Eterna and Omega (20 page)

“This came through the mail slot,” he explained, “A tall … flamboyant woman, in a bright teal dress, slipped it through. She didn't ask for entrance and I don't believe due to the angle of the windows she should have been able to see us, and yet she blew us both a kiss as if she knew we were there…” The young man's voice trembled a bit. The other guard, a stockier, paler gentleman, adjusted his collar and cleared his throat.

It was clear these guards hadn't been briefed, either by Bishop or Lavinia, as to the psychic nature of those who might be drawn to this building, or perhaps they were merely in awe of finely dressed women. She thanked the men and walked away with the envelope, down the hall toward Lavinia, who was seemingly in the last nail-biting throes of her novel and so Clara did not disturb her friend.

Withdrawing the interior card as she climbed the stairs, impeccable penmanship loudly declared:

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED TO A PRESENTATION OF MAGIC,

DARING FEATS, FIRE, AND CLAIRVOYANT SPIRITUALIST SPLENDOR!

PRESENTED BY THE WORLD-FAMOUS CIPHERS

Free today only at City Hall Park—High Noon

ALL ARE WELCOME.
MAY THE SPIRITS GUIDE YOU.

She turned right back around.

“I'll be at City Hall Park, Lavinia.” Her friend jumped, made a sound of acknowledgment, and hurriedly turned a page. Clara chuckled, wishing she could still lose herself in wild fiction. While life entwined with the supernatural had deprived her of that pleasure, Clara was glad Lavinia refused to give it up. Tapping the invitation against her gloved hands, she bobbed her head to the guards and walked back out into the fine, bright day.

The invitation fell entirely under Clara's purview. Their offices were known to be “patrons” of the Spiritualist community, and this wasn't the first such advert left at the premises.

Most expeditions had turned up fakes and con artists. The real mediums and clairvoyants of the city knew that she, Bishop, Franklin, and Evelyn all had specific gifts of their own and would shut down those who didn't, quietly and without any fuss. Seeing for herself whether these Ciphers were legitimate or poseurs would be a nice break from the press of the Eterna Wards, her lingering grief, and the overall disappointments of the day. Even if the Ciphers were phonies, their show would likely be entertaining.

 

CHAPTER

EIGHT

The Ciphers set themselves up, red-and-white-striped tent and all, in City Hall Park, a grand plaza at the fore of the fine white municipal edifice, Federal styled with French flair, about a mile up the angling Broadway from the tip of Manhattan Island. The location was carefully selected so that the whole of the playing area rested over turf and soil while the place for the audience remained on the park's flagstones.

The Wilsons erected their elaborate pulley system, which would hold them airborne as they performed acts of strength and dexterity. Poles, staves, trick gloves, and chemical compounds were prepared for Blakely's various fire plays.

Outside the tent was a station with a table and crystal ball for Miss Knight. Dressed in a lavish turquoise gown and towering plumes—a veritable psychic peacock—she put on her own show for those waiting in line. She put out Blakely's top hat for donations, seeking, as ever, to keep herself “in the gowns to which I am accustomed.”

Inside, deep in preparation, Blakely strutted about in shining black boots that added inches to his short frame and a red tailcoat. His silver ascot was adorned with a shining skull and crossbones that were mirrored in the buckle across the wide ribbon of his top hat. He tapped the silver tip of a black staff that was as tall as he was on the flagstones as he paced and periodically made flourishes in the air, practicing the choreography of his flamethrowing.

There were no seats for attendees, as Blakely intended to keep their shows short. If the Ciphers had been on a full tour, not on Omega's directives, they'd have brought along their musician, Samson, and perhaps an additional act or two. But the sea voyage, though brief, had made these four, the Wilsons and the Blakelys, so comfortable in this smaller dynamic that Rose was confident the audience would feel entertained.

Besides, the point of the show wasn't about the general spectators; their aim was to lure the Eterna Commission out of their offices.

