The Eterna Files (28 page)

The man clicked his tongue. “As am I and right now I'd get you first. So let's try this again. Come with me.”

Clara thought quickly. England. Surely this was England's doing. Maybe Brinkman had gotten something out of Louis. She prayed her lover was all right.

“I was raised with the notion that if a stranger attempts to take me anywhere against my will,” Clara said, “that I ought not trust a word he says, and that I am to make noise and struggle.”

“If you make noise or struggle, I'll simply shoot you, hop out the window, and shimmy up the rope already placed for my escape,” the man countered, all as if they were talking about something quite mundane, not kidnapping or murder. “Bring your hands up—
without
the pistol—and rise from your desk. Come with me. Your friends have also been abducted, if that changes anything,” the man added casually.

A jolt of terror ran through her. “Who?”

“Your partner with the bad leg. Your dear senator. And Mrs. Northe-Stewart, who hosts so many séances. I thought she'd be very useful. They are all assembled, awaiting you.”

The man with the gun hadn't mentioned Louis. Or Lavinia. Surely that meant they were safe. But if any of the others were hurt, Clara would never forgive herself.

Panic must have been visible upon her face, for the intruder said, in a voice that seemed sincere, even if it was a good act, “They are alive, I promise.”

“Who do you work for?” Clara demanded.

The man merely shook his masked head, the shadows shifting menacingly on his false face. He came closer, making silent progress across a room where usually the floorboards creaked with every step.

She abruptly realized that there were lengths of dark fabric in the hand that wasn't holding the gun—likely a blindfold and some kind of binding.

“Miss Templeton, for the last time, place your pistol upon the desk.” When Clara shifted forward, the abductor asked: “What are you doing?”

“Detaching the pistol from its moorings,” she explained falsely. In truth, she was pulling the knife from her boot.

“Don't try anything. And don't bother screaming either. Save your voice. I used a chemical on the girl downstairs, so she can't hear you.”

Clara growled, her protectiveness of loved ones flaring more violently than thoughts of her own safety. She had hoped Lavinia had left for home before this creature's arrival.

“She'll be fine,” he said dismissively, waving his pistol nonchalantly. “Just a hell of a headache in the morning.”

Clara felt sick to her stomach. For Lavinia, being assaulted might trigger a relapse into fear and paranoia. Clara's mind raced in search of escape. She visualized the trajectory of her knife, the speed at which she might be able to move … He was a mere foot away.…

Now or never.

Spinning, Clara wielded the knife in her right hand, drawing it up in a cutting block as she tried to knock her visitor's gun hand to the side, away from her body. The assailant's gun fired into the floor and Clara started at the noise. Her knife grazed the man's forearm but made contact with something hard, like a leather cuff, which prevented injury.

The kidnapper grappled for Clara's wrist but his glove slid off a band of satin on her sleeve—Clara swore in that instant she'd only wear slippery fabrics from now on. She drove her elbow upward and there was a crunch as she struck his cheek, crumpling the papier-mâché mask against his jaw.

He grunted at the impact, then growled and clamped his hand onto her forearm like a vise. No help from her satin blouse now as she tried to jerk away from his iron grip. His mask had fractured; a pattern of cracks radiated like a spiderweb from the point of contact. The thin white web made him all the more sinister.

Twisting Clara's wrist up behind her back, the attacker turned it sharply and she cried out in pain. She could feel him winding something—a thin rope, perhaps—around the wrist he held and stood up sharply, attempting to throw her chair into him from the force of her movement. The back of the chair pressed against his leg and he shoved her down into the seat, pressing the barrel of his gun directly against her head. She shivered at the touch of cold steel.

“Miss Templeton,” he said; she heard a slight change in his voice, likely from his swollen jaw, “I admire your courage and pluck, truly. I'm sure I could introduce you to my employer, who would be most happy—”

“Go to hell.”

“Oh, we'll all see one another there. It will be quite the soiree. Place your other wrist behind your back, please.”

She did not move.

“Your hands, please, Miss Templeton,” the man said wearily. “I am asking nicely when at this point I'd rather have shot you.”

