The Eterna Files (35 page)

The young nurse checking her scalp bandage was likely a student of Florence Nightingale's legacy. Miss Nightingale was Rose's great hero, though she deemed herself too shy for the great social reforms the groundbreaking woman had created. Rose hoped she would someday grow brave enough to open the doors of business and politics for female clerks, operatives, investigators, and advisers, as Miss Nightingale had done for women in medicine.

She became aware of a tingling on her head as the nurse pressed a fresh bandage to a sore spot on her scalp. She reached careful fingers to the side of her head, then drew them away holding a clump of hair. Her small noise of alarm roused a calm smile from the nurse.

“Yes, my dear, you suffered a burn on part of your head. Smelled a bit like sulfur. I am sure it will all grow back in time,” she said reassuringly, though Rose was not convinced. Lovely. Losing her hair before it had even gone gray. She prayed to God that if he let her keep her hair, she wouldn't curse him any longer for the few gray hairs she'd found near her temple.

“Once we're sure you're rested and remain without infection you can go,” the nurse said. “We found nothing else wrong with you, though I'm sure you've got quite the headache.”

Headache indeed, Rose thought, but was relieved nothing else was wrong. Being fussed over made her nervous. As the nurse continued to tend to her, Rose distracted herself by trying to remember the last things she had seen and done before darkness took her under like a wave.

Just as she had reached for the case, she felt herself fly through the air. Her vision had become blurred and full of stars. A gargoyle-like face loomed over her, staring at her so intently that it seemed, in that dreadful moment, that it would suck the very life out of her. Shadows surrounded it, black silhouettes shaped like people—like the figures from her dream, dark and menacing. She remembered hearing murmurs: “Destroy their work. Lest it be the death of you…”

What had she seen—a man or a monster? Or had it merely been the effect of her head colliding with the cobblestones? As much as her rational mind was sure it was fancy, her gut instinct, which was rarely wrong, told her otherwise.

A figure at the door made her stomach drop.

Harold Spire stood at the threshold, hat in hand, looking tired. He bowed his head to the nurse. “I'm … with the police,” he said quietly. The nurse looked to Rose, who nodded, and the young woman exited with a small curtsey to Spire.

“Hello, Mr. Spire.” She forced herself into a sitting position, glad they'd left her in her clothes—or perhaps had put them back on after examination—so that she was still presentable, though soot-stained as she was. “They said as soon as I'm no longer dizzy, I can go home. Thank goodness. I hate hospitals. Not that I've ever been in one as a patient until now. What did I miss?” she asked.

Spire entered the room and explained what he'd seen.

“Do we think the Americans are responsible?” Rose asked.

“I don't know what to think,” he replied with a sigh. “We couldn't apprehend anyone. The dead driver and his passenger remain unidentified and there's no eyewitness accounts due to the smokescreen that seemed to cover the whole area.

“It must be the Americans, but I don't know why they bothered. To them, Eterna was a failure, so why would anything from the site be relevant?”

Rose narrowed her eyes, pensive. “Perhaps part of the principle of the compound is residue. What is left behind. That in and of itself, the very process, has life.”

Spire shrugged. “That'll be for the new scientists to determine.”

“Would you mind escorting me home to Whitehall, please?” Rose asked.

“Indeed. I'll have a carriage brought round,” Spire assured her. “Zhavia and Knight wanted me to tell you they were sorry they were not at your side the moment you fell. As it happened, Knight doubled over herself in the next street over, at their post. Zhavia said Knight experienced your strike simultaneously, in parallel with you. For whatever that is worth.”

“It's worth the fact that the woman is, truly, a gifted asset, Mr. Spire,” Rose replied softly. Spire shrugged and exited.

After he left, Rose shifted forward slowly, less dizzy than when she first woke but still a bit queasy. The nurse appeared, checked her head, fussed over her a bit, then looked her straight in the eye. “I'm sure you'd like to go off with your gentleman friend, but are you—”

“Oh, we're not, like that,” Rose stammered, blushing. “I mean, he is my employer.”

