The Eterna Files (36 page)

Blakely nodded, scooping the powder into a container before rising and standing stiffly as if at attention.

“I know the street very well,” Mrs. Wilson added. “I might notice subtle differences we did not see in the thick of the smoke and trauma.”

“Let's get to it then, we three. Knight?”

“Miss Everhart,” she replied. At Spire's nod, she swept out the door to check on her colleague.

*   *   *

The carriage itself had been taken into government holdings and placed in a stable behind the Millbank offices, where it would be examined. Longacre should have been going about its business quite normally.

That was most definitely not the case.

The air was freezing cold though it was high summer.

A crowd had gathered around the intersection where the altercation had taken place.

Spire, Blakely, and Mrs. Wilson paused on the fringes of the crowd. Blakely and Mrs. Wilson began to make their way around the group while Spire surveyed those who stood before him, who were staring as if entranced by the very air.

The watchers seemed to represent the whole walk of London life, as if anyone passing had stopped in their tracks to stare, a bit slack-jawed. People seemed to be murmuring something about spirits and hauntings.

Irritated at the forced pause in his investigation, Spire began to make his way toward Blakely and Mrs. Wilson, who had reached the other side of the street. There was a flurry of movement as six persons on horseback charged into the center of the seemingly mesmerized pedestrians. People shouted, horses whinnied, and chaos erupted on all sides.

The six dismounted. Spire studied them—three men and three women, apparently adults but there was something odd about them, a youthful fire and at the same time something older, ancient even.

A tall man, all in black, held court in the middle of the group, staying each horse by merely holding up his hand in front of each animal. Black cloak billowing about him, black hair buffeted by a wind he himself seemed to be creating, he gestured for his fellows to gather around. Clearly, the leader.

The six formed a circle in the center of the lane. The wind rose, tugging at clothes, hats, and hair. Spire swore there was some sort of odd light hanging about the imperious looking fellow who had first attracted his attention. He considered the other five: one man wore a priest's collar, one blond woman seemed a bit more ragged, perhaps working class. Another woman was severely and plainly dressed, like a school matron. All six seemed to be focusing on something above the street, though Spire saw nothing in the air.

He wondered suddenly if this wasn't perhaps that
other
department. He heard soft chanting from the group. Yes. This was Lord Black's mysterious, ghostly department!

A lean, blond, sharp-featured man in ostentatious clothing dropped his gaze from the heavens to the gathered crowd. He began waving his hands at them, gesturing them away.

“Off, off, off you go,” he said in a casual, foppish tone. Those watching began to look away and wander off, still looking dazed. The blond gentleman, who looked like a misplaced royal, turned his back to his fellows, who seemed to be addressing the air itself. Spire shuddered briefly at a cold gust—the whole of the lane was frightfully chilled. When he looked again at the circle of five, he saw an unmistakable ring of pale blue light around them. The stormy, dark-haired leader gestured with both hands, as if conducting an invisible orchestra.

All around Spire, people continued to turn and walk away—even Mrs. Wilson and Blakely.

“Excuse me, you are not dismissed, get back there,” Spire barked at them. They did not respond, simply disappeared around the corner along with many others.

“Excuse me, sir,” the blond man called. It took a moment for Spire to realize the man was addressing him.

“What the bloody hell is going on here?” Spire barked as he approached. “This is the site of an investigation—”

“Indeed, sir, and you're not the only ones investigating. What you are going to do now is turn around and walk away,” the man said calmly, giving Spire a wide, sharp-toothed smile.

Spire set his jaw and stepped forward defiantly, closing the distance to something less than polite and staring directly into the man's pale blue eyes. The other fellow kept waving his hands about as if he were casting off insects. The crowd of watchers had thinned to next to nothing. Spire growled his response, “I work for Her Majesty's government.”

