Eterna and Omega (15 page)

Clara glanced at Mr. Stevens and back to Green, noting that Bishop was striding back to their cluster, scowling at the presence of the unwanted.

“Mr. Green, how many times have I insisted that you not pester my ward—”

“We're just about to send him off in pursuit of something
interesting,
” Clara interrupted. “He'll scout for anything particularly odd or infernal infiltrating this city's burgeoning electrical grid, won't you, Mr. Green? Give it time. I don't want to see you for a good long while, so dig deep and make yourself scarce but useful for a change.”

Green set his jaw. Whether he would or wouldn't comply didn't matter, having him gone was the thing. In her years fending him off, he found her independence and the fact she held a job—beyond the acceptable female occupations of clerk, nurse, or teacher—a bit too fascinating and novel for her taste. She didn't want to be his journalistic model for the new woman. She just wanted to be herself, to live free, equal, and in pursuit of noble work without judgment.

“If you'll excuse us.” Bishop led her and Stevens away from the frustrated Green.

“Mr. Stevens,” Clara began as she and Bishop flanked their subject, walking away at a clip from the now controlled blaze, “tell us how you came to this terrible place, these dire acts, and what you expect of the night to come. You say you won't last the night. How so?”

“The Summoned are coming,” Stevens warned, “and from what I understand, if you have turned on them, they will tear a body to smithereens.”

Clara winced.

Stevens continued, “For those involved in Society business, to leave or defy it is certain death. It is only a matter of time for me, just like everyone on Tourney's list. The last of the ring were dying even as I left England to clean up my old mess here. Now that I accept death, any moment left of life I spend trying to mitigate my time in hell.”

Clara glanced at Bishop, who nodded. She spoke carefully. “I've three Wards that we believe—we hope—can provide protection. But they can be useful only if released into a neutral space—one that hasn't been tainted by invitation to devilry.”

“Unlike that damned spot I set fire to,” Stevens said with a nod.

“Are there other properties to cleanse—I hope not all by arson?” Clara asked.

Stevens shook his head. “The police did a good job with that before. I don't think there are any further portals, but I wasn't the only operative and we never met as a group.” He took a breath and spoke again, sounding almost like a professor giving a lecture. “You may remember from the trial, Moriel's Master's Society champions three types of mortal offenses: soul splitting, reanimation, and chemical alteration.

“These serve as ‘offerings' to the shadows that Moriel summons from the depths. They also serve as weapons. That will be the next phase—full deployment of all three.”

Clara held back a shudder. “Where?” she pressed.

“I'm not sure how widespread. I know London and New York are the chief targets, along with several other industrial cities. You're a senator, Mr. Bishop, you have to warn your colleagues.”

“So it would seem,” Bishop said grimly. “Tell me, is the British government involved in the Society, or is it its own entity?”

“I do not believe its acts are sanctioned by the Crown, though Society leaders were all aristocracy. I had very little contact with them when I was in England, just kept my head down and nodded to the occasional demon-possessed body spying on my shop.”

Clara's few investigations had only scratched the surface of the issue. She wondered who in England might be feeling the same way—like a failure for not having seen the bigger picture.

They soon reached a merchant boardinghouse, a fine-looking brick edifice with brownstone detailing.

“Take a room there facing the street,” the senator ordered. “My associates and I will be in the inn across the way,” he added, waving at the building opposite.

“I will light a candle in a front window of whatever room I have taken,” Stevens said.

Clara handed over the vials, clasping her hands over Stevens's. This simple kindness seemed to move him nearly to tears. Recalling Louis and Barnard's notes, she said, “It might be helpful to add something personal to one of the vials, something meaningful to you, since the dark forces seem relational…” He nodded. She kept her hands upon his, allowing a flow of her own life force to charge the items. “To active the Ward, light it afire.”

Stevens laughed hollowly. “I shan't have any trouble with that.”

“It should burn strangely,” Clara explained. “That's the hope, an effervescence more than a flame.”