“Are you up to it?” the nurse continued, either not interested or not believing her. “You'll have to be able to walk to the door without assistance before I let you go.”

Rose took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, placed her stocking feet upon the floor, stood up, and walked to the door. She did not tell the nurse that she felt lingering pain in her head and that her vision tracked oddly, that it was an effort to stay upright and on a straight path to the door. She was happy to return to the bed and sit long enough to put on her shoes, but she was ready to leave.

Spire was waiting in the receiving hall beyond. He offered his arm and she deigned to take it. They descended to the street level at a careful, steady pace.

“You have not shared your perspective of the incident,” Spire said once he'd helped her into the waiting cab.

It took only a few moments to relate the events—omitting her dream, of course.

“Seems we all saw shadows,” Spire mused once she finished, staring out the window of the carriage with a furrowed brow.

The rest of the short ride passed in silence. At her home, Rose climbed out of the carriage on her own before Spire had the chance to disembark. “Until tomorrow, Mr. Spire.” She bowed her head.

“Take as much time as you need to recover, Miss Everhart.”

“I am as eager to unravel this madness as you are,” she replied. “I beg you not to let this incident make you question whether or not you'll have a woman on your force. I'll see you in the morning, Mr. Spire, and thank you for escorting me.”

“I've many things to question; I'd rather your position not be one of them. And you are welcome, Miss Everhart,” he replied.

She closed the carriage door with a capable smile, ignoring all her aches and pains.

Letting herself into her home and ascending the stairs slowly, wincing from her bruises, Rose allowed herself to smile. She was alive, and had proof that someone would notice and care if she were gone. The basic, human desire for community was served. Still, that feeling of the missing link, which she had confessed to Miss Knight, remained, and something about her nightmare made that hole inside her ache.

At the top window, her cousin was at her post. The day's count was rattled off.

“Sixteen gentlemen. Twelve working class. One middle. Three upper, walking to hail hansoms. Fourteen ladies. Four were with the accounted for working-class men, one was alone; whore, the rest were doubled up with other women.”

“Thank you, Minnie dear.”

“And one very pretty lady in a very fine dress with a feathered hat. Stood staring up. For a long time.”

“Miss Knight,” Rose murmured.

Whether colleagues cared if she was alive or dead—until now, she wouldn't have placed much importance on it. Work, and working, mattered. But suddenly those relational qualities were vital, in fact; who cared made all the difference.

She took a deal of time getting out of her clothes and into her nightdress. Her corset hadn't been laced tight but removing it reminded her of her bruises. Layer by layer, hook by hook, it was only now that she noticed several of the fixtures were torn. Likely from when she fell. Somehow this upset her more than the scrapes on her skin.

Moving to the window and opening it, easing onto her window seat, Rose watched the bustle of London below. Her nerves were raw and her senses strained; she felt every creak of the house, every vibration of the floorboards beneath her satin-slippered feet.

The moon was bright above the steepled tops of London, countless tendrils of smoke wafted up from innumerable hearths as clouds raced over the moon's silver face. The sky, full of movement and wondrous excitement, was mesmerizing. Rose realized with a start that she was no longer sitting, but had gotten to her feet.

Judging by the moon's progress, she'd been standing at the window in her nightshift for a full hour. Bright swaths of moonlight lit her white room so brightly it glowed. A full moon. A wind-whipped sky. The stuff of Rose's guilty pleasures.

She'd never admit to anyone that she read Gothic novels. But the sentiments of such books allowed her to experience the extremities of emotion she knew she would not experience for herself. Feelings swept over her like the wind that pushed the clouds and toyed with the moon, penetrated the layers of her clothing and kissed her skin directly.

Danger had its pleasures—in fiction. If she were living in such a tale, she'd be worried. The incident with the carriage was making her rethink everything. Careful what you indulge in, perhaps. Careful what you romanticize, perhaps. It might come true.

Just as she was wondering if sleep would come like a lion or lamb, she drifted toward a gentle darkness. Another odd dream. Perhaps her subconscious was waking to new senses.…

She was standing at her window—if her window was a tall, wide lancet high in a castle. The moon was bright and silver, her robe luminous, her hands ghastly pale as she stretched them out before her. Wind wrapped around her, kissing her flesh with cool moisture.

