The Eterna Files (27 page)

“We'll walk back to the office and use that time to discuss Tourney matters. Give me the message.”

He fished in his pocket and handed over the paper. “Brinkman,” Spire stated, taking a seat in a cushioned chair at Everhart's nod, though she did not sit. “I want to know exactly what he's doing and what he's about. Our operation relies too much on him and he's a stranger to me. Under whose exact orders is he operating? Do I send a spy to spy upon our spy?”

Rose looked at the sheet, then picked up a nondescript leather-bound notebook lying on an end table. She sighed, irritated. “Brinkman is the only one who uses a
thoroughly
redundant cipher. To your questions, the man is a pet of Lord Black, and has been for years. I've no idea of their history as Edward is—Lord Black—is cagey about a lot of things.”

“So I've gathered. Does our every move revolve solely around Lord Black?” Spire said, unable to keep a bite from his tone, though he was curious as to the familiarity she'd let slip.

“Mostly. And Her Majesty, of course. They are the sun and the moon of our sky, Spire, and you must be careful not to fight the heavens. There is freedom in staying in favor.”

She spoke with enough gentle warning that it gave Spire pause. Remaining favored, it seemed, was one of Miss Everhart's greatest skills. It was one he'd do well to learn from.

“Noted,” he replied.

His colleague passed a rounded settee to take a seat at a lacquered, inlaid writing desk, drawing a pen from her buttoned sleeve as if it were a knife. She gestured toward a wheeled tea-tray set against the wall. “The teapot should still be hot. Would you be so kind, Mr. Spire, to make me a cup while I decipher? Pinch of sugar.” She set immediately to work, scribbling on a sheet of paper randomly drawn from atop the cluttered little surface.

He rose after a long moment, staring at her flying hand and her mess of a desk. It was odd, Spire thought, for a woman so fastidious at work to have such a cluttered desk at home.

“Make
yourself
some tea, Mr. Spire, if you won't make me a cup,” Everhart added. “But please don't stand there hovering, it makes me nervous.” She looked firmly at him; he turned to the tea cart and busied himself with pot and cup.

“You're wondering about my desk, I see,” she added. “The papers are at exact angles and in precise order; any alteration would instantly alert me that someone had come snooping.”

“That's most sensible,” Spire said, relieved. He handed over a cup of tea—with a pinch of sugar; Rose thanked him. She was finished with the cipher before his own tea had finished steeping.

She read aloud: “Will send material from last known location of American scientists. Have promising leads. Permission to interrogate.” She set the paper down and looked at Spire. “Whoever he was tailing must have lost him quickly or had help. Brinkman never tells us directly where he is, but I assume he's back in New York if he's going to the American researchers' location.”

“Lovely,” Spire muttered. “A roving, rogue operative.” There was a long silence. “You know, Miss Everhart, for what it's worth, Lord Snitt is an ass, I hope that won't—”

“Deter me in the least?” Rose smiled. “Men like him only strengthen my resolve.”

“Good then.” Spire nodded. “Tell Brinkman to pursue whatever he's interested in, and suggest he try not to make it obvious to the Americans that it's
us
asking the questions. Blame the French.”

Everhart smiled. “Why the French?”

Spire grimaced. “They should not, as a species, be trusted. Determine the scope of Brinkman's plan and if he will work alone. I don't want an international incident on my hands.”

“Indeed, Mr. Spire.” She set down her cup, rose, and swept out to the entrance foyer, drawing Spire in her wake. “To the office?”

“To the office,” he agreed. “We've persons of interest to discuss.”

“Indeed we do.”

En route, they caught each other up on their respective investigations. Everhart agreed that Stevens was critical and hoped he'd be sensible enough to turn himself in and in so doing, perhaps save his own skin. As for her interviews: one had been recently killed by his wife in a “domestic dispute” that everyone doubted was true. Another revealed a company used in shipping and manufacturing that might be a cover for insidious materials; this, she felt was critical.