Rose, having no specific task, and dressed in a plain blue wool skirt and cream shirtwaist with a smart blue double-breasted vest, blending into the city as the middle-class clerk she was, seated herself on a wooden box to study paperwork gathered thanks to Black's orders to the British embassy in New York. She scanned lists of various Manhattan companies and industries, looking for any reference to Apex. From what she could see of the Edison company, there was no direct involvement as of yet, though it had to be a matter of time. Electricity seemed a magical, strange property; the wiring that she'd seen attached to the bodies in Tourney's cellar showed that current was part of his ghastly process. Mary Shelley would be horrified.

Apex seemed to be focused at the moment on shipping, delivery, and warehousing—of, Rose assumed, the dead.

The long history in both America and England of “Burke and Hare” type of grave robbing—and, in some such cases, murder for profit—a riot over which had occurred on the very grounds where they now sat, had Rose wondering. Perhaps she needed to determine if Apex provided bodies to medical schools, but that would call for a different set of files, procured by a different set of staff at the British embassy.

The list of Cipher showtimes had been tacked to the exterior of the tent, but the word “free” had already drawn a crowd. Miss Knight was hard at work at divination. Some of what she said, Rose knew from her performances on the boat, would be true, but some perceptions she toyed with, for her own amusement or to shield listeners if necessary.

At long last, Blakely, once he was assured the Wilsons were in place, whipped back the tent flaps with a flourish and a huzzah, welcoming everyone with a deep bow and a wave of his top hat, admitting an excited audience. Rose watched the tent fill, studying their clothes and accessories. From finery to pauper's near rags, the diverse downtown population seemed out in force.

The Wilsons, entirely shrouded in black, mysterious and masked, clad in tight tunics and trousers, wore their leather harnesses like decorative armor. Soon the pulley system—new and more elaborate thanks to Lord Black's war room investments—would raise them into the air, and their astonishing performance would begin. Miss Knight came into the tent, looking a bit baffled, and stopped beside Rose.

“There's another tent being erected next to ours,” the psychic said. “Don't you find that a bit odd?” Cocking her head, Rose could hear the murmurs of the crowd outside and the sound of hammering.

“Terribly odd indeed,” she replied.

“Is it some kind of holiday we didn't know about?” Knight wondered.

Rose shrugged and walked to the entrance. Looking out, she saw the off-white canvas tent that had sprung up beside theirs.

“Any idea what their show is?” she asked Knight, who had followed her.

“The sign out front says ‘Electricity Demonstration.'”

“Oh,” Rose scoffed. How ironic. “That Thomas Edison. It has to be Edison's men. I've heard of them doing things like this, putting on all kinds of outlandish displays, especially if there's something they can upstage. We provided just the bait. The man has exploded as many homes as he has lit them; nothing but a showman.”

“Careful what you say about showmen,” Blakely said as he came up to them and winked at Rose. “Never mind rivalry. It brings a far bigger crowd, so we'll get a good look at all kinds of New Yorkers today. Might even lure out some city officials.”

He left her to take her own seat out of the way and bounded to the fore of the playing space.

Small, and often nervous in appearance, Blakely grew larger than life when he stepped into the role of ringmaster. He gathered everyone's attention with one strike of his staff on the resonant flagstone. At the impact, a spurt of sparking fire erupted from the upturned mouth of the silver skull that topped it. The crowd gasped in surprise, then applauded.

“Ladies and gentlemen of New York City! We are the Ciphers! From around the world, we bring you a range of delights: a bit of magic, a bit of mysticism from our dear Miss Knight. Wasn't she impressive, ladies and gentlemen, as she answered all your most important questions?” he boomed. A round of applause for their resident mystic. Knight was all too happy to curtsey and blow kisses.

“I am your host, Mr. B, and these”—he stepped aside to reveal the black-clad Wilsons—“are my Cipher seraphs! Ready to take veritable flight, they shall cast you into amazement as they soar to great heights and perform amazing feats!”

He pressed a lever on the pulley system, and the Wilsons rose in careful unison thanks to a weight lowering across the tent. When the acrobats were about four feet above the heads of the crowd, Blakely locked the pulleys into place. Miss Knight struck a metal chime, an act she would repeat for each new pose, and the performance began.

The crowd was truly captivated by the Wilsons' graceful forms entwining artfully, forming living sculptures. There were
oohs
and
ahhs
aplenty.

