Eterna and Omega (35 page)

Stepping into the gaslight of the front hall was a tired, unshaven, but neatly dressed Andre Dupris, who explained, “I'm here to update you on the status of the Wards.”

“Good,” Clara replied. Out the back garden window she watched Lord Denbury pacing in the dimming light.

“And there's someone else to see you all,” Black said reluctantly, sliding back one of the carved wooden pocket doors of the parlor.

The moment Spire took one look at double agent Brinkman sitting in the pleasant white room, in the same all-black ensemble as he wore in the Parliament attack, Spire shook his head, pointing toward the door, crossing past brocade and lacquered furnishings to round upon the man with a heated demand.

“I want him out, Lord Black,” Spire spat. “Can't possibly be trusted. Surely he would have known about our abduction and did nothing to help us—”

“Yes, actually, I did,” Brinkman countered through clenched teeth, rising angrily to his feet, “and I have covered for and made ‘assurances of' your deaths.” Both men strode to stand nearly nose to nose, and if Clara wasn't mistaken, Spire was about to throw a considerable punch.

The tension shifted when Francis the butler drew a small silver pistol on Brinkman. Spire withdrew a step. Lord Black placed a supportive hand on his lover's back.

“Sit,” Spire barked at the spy. “Say what you came here to say and get out.”

“I'm here to help you plan your attack,” Brinkman growled.

“No, you'll tell us where Vieuxhelles is for an appropriate raid,” Spire countered. “You'll tell us what Moriel has there, what of his plans we can immediately disrupt, and then you'll leave. We can't suffer the
slightest
chance that you could undermine our plans, even accidentally under duress or to save your son.”

“Out with it, Gabriel,” Lord Black urged.

The spy sighed. “Machines to power reanimate corpses are being built inside Vieuxhelles, he'll use them in the procession. There are three times as many paintings on the walls of Vieuxhelles, all holding captive souls in their canvases. You must allow for two of his three prongs of evil to go forward, lest he cancel what he has devised. I know you've been to the warehouse storing the mood toxin. That I can cover for, but you cannot descend on Vieuxhelles too soon.”

“Why let anything go forward?” Spire asked. “Why can we not round on him now, kill him in his lair, and destroy everything at once? Why indulge him and such risk?”

“He has too thick a magic built up around that manor to attack it or him in it directly,” Brinkman said wearily, reaching into his pocket and procuring a piece of paper that bore the old Society crest upon it, a gold and bloodstained seal with dragons on either side. He held out his hand. Black placed a pen in it. Brinkman wrote an address and cursory directions as he elaborated. “Any attempts on his life there—and there have been a few from possessed guards that came back to themselves after the destruction of Rosecrest's paintings—only feeds the evil. I've seen bullets and knives repelled by the very air around him when he stands within those walls, it's
mad.

“By all means torch the blasted place when you can, but take care. Mere fire won't solve a thing, and you have to do so when he's not present. He's too powerful there. Let him go into the city, let him try to tear Parliament down brick by brick in an ungodly show. In doing so, you can plan your counterattacks, place your Wards, more broadly bid the city protect itself, and allow for his vulnerabilities to be struck down when his armor is more widely spread and therein find the chinks.”

“Has Moriel corrupted any of the local law enforcement within riding distance of Vieuxhelles?” Spire asked.

“Most of them, yes. I have only one contact who is any good,” Brinkman replied, “but I'd rather have him arrive to a smoldering ruin than his department interrupt any attempts at sabotage. So you're on your own if you plan to attack the estate. I'll do what I can, and I'll see you amid the madness. For my part, during the procession, I will be trying to get close enough to Moriel to kill him with my own hands. Don't stop me,” Brinkman declared and rose.

“Best of luck, ladies and gentlemen,” he offered. “If we fail, see you in hell.”

Francis followed him out, the pistol trained upon him until the front door boomed shut and the butler returned to the room in silence.

Spire had drawn a rough sketch of Victoria Embankment, ending in Parliament, and set it on the wide lacquered table that sat roughly at the center of their assembled company.

“Should we invite Lord Denbury inside to join us?” Clara asked.

