Eterna and Omega (33 page)

“Sit,”
the guard droned at Clara and Spire menacingly. He did. Clara curtseyed. Lord Denbury remained as if still bound.

“I will,
sir,
don't worry,” Clara said, playing a bit mad to the guard, spinning the jagged black lock between her thumb and forefinger “I'm just leaving Lady Denbury here a token to remember her son by, for when we're all gone!”

“I…” Denbury began with vague alarm.

“
She
lives, in essence. She remains…” Bishop murmured. A quick glance between them assured Clara that he knew exactly what she was doing; the subtle curve of his mouth spoke of his pride in her.

This was truly Louis's triumph, Clara thought. Without the token that had connected them, she wouldn't have known how to break the wall keeping the spirits out. There was comfort, at least, in that.

“Sit or I'll shoot,” the guard droned. “Majesty wants you dead at stroke of midnight to stoke his fires, but
I
don't mind earlier.…”

“Sitting,” Clara assured, moving toward her chair but not before she placed Lord Denbury's black hair on the thick frame around the portrait of his beautiful late mother, setting it down carefully so that the hair touched the canvas directly.

To Clara's senses, there was a palpable and immediate reaction, a ripple of air, a shimmer through the room. She
was
still here, right nearby … And she did
not
like being held back.…

Everyone in the room felt what Clara did, save for the guard at the door. But even he was aware of what came next, as the barrier fell.

At least seven spirits swarmed into the room, Lady Denbury at the fore.

Lady Denbury shrieked, sending a rending banshee wail of the whole spirit world, and the new guard at the door winced. Though it was not yet midnight, he moved toward the stopcocks on the gas pipes, but Spire leaped forward in an impressive bound, sticking the dull steak knife into the side of the guard's neck and tried to wrest the gun from his hand. The hefty man dropped instantly to the floor, a stray gunshot during the struggle lodging in the baseboard and bringing other guards running. More small knives flew down the hall and felled the fresh stream of guards, but the knife thrower remained unseen.

Spire picked up the gun and tossed his knife to Lord Denbury, who had been first unbound by Spire and was at present freeing the rest.

The entire house seemed to tremble, as if the spirits had unleashed an earthquake. Ten ghosts hovered before the wall of souls, facing their portraits. With a spectacular and unexpected strength Clara had never encountered in a ghost, Lady Denbury hurled a large candelabra at the wall. Paint, frame, and wallpaper went up in an almost immediate blaze.

Evelyn Northe-Stewart and Lord Denbury stood before the portraits, that part of the magic being of their particular experience, and recited a counter-curse in Latin, seeking to help reunite souls with bodies.

As the fire erupted, two guards who had rushed into the dining room, guns at the ready, stared as the paintings of their own likeness caught fire. Their possessed bodies crumpled in the instant, the magic tether that had been keeping them possessed now having vanished into the flames, the counter-curse bringing them to themselves again.

Everything was happening so fast that Clara barely had time to breathe, but she was aware that even with the help of Rose's fortitude and her own adrenaline, this much spirit activity meant a seizure was quite overdue. Her vision had begun to flicker and her muscles crawled under her skin.

Bishop grabbed her by the arm dragged her into the grand hall, followed by the other captives from Eterna and Omega. The dining room was being quickly engulfed in flames, which the ghosts were fanning furiously.

Running for the door, they were met by a host of police officers. Clara wondered if Brinkman or another Omega operative had sent word to them. Spire went over to the ranking officer immediately, introduced himself, and began giving directions on what to save.

“Let everything burn,” Lord Denbury cried, interrupting Spire. “Let it
all burn
!”

“Wait.” Clara reached out a shaking arm. “Won't burning it all…” she gasped. “Fuel him? Give Moriel more power?”

“No,” Evelyn said, her voice full of wonder. “Thanks to these brilliant, resourceful ghosts. Lady Denbury somehow blessed the place; she told me there's holy water around it, severing evil into the ley line. If it feeds anything at all, it will feed only light. She echoes her son; let it all burn.…”

Clara could feel the seizure coming. She managed to choke out, “Rupert,” as her strength fled. Her legs gave way, and she fell as if she were an anchor dropped from the side of a ship, and then was caught, lifted by the lifeboat that was her guardian.