Then there came a dreadful humming, whining noise. A crackling filled the air, and people started murmuring uncomfortably when any hair that was not constrained by braid or ribbon or hat, or kept in place by wax or pomade, began to rise from around ears and necks.

Rose heard a crack and a boom. The audience's concern grew more obvious—they shifted in place, spoke louder, began looking for the exit. A sizzle rose, sounding like it was hurtling toward them.

Many things happened at once: a flash of searing light; an even louder hum; the whole tent vibrated; and sparks shot from the wires of the Wilsons' pulley system. Rose heard a cry from above.

“Fall, Adira!” Mr. Wilson cried as he flipped the latch that kept the wires taut and secured to the safety system. Mrs. Wilson's smaller body plummeted down, accompanied by the
zing
of the wire, and hit the grass with a thud, limbs out in what Rose hoped was a practiced emergency-landing pose. Her wire released upon impact. Sparks crested and an arc of white-blue light shot along the wires, all the way up to where Mr. Wilson hung.

The screams in the tent were overshadowed by the aerialist's horrible shriek of agony as his body convulsed. Rose hoped desperately that he could reach his release latch. Blakely stretched his hand for the pulley lever, but a spark leaped from the metal. Rose heard the
zap
of electricity singe Blakely's hand. The ringmaster yelped in pain, and at last Mr. Wilson fell to earth—without the practiced grace of his wife. He hit the ground with a sickening thud, wisps of smoke rising from the top of his hood and the soles of his boots. Steps away, Mrs. Wilson struggled to get up, one shoulder slumping unnaturally.

The audience fled.

Adira cried out in Arabic, whipping off Mr. Wilson's hood. His skin was reddened as if burned, his eyes were closed, and he seemed unresponsive. Blakely rushed to their side. Rose and Knight stared at one another.

“Go see what's happening next door,” Blakely barked.

The women moved swiftly, ducking into the next arena, which was packed with spectators.

Rose and Knight gasped in tandem at the horror that greeted them. Across a sea of bowlers and top hats, bonnets and feathers, on a raised stage platform, four bodies were laid out on metal tables that were raked slightly so their burdens could be seen by the crowd in full splendor.

“The bodies of the missing British scientists,” Rose murmured. “They have to be.”

All four were dressed in white linen coats and dark trousers, and matched the heights, weights, and general descriptions Rose had detailed. Strange markings covered any visible flesh: necks, cheeks, the tops of their hands. Large silver coins were laid over their eyes.

Each limb of every corpse was attached to a wire, and these, as if they were the reins of horses, were held by a trembling, scrawny young man with a thin mustache and mousy hair. He stood over the dead bodies like an uncertain angel of death, petrified by the crowd before him.

This creature under duress was not there of his own volition, of that Rose felt sure. Sweating profusely, he was dressed in an ill-fitting white coat, similar to those worn by the bodies, and a none too clean gray waistcoat, his perspiration-stained collar open and uneven at his throat.

This man may be the second part of their investigative mission, Rose thought. Perhaps this was the young Mr. Mosley, the citizen of the Crown so affected by electrical current that he had fled to America. Her heart lurched. All their quarry in one sickening display.

Pure but misplaced instinct had Rose on the brink of rushing forward when Miss Knight clamped a vise grip on her shoulder and pointed to a nearly invisible gap in the flaps of the tent. Rose glimpsed the glisten of an eye and the barrel of a rifle—pointed toward the crowd and roving as if ready for any excuse to fire.

She leaned back on her heels with a curse that was most unladylike.

Tearing her gaze away from the awful display to survey the crowd, she found herself staring a familiar face.

No. She didn't know that woman at all.

Yet she looked
very
familiar.

Her heart suddenly, inexplicably ached, as if she were staring at a lost relative found, a beloved misplaced item returned.

The woman across the tent was dark blond and angular, grand in her qualities despite being dressed in similar station to Rose. A working or traveling woman's charcoal linen dress with black piping accentuated the woman's tall lines topped at a distinct angle by a small straw hat with black ribbon pinned to upswept braids.