Evelyn shook her head. “He's not well,” she replied. The haunted young man was still pacing, as if trying to escape something unshakable. “He'll do his part and help, of course, but let's let him be for now.…”

No one questioned the medium's gentle advice. All eyes were on Spire.

“I have to think Moriel isn't so blind as to think he won't meet resistance in the Westminster precinct,” Spire stated. “I'll have battalions make sure nothing gets past the bridge here.” He pointed to the mouth of Westminster Bridge, under the shadow of parliament's great tower. “We'll create an outpost at Cleopatra's Needle,” Spire instructed, putting a thumb at a square on his makeshift map a few meters east. He turned to Mrs. Wilson. “That will give you height for surveillance. We'll feign the obelisk is under construction.”

“There will have to be a battery of Wards, all along the route,” Clara stated. She turned to Louis and Andre across the room. “How many have you been able to work up?”

“Hundreds. If not over a thousand,” Andre said, rubbing his eyes. Louis nodded to corroborate his brother. “I'm exhausted. Zhavia is made from sterner stuff, I daresay the old man hasn't paused for a moment. When not making a Ward, he's been out asking every rabbi—or priest—he knows to pray for us. I'm not a godly man, but you know, after spending so much time around such a wellspring as that man, I say that can't hurt.”

“The brighter side of the spirit world,” Louis added excitedly, “seems aware of the plight. It isn't only the darkness that has momentum.” Clara smiled at the ghost, wishing she could take his hand through all this.

Adding onto Andre's point, Bishop stated, “We should have all clergy, of any faith, any belief system, of any age new or ancient, lending their particular strengths to a show along the route.”

“I've many Anglican contacts,” Evelyn stated. “I'll alert them first thing in the morning before traveling north toward Vieuxhelles.”

“And I my imam,” Mrs. Wilson offered. “From what I've seen of the way the Master's Society perverts a building, it insults all faiths in the inscriptions left within. Pushing back with more than one response to such blasphemy might constrain the demons.”

“We'll convince those assembled along the Embankment to hold Wards in their hands as a part of the pomp and circumstance of a parade,” Clara stated.

“And at a signal, light them,” Bishop added.

“Like candles, but carrying within the magical impact of a firework. It could be beautiful,” Clara mused.

“Even if only some of the populace does what we ask,” Bishop offered, “I believe it can be enough to shield the bulk of witnesses and hold the Summoned at bay. I'll be … persuasive about the Wards,” he assured, giving Clara a smile at the promise of his mesmerism. She smiled in turn, glad he was not conflicted about using such a force at such a critical time.

“There will have to be some kind of electrical devices to spur on the phalanx of reanimate bodies from the Vieuxhelles army,” Miss Knight noted. “Lord Black, that device from your war room…”

“The coil? Yes. We might be able to use it to disrupt any flow of current and slow the machines, if necessary.”

“Very good.” Spire nodded. “Thankfully, some technology besides your intangible spells…” He turned to Clara. “No offense meant—”

“None taken,” she replied amiably. “Magic isn't to everyone's taste, and belief isn't required for it to have an effect. The Ward will believe in you. It would be admittedly stronger if you returned its favor, but that is not for me to demand. What will be most helpful as soon as possible is for the senator and me to meet with your Dr. Zhavia before distribution, to see if the Wards are ready and active or inert.”

“Can we arrange transport for them, Lord Black, for the meeting and cargo distribution?” Spire asked. The nobleman nodded.

“For my part, considering all the paintings at Moriel's estate,” Evelyn said, “I can go there during the parade when the focus should be off the property. I will try to reverse the magic on those canvases, try to return those souls to themselves, at least in part. If some of his procession is made up of the possessed, I might be able to sow confusion, delay the parade, disassemble another of his prongs of attack, and hopefully save lives.”

“We'll have two teams, then,” Spire decided, pacing the parlor as he spoke. “The procession team and the estate team. Mrs. Northe-Stewart, what do you need to support you at Vieuxhelles?”