“So do we,” the man replied, his smile transforming into a goofy grin as if he were most delighted with himself. “
If
by ‘Her Majesty' you mean an ancient force from long, long ago that far outranks Queen Victoria, long live her and all. But the restless dead are indeed
our
jurisdiction, sir, so leave us to it, will you? You've no choice. And you won't remember us even if you try.…”

“You are that department!” Spire cried. “The ones Lord Black was banging on about!”

The man's bright eyes narrowed. “Someone … knows about us?”

“Yes, well, no,” Spire muttered. “My superior has said that when it comes to ghosts, there is a rumored department that no one really knows about.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, that would be us,” the man said, and made an exaggerated bow.

“Don't chat them up, Withersby,” shouted the leader in a reverberant baritone, his dark eyes blazing. “Wipe them and get them out of our way!” The man seemed to strike the air and if Spire wasn't mistaken, the air shimmered. The temperature seemed to be rising to more comfortable levels.

“Yes, your royal eeriness,” called the blond, evidently Withersby. He winked at a pretty, dark-haired woman in the circle; she was shaking her head at him and chuckling. “This is why no one really knows about us. Now be a good dog and run along.…”

He waved a languid, long-fingered hand very close to Spire's face.

Harold Spire wandered amiably away from Longacre. For the first time in a long while his face was not contorted by a furrowed brow or a stiffened scowl. A pleasantness had come over his mind. He almost smiled at the gentle warmth of the day. His thoughts wandered. It was a wonderful day in this wonderful city.…

He'd visited the scene of the incident and had nothing to report. Nothing at all odd had happened. He'd dismissed Blakely and Mrs. Wilson … hadn't he?

Wasn't there something he should tell Lord Black? Something that had made Spire think of him?

No.

Everhart. Spire should go and check on her. That's what he'd been meaning to do. It was only courtesy, after all, to stop in and see her.

*   *   *

The first sensory tether Rose had, climbing out from the dark pit, was her hearing. Someone in the room was murmuring in Russian.

Oh, she thought as she swam toward awareness, struggling to gain purchase. Zhavia. He'd come after all. She was in bed again. And she had help.

How had Zhavia known to come? Rose thought back to the last thing she remembered: crying out for her cousin. The acuity of her memory was somewhat of a curse, for even if her body was compromised and uncooperative, her mind was too focused for its own good. She often wished she could be a mind alone, floating out in the world, and not be troubled with a silly body and all its trappings. Especially a female one with all the limitations decreed upon it.

But Minnie couldn't have known to fetch Zhavia in particular. Miss Knight must have sensed something and sent him.

Her eyelids refused to lift and Rose again cursed her body for not being cooperative. But she realized what she
didn't
want to see when she opened them: Spire staring down at her harshly.

Her voice was raspy but worked. She croaked her question: “Who's there…?”

“Vasily Zhavia, Miss Everhart,” came the thickly accented reply. “Can you open your eyes?” He followed this request with a long, softly murmured string of words in Russian. Rose assumed that he was declaiming the muscles needed to raise an eyelid. Zhavia's uncanny habit, which had garnered him his nickname of “Bones,” remained off-putting; Rose rolled her eyes in their sockets, but the lids remained as heavy as lead.

The doctor repeated his Russian phrases and somehow, Rose felt her muscles begin to respond to her wishes. Maybe his mutterings weren't merely a list of bones and muscles but some kind of spell, willing her to move.

Slowly, like drawing back a thick curtain, Rose opened her eyes. Zhavia bent over her. His long black beard, his robelike coat, and his hawklike black eyes marked him as something magical. Perhaps her supposition that he cast some sort of spell wasn't entirely far off. Of course, Omega couldn't have a normal doctor. Only a wizard would do.

“I need … office.” Rose struggled to speak more quickly. “To go. To office. Spire.”

“Spire? You want to see Mr. Spire?”

“No!” she choked. “Don't want … him to see.”

“Ah, yes, you don't want him to see you like this lest he think you a weak and inconsequential woman, not suited to the work. Of course. Well, he won't see you then. But you cannot go anywhere. Not like this.” Grateful she was understood, she smiled at him. He leaned close. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Ever since … incident. I've been … off. Seeing things, shadows.” She shuddered uncontrollably and the act hurt.

