Eterna and Omega (14 page)

His surety was a balm, but perhaps it was still the pangs of grief and guilt that could not settle Clara. It was good they were active, as tasks were the only things that could keep her calm.

For a set of dollars direct from the Stock Exchange itself, Bishop took charge, as ladies were not allowed on the floor of the grand building, and Clara knew his powers could subtly allow for a souvenir without much notice and awaited him outside.

As New York's patron saint was currency, it was fitting for its magic to include bills in a protective Ward, as the city and its reigning powers had a habit of choosing money over human beings. Here, the golden calf could offer its populace some justice.

Last, but perhaps most vital, water from the harbor, lifeblood of the city as it was. For this, Clara strolled down to an observation area at the Battery and hopped onto a small pier that docked a schooner meant to take ladies and schoolchildren on leisurely sails. It was at present unmanned, and Bishop's mesmerism kept anyone curious from bothering the lady scooping harbor water into vials.

“Now then,” Clara said, handing Bishop the doctor's bag and taking his proffered arm as they angled back toward Pearl Street.

Back at the Eterna offices, the guards were as silent as ever, Lavinia was buried in a new book about Egyptian funeral customs, and Franklin was out. Clara was glad to have the quiet upstairs, where she and the senator avoided placing things on her desk and opted for Fred Bixby's generally empty one, as his was as fastidious and organized as Clara's was chaotic.

Assembly was particular, painstaking, and full of emotion. And they did it all without saying a word. The weight of their old souls meant sometimes silence was best.

They used empty vials to mix the contents, and once Bishop had cut up the dollar bills into small pieces, they portioned out the contents of what they gathered into equal parts into the open tubes. Carefully parsing the ingredients, they made several combinations.

It occurred to Clara that what they were about was hardly scientific. The process was subjective and sentimental. And therein lay its power. Those looking at material assets had it all wrong. Louis didn't write “The Heart of the Matter” atop the page for nothing.

For all Louis's hope in making the reality of Eterna, that it might take his ancestor's beliefs and codify them in the annals of history for the sake of a more rigorous system exchanging witches for doctors—this was still all so personal. How could one make the exceedingly personal into something scientific? She knew what the magic of home felt like. It would be different in any other space, sphere, or territory, and who was she to decide another area's magic?

In New York, they stood upon the grand history of the burning over.

In this century, everything had come into a stark contrast of progress and recidivism, of modernity outpacing human capacity to understand its momentum. The entirety of religion as the Western world knew it had fractured into myriad sects; warring parties or peaceable alliances, it was all a tangled, interwoven tapestry of faith and belief, of science and rumor, fashionable orders and obsession with secret knowledge. The desperate search to find answers to the age-old questions resurfacing every era.

Despite the fraught confusion of her era, Clara liked to think she knew better, that out of myriad denominational and secular camps, considering her empirical understanding of centuries of past lives, she might create a magic of general good, as broad as possible, bringing Louis's Warding system to life by cutting through noise and fear and working straightaway on heart and soul.

She went to her desk and drew out a small box of matches in a decorative silver tin and struck one, ready to light each vial and set up the awaited reaction.

Before they could complete the final step and burn the contents, waiting for the flash of otherworldly light that had accompanied their experimental Salem Ward, Franklin burst in to the offices with sobering news.

He eyed the lit match in her hand before he spoke. “There's been a fire uptown. It should be of interest to us,” Franklin explained directly to Clara, “as a site you investigated during the Stevens issues years past. It's gone up in flames. The news from Centre Street depot says it was likely arson. I think we should look up that case—”

Clara blew out the match, and she and the senator said the surname in unison.

“
Stevens.
Of course,” she said, darting to her desk and rummaging under what seemed like a haphazard stack, but she knew right where to look and held up the file in question. The similarities to the Goldberg property, the carvings and invitation to evil, were too glaring a parallel to be coincidence.