“Guards and someone with sensitivities. Since Clara has been instrumental with the Wards, she and Bishop should remain together and involved with parade implementation. Miss Knight, may I ask for your help?”

Knight nodded. “You have it gladly.”

“Agreed,” Spire added.

“Adira and I can take care of the guards at Vieuxhelles,” Blakely stated. “With an aerial descent first, silent as a mouse and unseen. Reginald”—his voice caught as he turned to the widow Wilson—“taught me his ways well. I'll have help with new toys from the war room. I think a nerve gas I've been developing will serve to clear the rooms for us nicely. I will do you proud.”

“I will of course take Jonathon with me,” Evelyn added. “I promise he will be a focused asset there, and I must keep my promise to his wife not to let him from my sight.”

“Good, then, thank you,” Spire said to everyone confidently. “We have a plan.”

Francis brought everyone tea, and the light, warmth, and crackle from the vast marble fireplace proved to be soothing in silence for some while.

That night, Clara had a chance to sit with Bishop and Evelyn and commune a moment before the teams would have to part the next morning.

“Clara,” Evelyn said, “this is the test I have foreseen for you. You are the crux of the Wards, as you always have been the heart of this work. Stay strong.” She turned to Bishop. “Shield her with more vigilance than you ever have, Rupert.”

The senator reached out and placed his hands on the women's shoulders.

“We are more lit, all of us, than we ever have been. Bright as stars, bright as day. May we all reflect what we are.”

Clara recalled, and rallied, that she had to be worthy of the squall, to see it all from the perspective of the storm, rather than be lost in it.

In a move bolder than she had allowed herself of late, Clara reached up to touch Bishop's hand upon her shoulder, felt its warmth, and kindled hope.

*   *   *

Gabriel Brinkman approached the once grand, now decaying ivy-overgrown estate of Vieuxhelles humming with turbines and the crackle of overloaded electrical wires, sick with dread about what and whom he would see there.

A small surprise offset the pending horror.

As he made his way up toward the formidable entrance, Brinkman noted a dull sparking in the shadows. He smiled broadly. Mosley had come after all, likely having followed the loud hum of the lines leading into the manor, hundreds more than were normal or necessary for the mere purposes of illumination. He carefully approached the shrubbery where he'd glimpsed the flash of light.

“Don't blast the place prematurely, my friend,” Brinkman whispered. “Come to the procession tomorrow. You'll know when you can act … and by all means, I'm counting on it.…” There was no reply from the darkness, but he expected none and felt confident he was understood.

James, the tottering butler, let Brinkman in.

“Mr. Brinkman,” James said softly. A flash of sympathy flickered beneath the cataracts in his eyes.

“How is he?” Brinkman asked, returning the quiet tone.

“The Majesty or your son?” James asked in his usual weary, matter-of-fact manner.

“Either, I suppose, or both.”

“The Majesty is nearly ready to truly make his mark upon London, now that the Parliament has been appropriately shaken and the machines, and the stars, are ready. The Majesty is in the parlor, Mr. Brinkman. I'll be sure your son is brought around straightaway.”

Brinkman nodded, steeled his stomach, and strode into the ostentatiously decorated room. He noted that the number of oval portraits on the walls had increased again, meaning Moriel had added to his underclass of the paranormally enslaved.

Moriel was sitting with slippered feet up on a leather ottoman, drinking a thick beverage that Brinkman had long ago learned never to ask about. Brinkman bowed his head in greeting.

The body of a small boy appeared at the threshold of the room. Brinkman forced himself to smile in greeting and said “Hello.”

“Hello, Papa,” said the body in a horrid, hollow tone.

Brinkman had unsuccessfully searched every holding of the Master's Society for the portrait of his child that would have held the soul ripped from this body and replaced by shadow. Now he knew that regardless of what anyone could do here to try to undermine the dark magic, he had to let go.

For one moment, the guard O'Rourke, the man who had seen Moriel through his internment, and Brinkman stared at one another. There was something so fleeting, and so subtle in their eyes, but they knew. They knew this was a good-bye and a last gasp. Behind O'Rourke's thick body, there were sparking eyes watching them from within the hedge just outside the window.