allow me any rest, that will be as yet determined, but I must try. Shall I take the same guest room, Lord Black?”

“Yes indeed, and consider it yours whenever you wish to visit us,” the nobleman said cordially.

“Come, I'll escort you up,” Bishop replied, going to the stairs. Clara moved to him. She could feel Mr. Spire staring after her as she crossed the room, as if wanting to say something else, his skeptic's mind likely straining harder than hers after a day like today, fumbling for sense and purchase. She turned at the landing.

“Good night, Mr. Spire,” she said. “Thank you for your work in keeping us alive today. Thank you all.”

“And thank you both for yours,” Spire replied.

At the top of the landing, Bishop's room directly across from hers, he stood at the threshold, his tall frock-coated figure elegant in the gaslight. “I'm here if you need me,” he said softly.

“As am I,” she replied from across the hall. The two shared a smile and closed their doors.

Alone in her white-walled guest room decked in blue, this was the first time Clara had a moment to breathe, to process, to grieve for all the horror she'd seen.

The inevitable question for Clara was, What to do next? Where was she called to be?

Clara was not alone with her thoughts for long when a chill draft pervaded the room. Louis's presence, while welcome, caused a feeling of dread, as the look on his face spoke of something they'd been ignoring since his first appearance …

Louis's ghost had traveled great lengths to be at her side this day, to fight the demons whose unwanted presence had cost him his own life.

In essence, his purpose had been fulfilled.

“Clara, my dear love,” Louis began cautiously, wafting close, trailing a ghostly breeze of a fingertip down her blushing cheek. “I am so proud of you for all you did today.”

“As am I of you. Your magic saved the day,” she replied.

“Only thanks to your implementation and your actions, as the anchor of our compass and impressive wielder of time and lives.”

They stared at each other for a long time, solid and shade. Finally, Louis breached the silence. “You and I both know our states cannot remain connected indefinitely.”

That truth hung in the air as his incorporeal body did. This was not a state that could last forever, even if the spirit was an eternal concept.

“This is good-bye then, I suppose, darling…” Clara whispered.

Her grief over Louis had taken many odd turns since his death. His current, albeit hollow, existence was a great comfort to her, and she'd have accepted it over nothing at all, but it was selfish of her to deny him the peaceful journey she hoped for all spirits.

“Can we make a promise?” Louis asked.

“Of what, my love?” Clara said, forcing her voice not to break.

“To find one another again…”

“In a future life?”

“Yes, in a future life. We know these truths now.”

“Oh, yes, please do. Please come find me,” Clara exclaimed.

“Good, then.” Louis smiled and his translucent form seemed a warmer shade of gray than before.

Clara rose from the bed to face him. She knew it was time. There was no prevaricating, no lingering. Only corporeal tears and the faint hint of vapor.

“Good-bye, my dear,” Louis said with a sigh. “You're not alone, you know, Clara. Someone who loves you very much is with you, alive, in the here and now. You have loved him before and are beautifully suited now. I will love you in our future.”

Tears poured down her face as she nodded. “Good-bye, Louis Dupris. Rest well.…”

She lost him for the third time.

It was no easier than the first.

There were no words to capture the particular pain of saying good-bye to a loved one multiple times, and the finality of this last moment.

It was difficult to believe, even for a Spiritualist, that they would meet again. It was hard to believe anything while grieving. Hard to see any light through the hot, silent tears of loss.

She clung to Louis's last words, knowing that he spoke the truth. A love waited for her, a devoted, patient, pining love. Love that was, despite all, meant to be in this life.

Her beloved senator.

*   *   *

Every year, on the anniversary of David Templeton's death, Rupert Bishop performed a solemn ritual. That he was far from home this year did not mean he would shirk this duty. In fact, the anniversary falling on such a day of import made this rite all the more important.

In his white-paneled guest room, the furnishings and draperies in the complementary colors of russet and orange, opposite Clara's room, he lit a tallow candle that made the whole room glow autumnal.

He rang a small bell, letting the delicate note linger in silence.

He placed his palms flush upon a sturdy oak desk.

Then he asked the same question he'd been asking for the last several years on this day.

“David, my dear friend,” Rupert murmured to the air. “Do I have your permission to ask for her hand? I cannot and will not proceed without your blessing.”

For years, the only answer had been silence.

But tonight …

Tonight the candle went out as if snuffed. There was a faint trembling in the air.

A quiet voice whispering in his ear …

In the darkness, Rupert Bishop smiled.

He quietly moved across the hall to Clara's closed door.

He knocked.

“Come in,” she said. She was sitting stock-still on the end of the bed, fully dressed, looking as if she'd just seen a ghost. Perhaps she had. She looked up as the door opened. “Hello, my dear…”

Rupert approached Clara slowly. She rose to her feet, searching his gaze intently for clues to his mood, why he was here. If there was fire in his eyes, for the first time he did not hide it.

His hand protectively cupped the back of her neck, then his fingertips trailed up her ear. She shivered and allowed a small breath to escape her mouth, soft and sensual.

He pressed his lips to her forehead, prompting her to lean even nearer, closing the last distance between their bodies. Rupert loosed a gamesome huff of contentment at this now covetous embrace. He kissed her temple and was thrilled when she tilted her head to increase the pressure of his lips.

After an aching moment, he shifted slightly to place his lips against her ear.

“Tomorrow, we go home, my darling, to further protect our country,” he whispered. “And then … a future awaits us, one that we've not allowed ourselves to think about, but should.”

“Yes, my dearest,” she replied in the same quiet tone. “It is time to go home.”

*   *   *

Black and Francis retired, leaving Rose and Spire alone in the parlor, staring out at the sloping garden behind Lord Black's home, a quiet spot of green, a little oasis of verdant life against so much dark death. “Shall we retire, too?” Rose asked gently.

“Retire? Can I?” Spire said with a little chuckle. “Can I be done with this dreadful business for the rest of my life and live out my few remaining days on a quiet beach in Suffolk? Tell me, Miss Everhart, that you are a messenger of the angels come to promise me a future of the blessedly silent absence of humanity!”

“It will hardly be a ‘few' days, Mr. Spire. You're full of health and vigor. Well, venom, at least. Full of health and venom.” She grinned. “You're not fond of people, are you?”

He snorted. “Truthfully, I have found that most people are hateful. I like a great many of them better when they're behind bars.”

Rose scowled at this extreme statement. Spire looked at her steadily, then allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up.

She laughed. That felt good. Spire stared at her. She held his gaze and did not look away.

“Suffolk, you said?” she asked quietly.

“Suffolk, yes, Miss Everhart. Do you like Suffolk?”

“I do.”

“Well.” Spire seemed surprisingly contented. “That's good.”