Bishop added quietly, “While we will be nearby, I cannot promise we'll be able to help if there is an issue.”

“This is my cross to bear, unfortunately,” the tired man said with a sigh. “But I take it up willingly and will try to make something right of this if I live.” He turned away, holding the vials as though they were sacred relics.

“We will pray for you,” Bishop assured him.

Stevens turned at the stoop. “That's more than I deserve, sir, but I'm grateful.”

They crossed busy Twenty-third Street to the grander, taller-storied building opposite, an angled stone's throw from Madison Square. A boutique inn rather than boardinghouse, the premises were more intimate than the bustle of one of the area's fine hotels, which would not have suited their purposes.

The hostess knew Bishop upon sight due to more recent business meetings conducted under the eaves of her tavern but had to put the pieces together on Clara.

“Senator, sir, and … Miss Templeton, it's been years, haven't you grown up beautiful! Business of the state or a bit of holiday?” the elder, round-cheeked woman said with a smile from beneath a wide lace bonnet.

“If I'm on holiday, Mrs. DeWitt, I'm loath to leave my house as I don't see the place enough,” Bishop declared. “This is business. Is a suite looking out over Twenty-third Street available? With an adjoining room for Clara?”

“One just opened up,” the innkeeper replied. “Any special requests?”

“Two additional associates of mine, Mrs. Evelyn Northe-Stewart and Reverend Blessing, are en route. Do let them in, their presence is most valued.”

“Of course, Senator,” Mrs. DeWitt said, handing him two keys.

The finely furnished second-floor rooms, connected by a door that Bishop unlocked and flung open, smelled of fresh flowers. Their white lace and damask fabric–covered furnishings stood in sharp contrast to the thoughts of dark, demonic shadows ready to descend upon their nearby test subject.

Clara looked out over the hectic cacophony that was Twenty-third Street and noted the lit candle in a window opposite, also on the second floor. “There he is.”

A form was at the window. Was it a demon, or Stevens? She waved. He waved back.

“Clara,” Bishop admonished, “don't let him know which
room
we're in—”

“He knows we're here, Rupert, and in a room that faces a window. There are only so many—”

“I don't want him running
directly
to you with a demon in tow.…”

“Then why did you call in Reverend Blessing, if we won't
try
to help Mr. Stevens?” Clara said, aghast at the thought. Bishop stared at her and after a long moment, sighed as he smiled.

“My heart. Always reminding me of the right thing to do, even when I'm doing what I think is best to protect you.”

His smile drew one from her, which turned into a blush. She moved away and made a show of inspecting her room so that he didn't see her color.

It wasn't long before their friends arrived: Evelyn, whom Clara had seen so recently, and the fascinating Reverend Blessing, ever dressed in the black vestments and white cleric's collar of his Episcopalian faith. It had been a long while since they had met. Entering the room, the tall, dark-skinned man with hints of gray in his short black hair offered Clara a smile as big as his heart.

Evelyn had introduced them to the reverend; she'd met him at various charity functions and they became allies in the Spiritualist community. A black priest who worked as a hospital and National Guard chaplain as well as substitute preacher in a diverse range of communities throughout the city, Blessing helped the others understand the communities that were not part of their elite world, and did so with love and impressive stores of patience. The reverend had been experiencing an increasing call toward exorcisms.

“Did Josiah come in with you?” Clara asked Evelyn.

“No, he had to wait out front,” the older woman said with a deep scowl. “The woman at the door didn't even seem to want to let Reverend Blessing in, and insisted she had clearance to admit only two.”

Clara donned Evelyn's scowl and darted downstairs immediately. Striding past Mrs. DeWitt, she opened the front door and found Josiah standing on the stoop. When he saw her, his face lit up. She gestured him in. He shook his head, his expression saying everything. The landlady must have made it very clear his kind were not welcome.

Using her body as a shield, Clara made a rude gesture toward DeWitt that the woman couldn't see. Josiah giggled—a sound Clara loved dearly—and hesitantly stepped over the threshold. She scooped up the skinny boy in her arms and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek, at which he laughed outright before whining in protest.