Clara debated a moment. With the gun against her skull, there was no move she dared risk. She could tell that her enemy's patience was dangerously at its end. She did as he'd asked and the intruder bound both wrists.

“I am sorry,” he said as he worked, sounding sincere. “Though I shouldn't be, with that hit you landed. I've a handsome face beneath this mask, thank you very much. I don't like doing this to a lady unless she asks me to. Begs, really. But that's pleasure. This is business.”

Clara tried to hide her shudder of revulsion but doubted she was successful. Panic made her want to retch.

“Would you rather be unconscious, Miss Templeton? That is the alternative. I have more of the lovely concoction I used on your receptionist. It will render you entirely motionless and unaware.”

Clara shook her head. “N-no.”

If what he said was true, then the only people who cared she existed were no more able to help her than she could help herself. Clara pledged to have more friends who might be concerned if she vanished, if only the Good Lord would see her out of this unscathed. Secret operations are no good if your life is a secret kept and lost in the bargain.

The coarse black blindfold went over her eyes and was tied roughly. Her abductor threw something over her shoulders—perhaps the black cloak he had been wearing—and put the hood low over her face, hiding the blindfold. A silk lining brushed her cheek. Well, at least it was a fine cloak.

Going down the stairs, bound and blindfolded, was difficult. Clara nearly tripped over the ruffled layers of her petticoat at every step but she wasn't about to ask her captor for any kind of help. She took everything very slowly.

At the door another binding came out and was roughly tied around her mouth. She growled. “The carriage is just outside,” he replied calmly as she struggled away from the dark burlap strip, chafing her skin as she did.

Clara prayed harder than she'd ever prayed in her life; that she would arrive at her destination and see the people she cared deeply for, alive and well. They were an intelligent breed. Surely with all of them against … how many would they be against? Surely they would survive.…

Her mind reeled and rattled, body shaking as the abductor took her arm and bid her step up into the carriage. Even the horses seemed nervous, she heard them stamping and shaking their heads, jangling the hardware of their bridles. Morbidly she wondered if the air around her was buffeted by the wings of the angel of death, the wake of Eterna wreaking horrible effect.…

They were off. Uptown. Over. Taking Broadway. The busiest, most populated route anywhere. Why didn't he take the river? She pressed her shoulder against the door. Felt for the latch. Locked and she couldn't unlatch it. She shifted herself, propping herself upon her knees, fumbling with her free fingertips at the latch. She undid it. Oh, it couldn't be that easy.… As she pushed on the door, she felt resistance. Something was holding the door in place from the outside.

She tried to count the blocks traveled. She'd been along Broadway in every kind of traffic. Their passage paused for streetcars, she heard dings and shouts of passing carriages or irritated passersby. She shook back the hood on the off chance the carriage window curtains were open and someone would be struck by the appearance of a blindfolded woman in an uptown carriage.… She pressed her face to the glass and felt muslin curtains against her cheek. Clearly this was not the man's first abduction.

A turn to the right. East. Several blocks at a quicker clip. Another turn, to the left. Fourth Avenue. She'd have thought she'd be taken into the sordid parts of town where the police dared not tread; the Lower East Side, not the Upper. But then again, crime occurred in the finest parts of town, too, it merely wore different clothes and operated more quietly. She heard the chug and scream of steam trains. They were near Grand Central, adjusting their route to bypass the depot itself. The elevated rails of Lexington Avenue squealed and hissed, one block to the east.

The horses picked up speed, then made an abrupt turn, whinnying. Clara was jostled inelegantly across the cabin, there was a loud clatter as the horses crossed onto rougher cobblestone. The noise bounced off closer quarters and the cab came to a stop. She shuddered, wondering what would come next.

She was grabbed by the elbow as the door opened. She still heard traffic and the clop of horses, but the streetcar bells were farther. A side street, not an avenue.

“Go on,” the abductor growled, pulling her down and shoving her forward. Clara nearly fell up stone stairs. Through the fabric of her blindfold she was aware of a dim light. A key sounded in a lock and a door creaked open. She was urged across a threshold, her boot touching down upon thick carpet with the soft squeak of wood beneath. Whatever light had been outside was not found inside. She heard the wooden slide of pocket doors upon their groove. Was this someone's home? She could hear angry voices, ahead. Her friends? Hope and relief surged in her veins.

