Eterna and Omega (27 page)

Spire stood for a moment in the dim foyer just inside the theater doors, where red-globed gaslights at half-light cast long shadows, exaggerating Gothic arches and rococo flourishes, the lobby as much a stage set as the theater itself. He grimaced at the theatrical poster for the present production:

THIS WEEKEND ONLY!

An Eighth Wonder of the Dramatic World
by Victor Spire, inimitable author of
The Northernmost Castle
! PRESENTING A STORY OF PASSION AND POISON! OF REVENGE, RUINATION, AND LARGE REPTILES:

 

THE DEADLY DAMSEL IN DISTRESS:

 

ONE IMPERILED BUT CONNIVING WOMAN!

THREE MEN!

WHO … WILL … SURVIVE???!!!

An advert for the following month's fare was posted across the lobby. Spire audibly moaned at the second shrieking announcement:

IF YOU THOUGHT

VICTOR SPIRE'S
The Northernmost Castle
WAS A DRAMATIC PINNACLE, WE BRING YOU ALL THE MOUNTAINS ALL AT ONCE—JUST YOU WAIT.

ANNOUNCING
AN AMALGAM OF VILLAINY
IN ITS MOST GRUESOMELY PASSIONATE!

FEATURING SWORDFIGHTS, MAGIC HELMETS, AND POSSIBLY VAMPYRES:

 

LADY, WHERE, O WHERE, ART THY HERO?!:

 

ONE DASHING BUT DASTARDLY VILLAIN!

THREE WOMEN!

WHO … LASTS … THE NIGHT???!!!

Could Spire blame the Master's Society for targeting a place like this? It seemed to play right into their overdramatic, seedy hands.

The eccentric box keeper, wearing a brightly colored caftan and a turban stuck with ostrich feathers, turned the corner. Startled to find Spire standing there, she began making overly affected noises and fanning herself.

After suffering through a long moment of her feigned palpitations, Spire finally said, “I need to see my father, please.”

The woman “recovered” immediately and led Spire through the peeling, gaudily painted orchestra doors into the darkened two-hundred-seat theater that reliably sat only half that number.

Victor Spire was rehearsing against the solitary ghost light, creeping back and forth across the stage in an overdone, painful display of scenery chewing. He wore a long black cape and a too-tight tailcoat trimmed in red baubles that flashed with every exaggerated step. His hands were held out, fingers splayed as if they were claws; he flexed them repeatedly, like some sort of strange reptile. Clearly he was to play the “dastardly villain.”

The box keeper turned away in a huff, leaving Harold the sole audience. “Father, it's me.” His sure voice echoed through the space's brilliant acoustics. “I need you to be aware of a group that may be targeting theaters and public spaces for dramatic displays of hideous evil. Things …
more
terrible than what you're presenting. This place would regrettably make the perfect candidate to launch a spectacle.”

The elder Spire gave no sign that he had heard his son speak. He scurried across the stage on his toes, clawed hands held up close as if he were now some sort of nocturnal mammal.

“Father, are you listening to me? Evil will target your theater! It was done to Nathaniel Veil. A chemical compound was released on his followers; it may be as easily done to you!”

The name of a theatrical rival stopped Victor Spire dead in his exaggerated tracks. “Veil.” The actor snorted and made a sour face. “That
childe
imitator!”

“Mr. Veil was extraordinarily helpful to the authorities when he was targeted in New York. You could be as well,” Spire said, doubting that his father even cared.

A dismissive sound came from the stage. The elder Spire waved one hand before resuming his high stepping, this time with a few dastardly “ahas!” punctuating the ever-so-artful verisimilitude.

“Let me know if anything or anyone out of the ordinary turns up. Though how you'd discern that, I've no clue. Good day, Father,” Harold Spire said, then turned and began to exit, confident that he had done his duty. Frankly, he couldn't care less if this audience and actors turned to monsters; no one might know any different.