At the Stevens property, a chemical powder had been set to blow out into the city, rigged from within the building. This powder was a toxin that would make ordinary citizens mad, a diametrically inverting chemical agent that would turn the placid into the monstrous and make beasts of the benign for as long as the chemical remained in their system. The command was never released, thanks to a group of brave people, including Evelyn Northe-Stewart and Lavinia Kent, who had put a stop to it.

“Bring a few vials along, Clara,” Bishop instructed. “If it's
that
property, we may have an opportunity to test a Ward in a dangerous place…”

Nodding, she put stoppers in three glass tubes and wrapped them in a handkerchief embroidered with primroses plucked from her center desk drawer. She placed the contents in her “work reticule,” a wooden-edged box lined with velvet, reserved for carrying delicate but bulkier things while maintaining a ladylike appearance. Most useful, considering her position in society. Clara could not be seen to be working.

“Mr. Fordham, hold down the fort with Miss Kent. You know where we'll be if you need us, and we'll send a patrolman if we need you,” Bishop said with the calm surety of leadership. Franklin nodded and it was obvious to Clara that he was biting his tongue at being left behind yet again. She could do nothing to change the dynamic. She and Bishop worked as partners and always had, even though Franklin was closer to her age and also gifted, and while Bishop had hired him to be the work partner his schedule in Congress couldn't reliably offer, nothing could match the synergy with which she and the senator managed their business.

*   *   *

After the great downtown fire of 1845, most buildings were required by law to be built primarily of brick and metal, to reduce the likelihood of fires razing whole blocks and neighborhoods. So the brick-based address, on Park Avenue just north of Grand Central Depot, was a contained blaze, but it burned black and hot. Crossing the wide street and pausing on the median, Clara could see the great-wheeled fire pumpers and attached hoses, firefighters doing their best to address the highest flames on the second floor.

A sudden thought alarmed Clara. She whipped a daintily embroidered handkerchief out of her buttoned sleeves and held it over her nose and mouth.

“Rupert, cover your nose and mouth.
Now.
”

He did, using his own, larger, white handkerchief. The tone she had used made him take orders without hesitation.

“The chemical agent utilized in earlier attacks may still be present in the building,” Clara explained. “The flames may have sent it airborne. We can't know if it's inert or might still prove a maddening toxin to anyone nearby. Can you get the men to do the same as a precaution?”

“Very wise, Clara.” Bishop strode to the captain of the fire brigade, and moments later his men began to find ways to cover their mouths and noses. Bishop returned to her side. “I suggested that from an earlier police case, there might be a poison in the air but gave few other details.”

Clara turned at a tap upon her elbow and turned to find a familiar brown-skinned face looking up at her.

“Josiah!” Clara exclaimed. “Did Mr. Fordham send you here?”

“Yes, ma'am, he did,” the boy replied. “I always check in with him after he meets with the policeman on beat. He told me to come see if you all would be needing anything.”

“Hello, young man,” Bishop said with a fond smile.

“Senator,” Josiah replied, ducking his head.

“Did Franklin pay you downtown?” Clara asked. The boy thought a moment.

“Yes, ma'am, he did so, but thank you for asking.”

Bishop fished in his pocket and handed a dollar to the boy. “That's for telling the truth rather than saying he hadn't,” Bishop said. The boy blinked up at him, taking the dollar and tucking it carefully in his pocket.

“My gran's got what some call the gift. She can tell straight if anybody lies. If I'm not mistaken, you have the gift, too, Senator, sir, so I'd best not try my luck,” he replied, getting a chuckle out of both Bishop and Clara. Fishing in the other pocket, Bishop handed over a quarter.

“And
that's
for being clever,” he said as the young man beamed. “Stay close. I am sure I'll be wanting Evelyn's advice and I may need her to come 'round.”

“Yes, sir, I'll be right here for you.”

“You always are,” Clara said with deep fondness.

Josiah lived in the Tenderloin, a neighborhood where the blood running in the streets wasn't just that of pigs or cattle. Injustice was a constant in the area, and Clara and Franklin were desperate to keep their favorite assistant busy, employed, and away from routine danger as much as possible. Josiah was reliable, quick, sharp, kind, and had lots of ears in different circles.