*   *   *

In the dank shadows of the cell deep in the Royal Courts, the Majesty, Mr. Beauregard Moriel, the
rightful
Duke Masparian—not that simpering imitator, damn him to the eternal hells—could not allow himself to luxuriate in daydreams of his coming reign. He had to remain focused. He could not jump ahead and ignore the myriad details of the present. That's what had gotten him into trouble before, what had gotten him captured.

Being imprisoned was a horrid setback, he'd been sloppy with trivial old vendettas that had curtailed his momentum. He had to forget avenging petty injustices and instead dive into what the Fates demanded of him, taking great care never to disappoint the summoned again. They could never see him weak.

When his pet arrived for his appointed round, Moriel salivated not for the moldering bread but for reassurances.

“Is it done, O'Rourke? Tell me, tell me,” the Majesty murmured, reaching between the iron bars and clasping the guard's hands in his.

“It is, milord, it was said Tourney's cell was awash in crimson, that there was no blood left in the body, every drop painted the walls.”

Moriel sighed, all the rippling tension in his body easing in a wave of peace. “It was done by host bodies, yes? My summoned have done so much for me, I need to make sure they are well taken care of, that they get the trophies they so richly deserve.”

“Oh, yes, milord, I doubt a human alone without the augmentation of the Summoned could accomplish such incredible acts otherwise. And yes, trophies have been taken of all the deceased.”

“Make sure all my morgue men get their tokens and consecrate them,” Moriel instructed, his fingernail dragging up the guards large forearm to peel open a scab on the man's wrist, watching closely as a droplet of blood bubbled up. “In order to wake the bodies overseas, I need a powerful lot of pieces. My men all know this, of course, as do my summoned, but, knowing that you're keeping tabs on all of it, O'Rourke, my good man, it simply”—Moriel sighed and clasped the guard's large face in his small palms—“brings me such peace of mind.”

“Of course, milord,” the deep-voiced guard reassured. “All shipments, once they are fully consecrated and prepared, shall begin to be sent to the same port via the usual society channels unless compromised.”

Moriel nodded, his voice soft and musical as he placed a length of chain over his small, barrel chest as if it were a ceremonial sash. “Sweet, sweet America, where our sun shall never set.”

CHAPTER

TWELVE

Their return to New York was blessedly swift; their conversation light and general. At Grand Central, they parted, the senator to visit the disaster site and Clara heading for her office.

“Where on earth have you been?” Franklin barked, glaring up from his desk as Clara charged into the room, carrying Louis's diary, the papers, and Bishop's doctor's bag.

“Bishop and I went to Salem.”

Franklin frowned. “Salem, Massachusetts? Whatever for?”

“Witch hunting,” she said brightly. Franklin stared at her. “I received information on where to find some of the team's work,” Clara said, finding a place for Louis's writings in a file cabinet.

“Bishop and I went to Salem,” she repeated. “We were testing localized magic.” She set the black leather on her desk and sat down.

Franklin took a deep breath and spoke in measured syllables. “Protocol is to tell your partner if you leave on a mission.”

“Sometimes things just come up, Franklin.” She sighed. In truth, she hadn't even thought of notifying him; Bishop's energy and her own desire to know what Louis had discovered had swept her along.

On her way in, Clara had stopped and asked Lavinia to bring coffee. The redhead's arrival leavened the mood, as Lavinia regaled Clara and Franklin with her fiancé's latest adventures. He'd been mistaken for a body snatcher when he was, in fact, being a good Samaritan at the Denbury clinic in London. Clara and Franklin contributed anecdotes about their own Burke and Hare cases. Morbid humor was one of their strong suits.

“Oh, earlier, Clara, I intercepted someone on your behalf. Peter Green, the journalist who is always after you. He wants to take you to the opera,” Lavinia said with a grimace.

Clara laughed.

“Is that your answer?” Lavinia asked. “Do I write: ‘She laughed'?”

“No,” Clara snickered. “Write: ‘She laughed at you, sir.'” It was Lavinia's turn to laugh.

“That's cruel,” Franklin said in a chiding tone.

“Then you go to the opera with him,” Clara snapped.

“I know he's irritating,” Franklin said sincerely. “But you don't have to be mean.”

