“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.
“Get good rest tonight, Gabriel,” Moriel ordered. “I’ll want your help whipping all my minions into quick shape and get them marching tomorrow.”
“I will, Majesty.”
“Good night, Father,” said the demon disguised as his boy.
“Good night.”
Brinkman walked up the grand, dusty stairs to one of the smaller guest rooms, where he lay atop the covers and gave himself his own last rite.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Clara was awake at the break of day, having rested deeply by the grace of some higher power, her seizures forcing the issue by exhausting her physically, despite the whirlwind of thoughts that hadn’t stopped their rapid spin since arriving in England.
Lord Black escorted her and Bishop to a nondescript brick industrial building in Millbank, with an expansive view of the busy, noisy Thames, and held the door for them. As they stepped in, they heard a strange sound above them and a little pop, like that of a photographer’s flare, and as the door closed behind them, they noted a contraption with a paper ticker above the door that recorded the time, the numbers, and the silhouettes of the three forms in the door frame in an unembellished overexposed print upon the thin strip.
“Not a bad idea for our offices,” Bishop said to Clara, who nodded and took in the open, cavernous three-story space before them, a metal stairwell connecting the floors in simple, industrial grandeur.
Lord Black descended a stairwell and bid them follow him into a lower-ceilinged room with rows of long wooden tables and narrow windows looking out to the street, bars across the panes for protection. Not much light came in, but Clara deemed it a better work environment than a cellar—clearly better than the shuttered horror of the last Eterna work, and she marveled at the rows upon rows of small glass tubes, all layered with sediment, water, and various substances of provenance she could not determine.
At the back of these rows, on a tall stool, sat a man who seemed straight out of a fairy tale book, a sorcerer of ancient times, his dark hair offset by silver streaks and a long blue velvet robe draping from a thin body.
“Dr. Zhavia,” Lord Black called gently. The man, so focused on his work, started but looked up with a smile. “I don’t mean to disturb you, but—”
“New company? Who’s this?” The man shuffled up the aisle between the tables toward them, youthful energy offsetting the wizened appearance. His accent was thick and seemingly Russian Jewish to Clara’s ear, theirs being a prominent population of recent New York immigrants.
“May I introduce the heads of the American Eterna Commission, Senator Rupert Bishop and Miss Clara Templeton,” Lord Black stated. “Dr. Zhavia has been working tirelessly since Miss Everhart wired us your Warding advice, Miss Templeton, and we’re grateful to have had some time to prepare them.”
The man studied the two of them with such scrutiny it would have been unnerving if he hadn’t had such an excited look on his face.
“Oh, my friends,” he said, nearly bouncing on his feet. “Gifted. Gifted, gifted.” He lifted an aged hand to hover around Bishop’s forehead, fingertips fluttering as if plucking strings of an unseen instrument. “Mesmerist, ah…” He then turned to Clara, hand hovering near her ear. “Hmm. Heart of the matter. Extrasensory talent attuned to more worlds than one. Ah, what a joy to see my people!” He withdrew his hand, and Clara and Bishop exchanged a surprised glance before the doctor waved them over to a nearby table. “Come, come, you’ll understand this.” He peered at Clara. “You will best. Your idea, the Wards?”
“Our commission’s idea, yes,” Clara replied. “The Wards were developed by Louis Dupris, Andre’s brother, and we’ve implemented them. Speaking of Andre, where is he?”
“Warning friends of his who live in the city to take care today. Louis … ah, yes, the ghost twin. Brilliant man, brilliant. Localized magic—so simple and so effective with the right hearts.”
“May I ask your recipe?” Clara asked, gesturing to the rows of glass vials.
“Oh yes!” He lifted a vial and pointed to each layer as he explained.
“Water of the Thames, of course, as every river is the heart of its city,” Zhavia began. “Then dirt from as many different hallowed grounds that I and my associates could find. Thankfully, I have rabbi and Spiritualist Christian friends who helped gather all the various sacred sediments from around the city,” he said with a grin, as if he were a delighted elf ready to shower the world with the good tidings of water and silt. “Mixing them, of course, as no one place is sacred for all people. Then a layer of dust from the stones of Parliament, as that is a throne of freedom we must protect from the deathly shadows,” the wizardly man concluded with a bow of his head.