“You know, Harold,” his father called out to him in a plaintive voice that was not affected nor theatrical, just the sound of a tired, pained old man. Spire stopped but did not turn around. “Sometimes one has to mimic the darkness, imitate it, so that it doesn't come lurking about. It's camouflage, really. I've always hoped you could understand that…”

He wasn't sure he could understand, but he did not fight back. With no further word, he exited the darkened space. This explanation, or justification, was at least some measure of relief, as his father's seemingly impenetrable oblivion had been the chief source of strife between them.

The fact that Miss Everhart would soon again be returned to him was the bright spot in his near future. Thinking of what befell poor Mr. Wilson, he resolved not to let her go off on further field missions. People he could trust and tolerate were few indeed, and he had no desire to lose the very best of them.

 

CHAPTER

TEN

Good Sir,

It is strange circumstances indeed that press me to request of you trust, action, service, and—dare I ask?—friendship.

You've not been inclined to trust my operatives, and for that I cannot blame you. In my defence, not all operatives have acted under my orders or in best judgement. I regret the misunderstanding that resulted.

I am humbled, I am desperate. London's way of life, whatever virtue it possesses, and indeed, the very survival of the Empire, may rest on whether or not you help.

Your Templeton and my Everhart have conferred as colleagues, and I understand you are to convince your Congress, by mesmeric means I am keen to see demonstrated, that drastic measures of protection must be implemented.

Eager to discuss our situation, perhaps over a stiff drink, I pledge to assuage any lingering ills. If the Ward you have developed to keep the Master's Society at bay as well as an antidote to chemical toxins are indeed a realities and not fiction created to throw England off—for all our sakes, I beg, no games—my parliamentary colleagues will require the same sort of persuasion.

The tragedies you have incurred across the ocean are pending here. All hell could break loose. Help me avoid unnecessary death and destruction. Please let me know when I may employ your considerable talents. I, and my country, will be in your debt, and I look forward to hosting you and any travelling companions at my estate in Knightsbridge. I await your reply, post haste.

Sincerely,

Lord Black

P.S. I do hope you'll enjoy the case of sherry I've taken the liberty of having sent to your address. I have it on good authority that it's your favourite.

Bishop passed the transcribed wire to Clara. They had been preparing for their trip to the District of Columbia when the fat envelope had arrived at the Eterna offices, carried by a Western Union messenger. The very size of the telegraphed message was impressive—it would have cost Lord Black a pretty penny to send.

“What do you think?” Bishop asked.

“Hard to gauge the trustworthy in a letter written in dire necessity.”

“Try,” Bishop barked. Clara started, and he moderated his tone. “I need your instincts now more than ever, Clara. Don't be afraid of being wrong about something or someone; don't strive for neutrality. What do you think? Help the man or no?”

“I don't think we have a choice. I trust Everhart. But we have to convince the District of Columbia first.”

That would prove as difficult a task as anything.

“Pack for both trips. We leave for London immediately upon finishing in Washington,” Bishop said to Clara before turning to Franklin. “Mr. Fordham, I'm going to have to leave you and Reverend Blessing in charge of Stevens. Enlist Fred Bixby in any kind of record searches you need. I know he'll want any updates from his sister, so keep him well informed.

“In addition, I must have, tonight, as much as Stevens has of the antidote for his chaotic toxin. We'll take it to England; you and the others can help him make more for New York. Remember, your heart must be invested in the process, whether you are making Wards or the antidote.”

“Yes, sir, be safe, the both of you,” Franklin said, masking his own emotion, and was off, a man of duty above all else.

Clara embraced Lavinia long and hard at the first-floor landing as she and Bishop moved to exit the offices for what would be an indefinite time.

“You take care of the gentlemen, my dear,” Clara bid her friend softly, affectionately patting the black lace epaulet on her friend's shoulder. “Offer them insights only
you
can see. Your perspective is vital.”

“Only if you promise to do the same,” Lavinia countered.

Clara smiled. “Promise.”