She could tell when they first glimpsed her: heard Franklin's distinct gasp of breath, Bishop's sad sigh, and clear words from Evelyn Northe-Stewart who ordered the escort to “get his dastardly hands off her or she'd cut them off herself.”

If she had to be taken hostage, at least she had good company. Her hood and blindfold were removed, revealing a lovely parlor, lit only by a pair of sconces, gas jets trimmed low above a fireplace where embers gave off an eerie, molten glow.

Before her sat her friends, in chairs around a circular table. Their shoulders were all awkwardly back, indicating they were bound like her. The abductor shoved Clara into a chair next to Evelyn, with an empty chair on her other side. Bishop was across from her, with Franklin next to him. The table was covered in a black satin cloth; a small, brass bell rested at the center beside a single lit candle. The satin was wrinkled, it hadn't been there long. The bell was of the type used in séances to call forth spirits, to change the sound of a room, to pick up on the vibrations of those across the veil.… Was this to be a séance, then, conducted under duress? A séance by force?

Clara began to look about the room, trying to take in the entirety of the situation.

Another man was brought into the room, bound like the rest of them. Clara's heart seized and sunk in a dizzying, sickening tumult.

“Louis…” she murmured. He looked at her sheepishly, his usually warm eyes rimmed with guilt. What did he have to be guilty about? Across from her, Bishop clenched and released his jaw almost imperceptibly. Louis was placed in the last empty seat, to Clara's right.

Beyond the table, Clara saw a large wooden arch leading into another wing of the house. The space was deeply shadowed; she could barely make out a figure in an angled shaft of dim light.

Someone spoke from the darkness: the voice of her captor. But it was now deeper, accented differently. Clara couldn't pinpoint it exactly, vaguely French? Why didn't he save the trouble and speak in his British accent? It was likely the infamous Brinkman himself.

“I'm sure you've wondered why I've brought you all here—” he began.

“It has something to do with Bishop's work,” Evelyn interrupted sharply. “And you need me to preside as medium, which is where I assume this Louis fellow comes in. I'm clairvoyant, I've worked that out. But why you need
all
of us here is what I cannot comprehend, it's terribly inefficient and potentially dangerous to you to have this many variables. We're a very
variable
crowd, after all,” she concluded.

“Information,” Clara supplied. “On the Eterna compound. Whatever we know.”

“Indeed, Miss Templeton,” their captor stated.

“Bishop is a damn fine medium on his own, why me?” Evelyn asked.

“You're better at hearing spirits directly, the very best there is, we're told,” replied the voice. “We don't have time to take chances with spirits who won't talk or with mediums who can't hear.” Clara watched Bishop scowl and Evelyn fall prey to the flattery for a moment before she copied her old friend's sour expression.

“You'll be asking about the location of all Eterna evidence and the last known locale of the team, of course,” the voice from the shadows replied. “If we simply came to you directly, I doubt you'd be forthcoming. And there have been some new … wrinkles of late.”

Clara watched Louis shift uncomfortably in his chair.

“Name of the departed you wish to contact?” Evelyn asked angrily.

“Louis Dupris,” said the shadows.

Clara sputtered in confusion. “But Louis is right here,” Clara said, nodding toward him. Evelyn turned to Louis, then sent a questioning look toward the invisible speaker.

“No, he isn't,” said the disembodied voice. “Will you explain, or shall I,
Andre
?”

There was a terrible silence. “Andre…” Clara said slowly.

“Yes. I am Andre Dupris. Louis's twin brother,” Andre murmured.

The strained pause that followed was unbearable. All eyes were on Clara. She blinked back tears. “I … didn't know…”

“That he had a twin brother? Few did. But he does.
Did
…” Andre cleared his throat, his low voice trembling, “He never spoke of me. None of my family did. I brought only shame to them. But he was a good brother to me. And for what it's worth, he loved you very much.”