Eterna and Omega (26 page)

Fordham said, “Andre Dupris is, surprisingly, already on hand, gathering materials for the Wards. He said Louis told him he'd be most useful in this capacity, and with his brother's ghostly guidance, he is writing letters to contacts in New Orleans, sharing information and warnings. Reverend Blessing is doing the same within his various communities and fellow exorcists—” Franklin paused, smiled, and said to Rose, “Not that there's a guild of them or anything, but they do know who gets asked onto various dreadful details.”

“We're preparing for a storm, Rose,” Clara stated. “My team will seek to demonproof our city as best our ragtag little army can. If there's any possibility that the Master's Society is still fully operational, you must do the same in London.” A thought occurred to her.

Clara went to her desk—the disorganized nature of it made Rose feel a little ill just looking at it, but the woman's delicate, ungloved fingers danced over envelopes and file folders until she seized something and thrust it in Rose's lap.

“Would this be of use to you? This is my personal file on what I gathered on the Master's Society two years ago. It may have names your team should investigate if you haven't already. Oh”—she snatched another paper off the top of the mess and added it to the stack—“and I wrote out a copy of our New York Wards to use as a template for your team to consider a similar strategy in London.”

“Thank you, this will be most useful indeed. I'll come again with any news or directives,” Rose said, rising. “Mr. Fordham.” She bobbed her head. He rose, bowed, and went back to writing his report of the day.

Rose returned to the embassy's safe house to prepare a wire of all this information.

Adira met Rose in the operations room and quietly sat down next to her. Rose paused what she was writing to take in the beautiful deep-olive-skinned woman before her, who was quiet, composed, a very long black head scarf draped more fully over her person than tucked into the more Western-style dresses she usually wore. She appeared a shell of her regal self, but was calm and collected. Her strength was inspiring.

“I wish to return Reginald's body to England. With the scientists dead, no bodies to recover as they were … all burned up … and with Mr. Mosley's papers given, with the American offices cooperative … what keeps us here?”

“Nothing,” Rose replied. “We should return home and protect our own before it's too late. Only people like us are quite prepared to disseminate precautions properly.”

Adira nodded and shut herself away again, the weight of grief heavy in the room. If there was sorrow to be borne, it best be borne at home.

*   *   *

Spire had planned, that day, to introduce Stuart Grange to the solicitor, a Mr. Bertram Knowles, so that Grange could begin searching properties held by Apex or the Master's Society. When he arrived at his office to find the lengthy wire to decode, courtesy of Miss Everhart, his plans, as so often happened at Omega, changed.

The message, once deciphered and transcribed, read:

America implementing Wards to combat supernatural attacks. Ward recipe follows. Change ingredients to suit England. Not your forte, enlist Dr. Z. Expediency advised. Root out M. Soc. sympathizers in government. Attacks may mirror American targets. Warn loved ones to avoid public spaces, hold to personal protections.

If chemical and electrical attacks are planned, they will target theaters and public gatherings. Society loves a good
“
show,
”
see notes on Nathaniel Veil case. Bishop to mesmerize Congress to insist on Warding. England needs follow.

Mosley recruited, given papers, return ticket, safe house instructions. Bodies of scientists burned; irrecoverable. A wishes to return with R's body
.
All requesting permission to return home to address society.

He swiftly sent a reply of assent, struggling to come to terms with the fact that he'd lost Mr. Wilson before really getting much of a chance to work with the famed assassin and spy. It was tragic and senseless, and the death made Spire feel helplessly angry.

In terms of the Warding, he'd have to do his best. Rose didn't advise anything lightly, understood his skepticism, and so this was likely a matter of formality of what Lord Black would additionally expect of their team.

The “recipe” Rose included was a list of New York relevant items and an explanation that Wards would have to be adapted to suit the specifics of London on principles devised by the Eterna scientists before their deaths.

Spire, a bit baffled, looked up all the meanings of the word “Ward” and bit back a groan at the notion of that list of ingredients providing “magical protection.”