“What happened before you called for help?”

“Bad dreams. Hurt wrist. Couldn't move.”

Zhavia's attention focused sharply. He picked up her arm and hand and turned them gently revealing the delicate tracery of blood vessels on her inner wrist. Her hand sagged limply in his. The puncture marks remained, though drastically faded.

The doctor's prominent brow furrowed. His dark eyes widened, then narrowed. Rose was in no way reassured by the expression on his face.

“That's odd,” he murmured. “Changes my initial assessment.”

“Which was?”

“Vampirism.”

Bloody hell.

“No.” Rose tried to shake her head. “Don't exist.”

Zhavia wrinkled his nose. “Bah! Of course they do. Not in the sense you may think. Not in nightmares or stories to scare children. But creatures that drain people? Oh, certainly.

“At first, I thought, that perhaps you had a particularly”—Zhavia struggled for the right word—“fond mentalist. Draining you too much. Easily remedied.

“But this is different. Especially with the marks. And your weakness. Abnormal.”

The idea that anything related to this could be normal was disturbing enough. Before she could ask what to do next, he set her arm back onto the bed.

“Must think.”

He sat thinking for a very long time. So long that Rose nearly drifted off to sleep, her anxiety drowned by her body's overwhelming apathy.

Suddenly he shot to his feet, shouting; “Demons!”

“What?” Rose started.

“Mmm … But the point of entry. Of contact. No … perhaps … Mmm…”

Zhavia furrowed his brow and sat down again. This time his silence continued until Rose's eyes closed. If there were further exclamations, they did not rouse her.

When she opened her eyes again, she knew time had passed; the light had tracked farther down her wall. And someone different was nearby. Spire. Her cheeks went red.

“Hello, sir, this is not how I wish to be seen.” She managed to shift into a sitting position against the pillows.

“I wouldn't wish to be either,” he replied. “But I wanted to see how you're doing.”

Rose debated a moment about what to say. She surreptitiously glanced at her wrist and saw that it was not bandaged. In fact, it looked healed entirely, but the color of her skin was slightly off where the marks had been. She realized that something had been painted over the wounds. A cosmetic. Like stage paint. Zhavia was trying to mitigate how it might appear. Bless that strange wizard.

“I wish I could offer you a suitable explanation, sir,” she replied at long last.

“What is Zhavia's prognosis? I couldn't get a thing out of him.” Rose quirked an eyebrow in question and was rewarded with a tiny smile from Spire. “He was in the parlor with your cousin when I arrived. He was speaking to her in Russian and she was responding in numbers.”

Rose nearly laughed at that, with what breath she could muster. Communication. What a strangely compelling human need.

What had Zhavia said before she slipped into darkness? Demons. It would seem demons were on the table, but were possibly ruled out due to some issue with “point of entry,” whatever that meant. Spire might send Zhavia packing on the spot if Rose said any such thing so she chose her words carefully.

“He isn't sure,” Rose replied. “Did he say anything to you?”

“Just that something sought you out. Something that wanted you to know it was there.”

And that's when Rose realized, with the sort of sinking knowledge that brings with it an impossible dread, that the wound on her wrist wasn't an odd dream, an insect bite, or any other far more welcoming and plausible explanation.

It was a warning.

“Mr. Spire,” Rose murmured. “I'd like to come to the office with you.”

“I'm not sure you're in any condition to do so. Zhavia said you shouldn't be out of bed. Mr. Wilson seems to have had less of an … exposure to whatever knocked him cold, he is recovered. But it would appear you're going to have to take greater care.”

Rose looked away, clenching her fists. “I hate this.” Her cheeks grew warm as she tried to impress upon him the importance of her words. “You must understand, Mr. Spire. Work gives my life meaning. Work is, truly, what I live for.”

Spire nodded but no feelings showed upon his face. “I respect that, Miss Everhart. I feel exactly the same way.” He paused for a moment. “We received full details on the interrogation of the Americans.”