“Of course,” Bishop agreed. Bishop and Clara couldn’t help but share in this effervescent man’s beaming smile.
“And,” he said, gesturing to the little sprinkle of brown flakes atop the sediment, “tea leaves. Without them, this just ‘wouldn’t be a civilized affair,’” Zhavia added, affecting an upper-class London accent that roused a chuckle out of all of them, Black the most.
“Wonderful,” Clara stated, “truly. Do you have any idea if it works? Have you been able to test it, perchance?”
Here the joyful man turned somber.
“I wish I hadn’t such cause, but unfortunately, I did. Last week, my rabbi had his small temple vandalized, and a member was killed there, out on the steps. An act of hate. The horror of the place had to be resolved.” He gestured to a vial. “I set the Ward alight, lit by a temple candle, and it sent off lurking shadows. I left that candle with my rabbi, and I was told that candle still has not gone out!” He brightened. “I’ll take any miracle I can get.”
“So will we. Thank you, Dr. Zhavia. Your work is vital.” Clara picked up a vial and studied it. “Hello, England,” she murmured to its contents. She pressed it to her sternum, to the blessed talisman that had been a gift from Louis, the carved stone bird that flew below the layers of her clothing. At this, there was a small shimmer of light.
“Ah!” Zhavia exclaimed. “Look at that. You can simply light it by your breath, you are so full of life!” He peered up at her with his dark eyes. “Many lives.”
“Yes, I’m aware I’ve had many,” Clara replied.
“Bring them all with you!” he said with a laugh, tapping the vial she held. “Call upon them all!”
She withdrew an embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve, wrapped the vial tightly into its folds, and tucked it between buttons and behind a chemise layer to rest against her skin, armored by her corset bones, ready for the fight.
“Let’s box it all up,” Black stated. “I brought the largest of my carriages for this purpose. Trunks we fill here will serve as our distribution area near to Spire’s lookout.”
“If we want to be doubly protected along the route,” Bishop added, “I suggest doses of the mood toxin antidote be distributed. In case Moriel has a second store other than the destroyed warehouse. There should have been a box of the cure deposited here.”
“Indeed, a wise precaution.” Black nodded. “We can mix it into that water barrel there,” he said, gesturing to a metal frame over a basin where a banded wooden barrel trailed a small capped hose. “Bring along what we have here. We’ll have the masses drink from a few tin cups, or pour it into their own flasks; it will serve as a bit of odd communion. Come, let’s load it all and see how the lookout fares.”
“If you don’t mind, I wish to be with my congregation tonight,” Zhavia said. “We will be in a group near Parlia
ment.”
“Of course.” Black replied.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Bishop said, striding forward to shake the man’s hand. He bowed his head.
“We are, all of us, beholden and thankful,” Zhavia replied, bowing in turn to Clara. “And you stay strong, madame, anchor that you are.”
Clara nodded, not knowing exactly what he sensed, but her biddings from mysterious, gifted elders were similar enough not to question the prophecy.
* * *
Per Spire’s plan, by midday, Grange’s men had erected sturdy “construction” scaffolding around the base of the hefty Alexandrian obelisk. The “needle,” which had been a gift that arrived only four years earlier, now overlooked the Thames rather than ancient Heliopolis, its twin having gone to New York the year prior. Once the structure was secure, Clara, Rose, Black, and Spire ascended to their stations. Below, Bishop was handing out the glass vial Wards to the crowd, flanked and assisted by Andre and Effie.
Bishop’s mesmeric persuasion was working well, though Clara was not sure how much it was needed—the assembling bystanders seemed eager for any kind of souvenir. Those who did not have matches were given a box, and by the time an hour had passed, Bishop had given out a few hundred Wards.
As for the wooden-barrel station to administer the chemical antidote as a preventative measure, it didn’t take long for a line to gather near the base of the needle for a free sip of “tonic” winkingly disguised as gin.
With these measures in place, to the best their team could manage, the bystanders were doubly protected from whatever offenses would appear. Clara hoped Parliament itself could withstand the next hours.
The sun had just sunk into that curious, golden hour when light appeared its most mysterious when the first noise alerted the crowd to the unfolding events …
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