“Aww, Miss Templeton, come now, what's that for?” he said, wiping his cheek but still grinning as she sat him down.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see DeWitt staring at them in horror; this gave her some distinct satisfaction.

“Because you're the most helpful, useful young man in the world. The senator and I consider you family and I want
everyone
to know it.” She shot a pointed look at DeWitt. Josiah seemed somewhat stunned by her praise. Clara turned back to him and spoke more softly. “Now, if you would be so kind to finish off your work by telling Franklin everything that's happened today, and where we are should he need us, I would be most appreciative. He owes you double for all this back-and-forth.”

“Yes, ma'am, thank you.”

She put her hands on her knees to match his height, looking intently into his wide brown eyes. “You stay safe and take care out there, Joe. I do worry over you.”

“Don't worry, Miss Templeton, Reverend gave me a special blessing!” he said with another big grin. He darted out the door and took off down the street, turning back once to wave, which Clara returned.

As Clara headed back upstairs, she saw that DeWitt was trying to pretend she hadn't been staring.

“New York City,” Clara mused pointedly as she climbed the stairs, loud enough to be sure the proprietor heard every word. “Full of the most interesting people in all the whole world, and none so beautiful as every kind and race of child.”

Entering the room upstairs, Clara found her associates deep in discussion.

The reverend punctuated Bishop's explanation of Wards with his declaration: “The Lord's weaponry has to be as varied as mankind's capacity to invent horrors.” Rising to his feet, he drew an ornate silver dispenser from his breast pocket and cast a bit of holy water about the room.

They set a designated watch, but the night grew so very quiet that eventually they all drifted off where they sat.

*   *   *

The next morning, they awoke to pouring rain and a knock on the door. Mrs. DeWitt said, “There's a Mr. Stevens downstairs, asking to see you. Excitable man, I gave him a cup of tea to calm him.”

Clara clapped her hands to her mouth, tears leaking immediately out her eyes.

“It worked!” she exclaimed. Bishop embraced Clara with a joyful laugh, then Blessing and Evelyn in turn before turning to address the increasingly disturbed proprietor.

“Thank you, madame,” Bishop said as the foursome swept past, descending into the low-ceilinged, cozy pub on the first floor. Stevens sat glassy-eyed beside a lit hearth that was working to take the dampness off the wet air.

“Well. You survived!” Clara stated excitedly as everyone gathered around.

Reverend Blessing stepped near and, without a word, inspected Stevens closely. Clara knew Blessing was looking for signs of demonic possession. He'd seen enough of it in his day.

Stevens bore the scrutiny without shrinking, even allowing the reverend to peer into his eyes for longer than was comfortable. Finally, Blessing nodded and made the sign of a cross over the man. Stevens reacted as if he'd been dying of thirst and the clergyman had given him a drink of water.

Once they were all served—tea, strong coffee, and some sweet breads—Clara leaned in and said, “Do tell us what passed last night. Quietly, please.”

“We've already made a stir with our mixed company,” Blessing added in a murmur rather than his usually sonorous voice. “Let's not compound the issue with overheard discussions of demons.” Evelyn and Bishop nodded in support, and all eyes turned to Stevens.

“The Wards. It's fascinating,” Stevens whispered excitedly. “You're right about the need to make it personal, Miss Templeton, and thank you.”

He took a deep breath and memory passed over his face like a black cloud. “The Summoned came for me. Deep, dark shadows, the stuff of true nightmares. The shadows are part of this work and always have been. But no one can truly be prepared when they come for you.” He shuddered and stared into the fire for a long moment.

“Go on. This is vital, Mr. Stevens,” Clara urged. “Truly vital.”

He nodded and resumed with renewed vigor, obviously heartened by her encouragement. “Your initial Ward kept them at the foot of my bed, no closer, Miss Templeton, and there's a congratulations in that.”

Clara looked around for Louis, to see if he heard the good news that his work was a lifesaving success, but her ghostly paramour was nowhere to be seen.