*   *   *

That night as Clara packed for the trips, she reached into her mind for any clues to help her present situation. Had she ever, in any of her iterations, encountered such a dark enemy as this? Was there comfort, not to mention advice, somewhere in any of her pasts?

Squinting her eyes, like the day in Central Park when the visitor had bid her open her eyes to all her past lives, she sank to the floor in a pool of mauve skirts, bustling and boning, and lay back and stared up at the floral-patterned moldings of her ceiling, trying to glimpse even an angle of one of those lives, for a clue she may have missed along the way.

“Clara, what are you doing?” came a voice behind her.

The visitor. Clara knew what she sounded and felt like without even turning to look.

“I'm seeking help and perspective,” she replied, keeping her floor vantage point, as there was something strangely calming about it. “What's the point of remembering one's past lives if they can't help? You're Marlowe, correct? Rose said so. It's strange to think of you as a person and not just a figment of my imagination.”

The visitor came closer and peered down at Clara, who blinked up at her, refusing to stand on any kind of ceremony for such a creature who came in unannounced.

“You once told me I'm the center of the storm,” Clara stated, “and to be worthy of the squall. I've tried to be worthy
every
life, through every storm. I'm trying to see my way.…”

“My dear girl.” The visitor, Lizzie, smiled down at her. “The storm is not a separate, external torture that loses you at sea and washes you up on some remote beach. The storm has never been outside your control. The storm is
of
you. Once you see your tasks from the perspective of a maelstrom, what may stop you?”

Clara sat up finally. “You comfort someone like you've a hand on a rudder.”

“Well, I do consider myself a captain. But that's for another day. The darknesses you're facing frankly can't compete with the sheer life force of a creature like you.
Use
that. Confuse them. Stop the demons' dread press of death by the volume of your
life.
I think you'll see what I mean when it's time to become
all
of you.”

With that, she was gone again, leaving the same disconcerting sense of altered time in her wake.

*   *   *

Clara readied notes, one to be left in her offices for Lavinia's information, a wire to alert Effie Bixby, and a final and perhaps most important note to be dropped at the embassy for Rose and her colleagues, detailing when she and Bishop would be presenting before Congress and attending to Lord Black's request should they wish to escort and assist them. Clara suggested the Omega team watch Senator Bishop in action, then all travel together to London. There was no sense in not trying to act as a cohesive team. Their Lord Black was asking for help, and neither she nor Bishop sensed a trap. At least, not an Omega trap.

Franklin's psychometry unfortunately didn't work off wire transcripts. If there had been time to send a full letter, he could have examined the veracity or view of the person writing the letter to judge his character, but the distinct source of author versus telegraph operator severed the connection required for his talents.

After Franklin hadn't been able to fight for the state in the Civil War, a loss of duty he'd been unable to forgive himself for, regardless of physical impediment, heading up the tasks on the home front suited him. Everyone in Eterna and Omega offices was focused now, in a way that the amorphous search for immortality alone never rendered fruitful specificity.

Clara was about to ready a note to Evelyn when an instinct fluttered across her thoughts, and she smiled and put the gilt-edged paper back in her writing desk.

There was a wafting, cold draft, and Louis appeared suddenly at her side, causing Clara a mild shudder but not a start.

“I'll be with you, Clara,” the ghost stated gently, “for as much of this journey as I can be, here however I can help. Due to my tether to the living world being stronger for Andre's presence, especially on foreign soil where my spirit has no tie, he too will travel to Washington and on to London. To be of similar service.”

“That's all well and good,” Clara said, staring the ghost straight in his transparent eyes, “But I'm … not comfortable with his traveling
with
us. After what happened…”

Impersonating Louis was something she doubted she could ever forgive Andre for. It was an egregious indiscretion, and she would not have her comfort compromised on the trip when it was her confidence that the magic required.

“Of course, I both agree and understand. He likes to travel alone anyway and always has.”

“Then I'll see you both in Washington. Good night and thank you for the help, Louis,” she said warmly, and she didn't know what else to do but blow the specter a kiss as he faded into the wall.