Who in the world would help him begin to sort this out? Ah, Miss Everhart had already thought of that.
Dr.
Z—Zhavia, that quirky madman, likely not even a qualified doctor.

Upstairs, Spire found the arched door of Lord Black's office sitting open. The nobleman waved him in without looking up from his correspondences, thin wire-framed reading glasses on his aquiline nose.

“Word from Miss Everhart.” Spire slid the transcript across Lord Black's lavish desk.

Black read the whole of it, then removed the glasses to look up at Spire, who hadn't taken the liberty or initiative to make himself comfortable.

“Yes, bring them back, especially after Reginald…” Lord Black's voice caught. “Horrid. So horrid and unexpected…” He collected himself before continuing. “I'm going to ask the Americans for their help,” Black stated. “If Bishop has to mesmerize his Congress, I'm sure we'll need something like that in Parliament, or they'll never listen.”

“I'm not so sure about
that,
” Spire countered. “But having the Eterna team here can't help but be useful. And if they aren't trustworthy, we have the advantage of being on our own soil.”

“If things worsen, they will worsen here most drastically. If that wretch Moriel is still alive—”

“It's my hunch that he is,” Spire offered. “I'll presently be instructing my Metropolitan contacts to keep a close eye on public spaces, theaters, and anywhere Apex has touched.” Spire realized that this would mean having to see his father, theaters having been a previous target. “I will get Mr. Zhavia on the ‘Wards'”—he couldn't help neglecting the man's questionable title or saying the word
Ward
with distaste—“straightaway.”

Back downstairs and left entirely, blessedly, to his own devices, Spire wrote a note to Grange, warning him of potential attacks and promising more details soon, before locating the file on Nathaniel Veil, a popular London actor who appeared in wild Gothic dramas and was an unfortunate devotee of Spire's father. Two years prior, Veil's theatrical audience, at a New York event, had been tormented by temporary insanity thanks to a powdered toxin. Though major injuries were reported, the group had suffered no reported casualties. It was the chemist Stevens who had reportedly made the toxin, before being extradited, as Moriel had been, back to England. With the details of the cases in mind, he set off across the Lambeth Bridge toward a downtrodden section of the South Bank.

His destination was a run-down tenement filled with rich smells, a haze of smoke, and foreign languages from Slavic and Russian inhabitants. It never ceased to amaze Spire how many different worlds lived side by side in London's heart; one section of a street could represent any number of native lands as London proved a refuge or last resort for some of the world's populace.

After the sound of slippered footsteps on the other side of the door, the glint of the peephole was darkened by a peering eye.

“Mr. Spire!” Zhavia said in heavily accented English, clucking his tongue and flinging the door open. Spire had never seen the man dressed as anything but a wizard from old fairy tale books and today was no exception.

The elder, energetic man sported a sweeping blue velvet robe tied with a gold cord, and his long dark hair infused with silver shocks was worn down around his long, silvering beard. He was short, and yet his distinct character made him larger than life.

“Mr. Zhavia, I need your help,” Spire said, stepping into the dark book-filled flat lit by candles in leaded-glass lanterns and steeped in an array of scents that Spire's keen nose recognized as tea, incense, sage, and some kind of meat stew.

“Anytime, Mr. Spire,” the doctor said genially, his wide black eyes glittering as if his own sockets were two of the candlelit lanterns in the place. “I am of your department. This is my job; I am daunted by nothing.”

“Well, that's a relief to hear, really. I am not”—Spire cleared his throat—“
comfortable
with my latest task. We have been asked to create a ‘Ward' on behalf of England. Does the word make sense to you?”

“A Ward? Oh, yes, of course.” Zhavia eagerly took the paper Spire was holding out to him and read it closely, humming all the while. “Very necessary things, Wards. Critical.” He moved his hand in a graceful, dance-like gesture, watching the tendons move and murmuring in Russian. After a moment, the little man said, “What lovely mystic cooked this up?”

“It comes from the American Eterna Commission. It has supposedly been tested on their populace. I have seen no proof.”