The boy didn't know all the secrets of Eterna, but he knew enough to keep quiet. From a family lineage where gifts were understood, he kept his wits about him when it came to the paranormal. Clara had made Bishop promise he'd find steady employment for the lad when he was old enough; she disliked the idea of errand runners and wanted to make them fully staff instead.

A sunken-eyed, sallow-faced man, wearing a threadbare suit under a stained leather apron, his graying brown hair unkempt beneath a tattered cap, broke from the shadows of the neighboring building. He dashed through the cluster of onlookers and suddenly seized Clara by the arms, shaking her violently. She cried out in protest.

“You have to stop this,” the man gasped. “Help me. Help yourselves! I thought it would end but it never ends … the cycle won't quit—”

Bishop pried the man off, and two patrolmen were instantly at his side to offer additional aid. The look of recognition on Bishop's face made Clara study her attacker's features, and in an instant, she placed him.

This tortured soul was “Doctor” Stevens himself—a self-taught purveyor of chemical “remedies” that healed nothing. The man looked like he hadn't slept in a year—and perhaps he hadn't. Held firmly by the two officers, Stevens stared pointedly at Clara. She'd last seen him at his trial, where she'd testified against him after what she'd seen inside the house in question: floor carved in grim, apocalyptic texts, and gadgets and powders everywhere, intent on harming the neighborhood.

“Is the city in further danger?” Clara demanded. “Will the old chemicals within spread with smoke?”

Stevens shook his head. “It doesn't survive water or fire. It's active when in the lungs. Listen to me. What's thought to be dead
cannot
be killed. The Society lives. Its tendrils have spread. The ivy is thick. They're into growing industries and will find ways to do as much damage as possible. I don't know what'll go first,” Stevens exclaimed. “Possibly electric companies, highly volatile, the present ‘war of the currents.'”

“What is this about?” Bishop asked, gesturing to the fire.

“I'm trying to take care of anything I was involved with,” Stevens said plaintively. “Burn it all. I've not much time. The demons will come for me. I might not last the night.…”

At this, the senator turned to her. “Clara,” he said slowly, an idea dawning, “him … he's how we test the Ward.”

“Oh. Why, yes.” The suggestion made complete sense to her.

Wide-eyed, Stevens said, “What is it? I'll do whatever you need. I've no hope nor shame left.”

“It's your turn to be a test subject, Mr. Stevens,” Bishop said with a grim smile.

“The sooner the better, then,” Stevens replied mordantly.

Bishop turned to Josiah. “Reverend Blessing and Evelyn Northe-Stewart. Dispatch them straightaway to the inn southeast of Madison Square where you've sent associates before, please, my good young man.”

Josiah nodded and was off like a shot. Bishop assured the officers they could return to their business. They did so silently, seemingly glad to be rid of the strange conversation. Clara groaned as a familiar presence strode up to her with an inappropriate directness, always managing to catch her, or perhaps waiting for the precise moment, when Bishop was not at her side.

“Why, Miss Templeton, if
you're
here, this is no ordinary fire.” Peter Green, a mousy-haired investigative journalist, an annoyingly ardent admirer of Clara, and a royal thorn in Eterna's side approached in an obnoxious green plaid coat. “If I recall correctly, this has to do with an old case of yours…” Notebook in hand, he nodded at Stevens with obvious curiosity.

“You've a distressingly accurate memory of things I've been involved with, Mr. Green, and as usual, I am not at liberty to discuss any particulars or insights,” Clara retorted.

“Then set me loose on the trail of something interesting,” Green replied.

“Women's suffrage,” Clara countered. “Garment district fires. Slum overcrowding—”

Green made a face. “I don't work for the radical rags, Miss—”

“Since when is a basic human right and safety radical—”

“War of the currents,” Stevens interrupted. “If threatening forces are infiltrating industry, as I believe they are, scouting for evil amid the most groundbreaking of technologies would be wise.”