Boston Metaphysical Society

by Madeleine Holly-Rosing

Jonathan shook his head. “No. I don’t want anyone who is watching the house to know we are arriving. We’ll pick up taxis at the station.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He finished making notes about how to handle the financial loss of the Abyssinian contract then glanced out the window and saw several airships docking on their mooring masts. Different colored Clegg lights signaled their distance and direction to usher them into the airship port. A bright white light swept across the bow of one to reveal the numbers HT-147A. It was a House Tillenghast passenger liner.

  No matter where Jonathan looked, that man infected every part of his life.

  Jonathan closed his notebook and placed it back in his leather briefcase as the train pulled into the station. Both Du Pont and Weldsmore guardsmen scurried off to inspect the platform and the surrounding area before he exited. Even if House Du Pont were now working with Tillenghast, he doubted that Everett would do anything so crass as kill him on his own personal train. It would make the Du Ponts appear weak and vulnerable if they were not able to protect a valued guest.

  “Mr. Weldsmore?” Sawyer, his lead guardsmen, approached him. “We’re ready.”

  Jonathan followed him through the station platform set aside for Great House use and into the Boston and Providence Depot. Not as dynamic as the one in New York, nevertheless it was a handsome building with vaulted ceilings braced by cherrywood support beams, an interior that was three stories tall, and an entire lobby lit by gas lampposts on the second floor. A massive mechanical timepiece hung above the entrance, its gears whirring and clanking every time the minute hand moved.

  There was some commotion as they walked through the station, as Jonathan rarely took public transportation. He preferred to use his own vehicles even when traveling out of state. A few people smiled, but most gawked at him and his entourage. He tipped his hat at a few and got curtsies and slight bows of the head in return. Jonathan reminded himself that he was the largest employer in the state and that perhaps he should spend more time with the people who worked for him. It would be a good place to build popular support for the days to come.

  They exited the depot and headed straight for the taxi his men surrounded. As Jonathan ducked his head down to enter the car, a group of people rushed inside the depot, gesturing behind them and shouting, but he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. Scooting into the back seat, he leaned forward toward his driver.

  “Did you hear what they were talking about?”

  “No, sir. Would you like me to find out?” the guardsmen replied.

  “No, that won’t be necessary. Take me to the shipping yards,” Jonathan ordered.

  “Not the house, sir?” The guardsman voice shifted, like he was disappointed.

  Rather than reply, Jonathan immediately slipped out of the car. “Sawyer!”

  His guardsman, who had been ready to ride shotgun, ran around the car to Jonathan. “Mr. Weldsmore?”

  “Find me another car. Let the taxi driver do the driving. And fire him.” He pointed to the guardsman inside seat. “He’s a spy.”

  Sawyer motioned to the other guards to huddle around Jonathan. After a brief and quiet discussion, two of the guards opened the driver’s side door and dragged the unsuspecting guardsman out of the car and across the street. They stripped him of his jacket, any weapons, and identification. With only the shirt on his back, they shoved him down the street until he took off running.

  It didn’t take long for Jonathan and Sawyer to settle into a taxi with a driver who looked stunned at having the head of a Great House in his car. He recovered enough to drive them through traffic safely.

  “Sir, how did you know?” Sawyer asked.

  “One, he questioned me. Two, he sounded displeased that we were not returning to the house. And he pretty much confirmed it when he failed to protest after he was pulled out of the car and stripped of his belongings.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They bounced along, but the driver avoided the worst of the potholes, for which Jonathan was grateful. That is until the man slammed on the brakes, throwing both Jonathan and Sawyer up against the back of the front seat.

  “Have you lost your mind!” Sawyer yelled at him.

  The driver, a wispy man with gray eyes and mottled brown hair, apologized like his life depended on it. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Weldsmore, but the carriage in front of me stopped short. Are you all right, sir?”

  Jonathan peered through the front window and saw a woman running between the cars toward them. Behind her, several men did the same thing. More came after that. All of them panicked.

  “Sawyer?”

  The guardsman got out of the car, shutting the door behind him. He climbed on top of the roof to get a good look at what was happening. The driver started to complain, but thought better of it and hunkered down next to the steering wheel. After a minute, Sawyer slid off the roof and opened the passenger door.

  “Mr. Weldsmore, it’s time to leave.”

  Jonathan reached into his jacket and pulled out a couple of hundred dollars and handed it to the driver. “For your trouble.”

  He took the money and mumbled a thank you as Jonathan got out of the car.

  “Sir, it looks like some sort of protest. We need to get you over to the shipping yards for your own protection.”

  “Are they heading toward Beacon Hill?”

  “I can’t say, sir.”

  All thoughts of protecting himself went out of his head. He knew Elizabeth was at the house with Samuel and his security staff, but he had to see for himself. Or at least get to a phone. “No, we’re going home. Even if we have to walk there.”

  Sawyer gave him a look, then nodded and rounded up the other guardsmen. They formed a phalanx around Jonathan to get him through the ever-growing crowd running at them. His men shoved and pushed their way through, only stopping when they got to a cross street. Jonathan was bumped a few times, which horrified his guards, but he assured them he was fine. The depot was three miles from Beacon Hill and they needed to walk through one of the nicer sections of the Middle District to get there, so Jonathan wasn’t worried, just frustrated.