They were outside now, in the fresh air; Clara could hear everyone around her coughing. She could hear Louis murmur, finally reunited with her, “Hold on, Clara, hold on,” before all senses faded entirely to black nothingness.

*   *   *

Each time Clara lost her sense of the tactile world, feeling that a bit of death had come to take her, she prayed she'd rise again whole. Each time she woke, her first thought was gratitude that if she was to die, thankfully it was not today.

She came to in a very fine parlor, sense by sense. Vision first: Bishop was standing watch over her, Louis floating against the wall opposite. Then hearing: a host of voices in a nearby room. Scent: a heady pot of tea steaming bergamot vapors right near the … ah, yes, touch: the sumptuous pillow upon which her head rested. She'd been deposited on a wide settee as lush as a bed and covered in a blanket. Last, she placed her location: Lord Black's mansion.

At a nod from Bishop, a maid in a simple uniform opened a door and ushered everyone into the parlor, where they milled about. Clara wriggled into a seated position; Bishop glided around behind the couch and stood sentinel. Louis wafted to her side.

In addition to her companions from their captivity at Lord Denbury's estate—save for Denbury himself and Evelyn—Clara saw Knight, Blakely, and Adira Wilson, whom she hadn't seen since the voyage.

Lord Black strode into the parlor, his handsome butler close on his heels, and the nobleman fixed Clara with an intense gaze. “Hello, Miss Templeton. We've all managed to have some rest after our ordeal, and I'm hoping that includes you. We didn't want to deposit you in your guest room as we rotated watch over you for the past hours.”

“I believe, for my part, I am, are we all, all right?” Clara asked in return.

Lord Black nodded. “We are all in various stages of recovery,” he stated and then shared a long look with his butler, something passing between them that Clara found spoke of a deeper resonance in than mere master and servant. Black continued. “Lord Denbury has remained to see to the final and utter razing of Rosecrest so that nothing of the place survives. He is attended by the whole of the Greenwich police department, who know to act as though he perished in the blaze. Mrs. Northe-Stewart, remaining at his side, is helping to address any instructions from the late Lady Denbury herself.”

“Where is Andre?” Clara asked Louis warily, suddenly aware that not everyone was accounted for.

“Still at the Omega department headquarters, helping Dr. Zhavia with Wards as he was instructed,” Louis replied. “He has no idea of what has befallen us, so let's let him keep working. Mr. Blakely and Miss Knight, of course, wanted to come offer us support today after what befell us.”

The rest of the company looked between Clara and the blank wall.

“To whom are you speaking, Miss Templeton?” Spire asked.

“Louis—his ghost floats there in the corner. I'm not sure I trust his twin any more than I would Brinkman, so I was asking his whereabouts.”

“Of course,” Spire muttered.

“It was your quick and clever thinking, Miss Templeton,” Lord Black praised, “that gave us an advantage at Rosecrest. Thank you.”

“It is my purpose as a Spiritualist to allow for the afterlife to aid our present life,” Clara replied modestly. “A great deal of forces came together for our aid.”

“We will need just such fortitude for the next battle to come, for the dread conflagration Moriel plans,” Black stated. “I am ready to fight to protect those lovely bricks of Parliament, to protect the whole of our people, of every station. Are you?”

Everyone nodded, even Louis.

“Lord Black,” Spire said, examining the weary nobleman before them, “if I may, at this point, you are not expected to fight further. You have been very generous. But you are needed in government and in the House of Lords, and we understand. You do not have to fight at our sides…”

At that moment, Lord Black turned to his butler and took the man's hand. Everyone in the room stared as the nobleman then lifted his butler's hand and kissed it. Twice. Lovingly.

The silence was deafening.

“Edward,” the butler said, drawing away, trembling. His face was bright red with embarrassment but his voice was full of love.

Everyone stared.

Lord Black turned to everyone but aimed his words at Spire.

“You ask me, Mr. Spire, why I have been so passionate about these matters, why I helped with the Tourney business at all, why I have been so ready to fight.” Lord Black's voice was thick with emotion. “This is why.” He lifted the hand of his butler, who did not look up from the floor.