Unsure what she was reaching for, she knew it was something delicious, inviting, and dangerous; as delicious and inviting things so often were.

Something sweet and seductive called to her from the darkness, in a voice she recognized but could not understand … a male voice with an undercurrent, as if a symphony accompanied his whisper.

There was a soft pressure upon her wrist, as if someone gripped her there, but she saw nothing. As the pressure gently increased, the whisper ceased, replaced by something lower, a purr or a growl.

When morning came, Rose's usual sharp awakening at first light was a sluggish rouse. Turning onto her side was painful; she felt heavy and ponderous. Her awareness of her bruises came to life as a punch to her ribs. Secondarily, she noticed a fresh ache in her wrist.

Bringing her arm close to her face, she saw two small puncture marks upon the inner side of her wrist. The skin was not inflamed, nor were the wounds bleeding, yet she was sure those twin holes had not been there before. Perhaps she'd injured herself somehow.…

Rose looked at the window frame and from her limited vantage point saw no immediate protrusions or traces of blood. However, the window, which she was sure she had shut and locked the night before, was slightly ajar.

The moment she sat up, the room spun, sending her back down again. Her body felt entirely made of lead. She looked at the puncture wounds. She thought about the penny dreadfuls playing in Covent Garden. The
vampir
was all the rage.

“No,” she said thickly. Even her tongue was not cooperating. “No, no, no, no…”

She tried to get out of bed. She couldn't.

To her distress, Rose realized she was unable to go to work. Her cousin wasn't able to carry a message. How was she to let anyone know she was ill? With one great heaving motion she threw her legs off the side of her bed. Her feet made a hard thump when they hit the floor and she was terrified by how little she registered the impact, by how numb her limbs felt.

An attempt to stand ended with her landing painfully on the floor. Her lip split. She tasted copper, but dimly, as if all her senses were dulled.

If she still had blood to spare, then she hadn't been bitten by a vampire. Indeed, they didn't even exist. The wounds were insect bites, surely. From a spider.

What would Spire think if she mentioned the possibility of a vampire? While she wasn't the skeptic he was, vampires would strain anyone's credulity.

It took everything in her power to drag herself inch by inch to the threshold of her bedroom. From there, she tried to call out, but her cousin's name emerged from her mouth as a numb, inelegant wail.

Her head swam miserably. The tip of her cousin's head came into view as Rose slowly, agonizingly, drew closer to the stairs: unkempt mousy brown waves beneath an askew lace cap. As the world once again grew dark around her, Rose sincerely hoped fainting into unconsciousness wasn't becoming habitual.

*   *   *

Spire arrived to find Knight back in the Millbank offices perusing some of Everhart's files on the paranormal. Blakely was nearby, sniffing, poking at, and dividing some sort of powder on the small, smooth metal table that he had claimed as his space, working to determine some of the chemistry of the event. The short, thin man was dressed in a surprisingly simple suit considering his usually flamboyant tastes, and Knight had followed his lead in wearing something simpler. It was as if the events had sobered all of them, right down to their fashion.

“Where's Rose?” Spire barked. “She said she'd be in this morning.”

“She suffered quite the fall, Mr. Spire,” Blakely replied. “I'd not expect—”

“I wanted her to stay in and rest,” Spire exclaimed angrily. “She's the one who wished to go on as if nothing happened.”

Mrs. Wilson entered in a simple black dress with a brimmed hat with a tulle veil atop the head scarf that tucked her hair from sight. “Reginald is recovering,” she assured, seeing that everyone had turned to her expectantly. She added, to Spire, “What's our plan?”

“I'd like to investigate the scene around the incident,” Spire stated. “To see if there were details I missed or if anything is still lingering there. Blakely?” Blakely looked up from examining the powder. “You'll attend with me. I'd like to think, because of your theatrical perspective and experience with crowds, you'll see things that others do not. Don't prove me wrong.”