“Seeing proof and feeling proof.” Zhavia poked Spire in the forehead and then in the stomach, and the former policeman managed not to growl or flinch. “Two different proofs, but don't take one as valued over the other.”

Spire set his jaw. “We have no guarantee that this is not another trap like what happened to my team on Longacre.”

“Oh, no,” he said, waving a curled hand, “this is different. There, Longacre was tainted by the dark forces that have tried to turn these very nice, lovely little things into their precise opposite. That was the whole trouble at that rendezvous.” Zhavia tapped the paper. “This is smart, simple, good. How much do you need? I assume you'd like me to make it?”

“Yes, please, if you would,” Spire said, grateful for the man's enthusiasm, even if the sanity underpinning it was highly questionable. Spire was just following orders. If he was about to host America's Eterna Commission, he had to at least entertain their directives, even if he couldn't allow himself to trust them. “As for quantity, the whole city is what needs protection, I doubt to a man, but at least a representative population.”

Zhavia made a whistling sound. “How much time do I have?”

“I am under the impression as quick as you can.”

“Indeed. Do I have permission to enlist help?”

Spire thought carefully to craft a reply that in no way incriminated the Crown. “We are limiting involvement only to trusted contacts who have worked against Society aims before. So … yes, as we're asking for a large quantity, you've permission, but be utterly circumspect in your associates and let our offices know everyone involved. Is this clear?”

Zhavia nodded. “Quite, sir.”

“There's a solicitor named Knowles who dealt with the Moriel affair before it went to trial, I've included his location herein.” Spire gestured to the Ward document. “Lord Black at this very moment is out trying to ascertain where in the world the Crown's secret ghost patrol regiment might be hiding; that's a pet project of his. But he'll be readily available to any of your needs, especially as he is far more of a …
believer.
Lord Denbury will prove your most valuable resource of all. Go easy on the poor chap; he's been through more than his fair share as a victim of the Society from the start.”

“Much appreciated. I'll get right to work, Mr. Spire, and bring everything to your offices. Do I have leave to work there? If I am making many…” He gestured around his small flat.

“There won't be the room here. Quite. The basement level of the department offices is reserved for researchers, so please avail yourself. Lord Black will give you access and a carriage will be sent for you. Would you like a security detail of any kind? I'll not take my assets lightly.”

“No.” Zhavia looked up toward the heavens and made another graceful gesture, as if casting a spell. “I've a significant”—he smiled enigmatically—“how did you say …
security detail,
which has kept me alive thus far.”

“Suit yourself. If you change your mind, call on Stuart Grange at the Metropolitan Police's Westminster precinct if you can't find me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Spire.” Zhavia placed a warm hand on Spire's forehead. “You don't have to believe anything to still be able to do the right thing.”

To Spire's surprise, this was actually a comfort. “Thank you,” he said.

Zhavia suddenly looked horrified. “Oh! I forgot to make you tea! Forgive me.”

Spire exhaled slowly, relieved it was nothing worse. “Least of my worries, Zhavia, truly. I've got to go persuade my mad father to protect his own business. Which I doubt will get me anywhere but a headache.”

“Ah, well!” Zhavia bounded up with spry agility and shuffled off to a cabinet. Spire heard the clinking of glass before the man returned and bid Spire hold out his hand. He placed two small white tablets in Spire's outstretched palm.

“For the headache,” he said with a smile.

“Thank you …
Doctor
.”

*   *   *

Spire had only one relation to warn—his father, with whom he was not on the best of terms. At least his father was a creature of habit, easily located at the small Covent Garden stage where he'd trod moldering boards for the last three decades to varying degrees of melodramatic, sensationalized success. To Spire's abhorrence, that success had peaked after Spire's mother had been killed by a violent intruder. The case had never been solved thanks to bungling, incompetent law enforcement. The event—and his father's embrace of his enlarged audiences, even though they were driven by morbid curiosity—spurred both Harold's estrangement from his father and his mission to become a policeman.