“My Francis here was a merchant, a hardworking man of business. He gave up a whole life of promise and purpose to live as less than he is, just so that we had a plausible excuse for him to be at my side. To live in hiding.

“Moriel would look at Francis, at his class, and try to wipe him and his like off of his feudalistic map, abuse him worse than they would me.

“It is hard enough to live as we have had to, for such a noble soul as his to have sacrificed as he has.…” Black clenched his fist as if looking for something to throw it at. All the cool, arch cleverness of his persona had fallen away, revealing an angry man in love in ways the world could not accept.

Francis gently patted his partner's arm. “It's all right, Ed.” His quiet voice spoke of the pain they'd endured. “Don't work yourself up about this—”

Black caught Francis's other hand in both of his, clasping them to his bosom; the fair face of the blond lord was as flushed as his lover's but with the fires of justice.

“I would rather lay down my life, and all my privilege, than bend one inch toward a view that would usher in a new Dark Ages.”

The shock of the social mores being broken was as sharp as if a glass had been dropped in the center of the room. Everyone had been struck silent. Miss Knight, Clara noted, was smiling, tears in her eyes as if a very personal chord had sounded.

It was impossible to ignore the police presence in the room. Spire had held high Metropolitan Police rank before being appointed to Omega. At his word, Black and Francis could easily be arrested for any number of offenses, including the acts Spire had just personally witnessed.

When Clara looked at Spire, though, she saw quiet admiration in his eyes.

“I can only imagine the difficulties of your lives, gentlemen,” Spire said in a gentler tone than she'd heard from him in their short acquaintance. “But I am glad to have you as an ally in our fight, Lord Black.”

Francis glanced at Spire, fear on his face. “You won't … report us … Mr. Spire?”

“I've better things to do and I care not a whit to be nosy in personal affairs,” Spire declared in his usual brusque way. “I see no point in making enemies and sins out of love. One's private business is hardly a threat to me, to the city, or to the world.”

Francis dropped his gaze once again to the floor, murmuring relieved thanks.

Perhaps it was a lovesick pain, or discomfort, or simply the need for business to take the fore again that had Mrs. Wilson step forward.

“I do not mean to interrupt, milord,” she said quietly in her soft, Arabic-tinged English.

“No, no, Adira, please.” Lord Black turned to the assembled team. “My friends, we owe Mrs. Wilson a debt of thanks. She did not take her prescribed time of grieving but instead tracked us to Rosecrest.”

“I awaited you outside Lord Black's home after escorting Knight and Blakely to Dr. Zhavia at the offices,” she explained. “I did not feel my place was with them in mysticism, but with you in action. When the carriages flew past this house after the appointed hour, it was clear something was amiss. I pursued on horseback. Thankfully, Reggie and I…” Her voice caught. “We're practiced at not being seen, and, of course, at ambush.”

“It was
you
with the knives,” Rose exclaimed, impressed. Mrs. Wilson nodded. Clara wondered what kind of international sensation the Wilsons had been in their time, as mysterious as they were dangerous.

“Thank you, Mrs. Wilson, we are indeed in your debt,” Spire said earnestly before turning to Lord Black. “We need to find Vieuxhelles. Now. We've Miss Bixby's list of Apex-and Society-related properties, and I've read the whole list.” He gestured to the papers on the console table before him. “None matches the description of an ancestral estate. Vieuxhelles seems to exist off record, and scouring the countryside would waste our time. If that damned Brinkman had
told
us—”

Blakely had come forward to peruse Effie Bixby's list, and his finger pointed to a name. “I know that name, Moore—it's a warehouse for salt and basic chemist's supplies, I order from them often. Must have been targeted, seized…”

“That warehouse marks the largest single property anywhere on this list,” Spire stated. “The building stood on my first police beat. I'll go and take a look. Let's take advantage of being assumed dead.”

“I'll come with you,” Clara said, sitting up. Senator Bishop made a noise of protest, which she turned to address. “I know what to look for when buildings have been tainted for Society use, Rupert,” she assured. “We each have our areas of expertise, and fouled property has been mine since the Stevens case.”