“He doesn't have to be a pest!” Clara insisted. She turned to Lavinia. “Tell him no, dear.”

Lavinia pouted. “That's no fun at all.”

“Yes, but I need to keep up my”—Clara gestured in the air, searching for the word—“what do you call it?”

“Karma?” Lavinia smiled fondly at her dear friend. “Yes, Clara, love. But he's annoyed you often enough, even karma will allow you to be as direct as you need to be with the man.”

“Perhaps so,” Clara said. She turned to Franklin. “When men start affording more rights to women, maybe we'll be nicer to the ones we don't like. But for now, I know that I myself am too busy trying to preserve my rights and faculties to take care of a man's fragile ego.”

Franklin knew he was outnumbered and outgunned, and said nothing.

Clara spent the rest of the day poring over the file she'd kept on the earlier case that was similar to what had happened at the Goldberg house. She was right, the carvings had been very similar; in addition in the prior circumstances, what looked like a door had been etched into a wall, undoubtedly bidding something terrible to enter.

She hadn't seen such marks at the lab; perhaps Bishop might find it, or something else she missed in her haste to escape her oncoming episode.

How could the chemist responsible in that case have anything to do with Eterna? He was in jail.

No.

She discovered a later addition to the file, a little sidebar clipped from a newspaper. The bastard had been acquitted. Perhaps there was more of a network than the police had originally thought.

Franklin slipped out at some point without her notice. Late in the day, Lavinia came up to ask if Clara needed anything. Clara refused and told her friend she could leave whenever she wished. Sitting alone in the office, Clara realized she was hoping Louis might come by. It was the safest place for them to meet.

Focused intently on research she'd pulled from the file cabinets, she didn't even notice it had grown dark beyond the reach of her desk lamp.

“Miss Templeton,” came a voice from the shadowed part of the room. Clara started in her chair, spilling now-cold coffee. That would teach her to leave the lights off after dusk. She subtly put her hand below her desk and took hold of the grip of the pistol secured there.

“Come with me,” said the voice. It was a low male voice, not one she recognized, and had an American accent, though that was easy enough to counterfeit.

Clara spoke slowly, keeping her tone level despite the shaking of her hands. “I do not casually obey disembodied voices in the darkness.”

“Come with me,” it repeated.

“You'll have to be more convincing.” She detached the pistol from its wire, steeling herself not to wince at the little click of the release.

“You don't have an option if you value your life,” the voice said.

Clara fought valiantly to keep her body calm, taking a deep breath. “Clearly I do have an option. You're here for a reason, likely information. Which you won't get if I'm dead. How about you introduce yourself like a gentleman?” She gestured to the chair opposite her.

A figure stepped into the small pool of colorful light cast by the Tiffany lamp on Clara's desk. Tall, thin, and dressed entirely in black, shirt, suit, and all; his dark hair was slicked back, tight to his skull. His face was completely concealed by a simple papier-mâché mask—black, lined subtly with gray—that made for a hollowed, spectral visage.

He held a pistol firmly in a black-gloved hand.

“And at gunpoint, no less. Certainly no gentleman,” Clara scoffed, though her heart began pounding at the sight of the weapon. Likely he'd shoot her before she could even bring her pistol to bear. “I hope you know I don't just go walking off with strange men in masks who come creeping about my workplace,” she said through clenched teeth. “I am expected elsewhere by important persons. So you really ought to treat me with respect. For starters, by putting the gun down.”

“I am respecting you, Miss Templeton. Any good man worth his salt would respect you. However you are in possession of knowledge that I need and I know you will not give it to me under friendly circumstances, thusly I am pressed to ask in this manner. I seek your files. All of them.”

“This is an office,” Clara retorted. “There are many files here—”

He cut her off. “This is an office born to investigate a cure for death. Let's do away with the games and the stalling. I assume you've a weapon trained on me but given your position, it's highly unlikely that you will strike me if you fire. At least I hope you've a weapon, I'd be so disappointed otherwise.”

“I do,” Clara said evenly. “And I am a good shot.”