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.”
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.
The Eterna Files Page 21