  They rounded a corner only to have a mass of people shift directions and rush up behind them. Whatever was coming, it had started in the South Side. Jonathan and the other Great Houses in Boston had discussed the possibility of protests, but none of their informants had warned of any. There were always the disgruntled and disaffected, but protests were often preceded by a slow build of righteous anger. In this case, there had been none. It puzzled him how he could have been so misinformed.

  As they worked their way through another intersection, a truck honked numerous times to nudge the throng along. Jonathan peered over Sawyer’s shoulder to see the emblem of House Gardner on the side of the truck. His guardsmen flagged it down and identified themselves as House Weldsmore. The driver and his partner were more than happy to let him climb into the cab, but Jonathan insisted on riding in the back. He then complimented them on their timing and said he would inform Gordon Gardner of their good deed.

  They inched along for ten minutes before the enclosed truck was forced to stop. Jonathan peered out through a small window in the back to see over a hundred silent people all dressed in the same type of old woolen clothing march lockstep down the street. They did not chant, carry placards, or otherwise behave in a way normal for a protest. It was unnerving, and the multitude of people around the truck sensed that as much as he did.

  A woman at the head of the mob cocked her head up and stared straight at them. She stopped marching. The rest followed. Jonathan hoped that she’d decided to turn back, but that wish was short lived. The woman let out a scream, piercing his brain like a hot knife.

  “Get us out of here!” Jonathan’s chest constricted; he gasped for air.

  With no further encouragement the driver of the truck shifted gears, mowing down any hapless bystander who got in the way. There were shrieks of pain and outrage, but the driver kept going. H
e soon found enough space to turn around, but he ground the gears and the steam-powered truck stalled. While trying to get the vehicle started again, he glanced up into his rearview mirror and blanched.

  “They’re coming.”

  21

  Samuel must have stood up and sat down a dozen times as he watched Elizabeth in the loveseat. She twitched every once in a while but otherwise appeared serene. Andrew’s eyes were also closed to help him concentrate in case Elizabeth needed him in this so-called spirit passageway she was traversing. Samuel’s frustration at being useless gnawed at him.

  He poured himself a glass of water and stared out the window at nothing in particular. He wanted a shot of whiskey, but he decided to stay clear headed.

  A soft knock broke his self-pity. He walked over to the door and cracked it open. It was Sampson. The house manager motioned for him to come out. Curious, he did as Sampson asked and closed the door behind him without making a sound.

  “Sampson? What’s going on?”

  The house manager frowned. “Mr. Weldsmore was forced to take the Du Pont train from Philadelphia instead of his usual route.”

  “So?” Samuel was unsure how this was a problem.

  “He was due to arrive an hour ago, but I had word that a protest of some sort was marching near the train station. And it concerns me.” An air of apprehension surrounded the older man.

  “What are you not telling me?”

  “It might be used as a pretext for an assassination attempt. Then again, it might just be the Great Houses flexing their political muscle to force him to join with House Tillenghast.”

  “Oh, hell,” Samuel muttered under his breath as he ran toward the stairs. “I need two trucks without the House emblem filled with guardsmen and two more guarding that door.” He pointed to the library. “Now.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hunter.”

  Samuel dashed up the stairs to their bedroom and threw open the bottom drawer of his dresser. Inside was a pair of pistols. They had intricate yet sturdy gears supported by a barrel that held a small bandolier of bullets. There was no hammer to cock back, but a switch Samuel pulled to load it automatically. Next to the pistols sat a shoulder harness.

  Samuel took off his jacket, put on the shoulder harness, then grabbed the pistols along with some ammunition. He holstered the guns and put his jacket on again as he walked out the door. By the time he got to the bottom of the stairs, he heard trucks rumbling up to the front of the house. He had no idea how Sampson had gotten them there so quickly but would thank him later.

  Sampson opened the door for him as he dashed toward the first truck. “Keep watch over Elizabeth while I’m gone. And give Andrew whatever he needs.”

  Samuel slid into the passenger seat as an older guardsman hunkered down over the wheel with the engine on. When he was inside, the driver shifted gears and took off.

  “The train station, sir?”

  “Yes. Follow any of Mr. Weldsmore’s usual routes. If he’s not there, take his alternate ones.”

  The driver grunted in acknowledgment as he sped down the street barely safe enough to avoid hitting carriages and other steam-powered cars.

  “Where are you usually posted?” Samuel asked after they had driven a half mile.

  “The shipyards. But Mr. Weldsmore always has a few of us on standby.”

  “He is prepared, isn’t he?” Samuel mused.

  “That he is, Mr. Hunter. That’s why he’s still alive.” The man gave him a half grin, then glanced back at the road. He slammed on the brakes. “Whoa!”

  A stream of panicked civilians ran for their lives past the truck. The guardsmen swerved to avoid them. “Damn!”

  Samuel hung on as they careened around a corner, narrowly missing two cars coming straight at them. By the time they arrived at the train station, the whole place was in chaos. Both Samuel and the guardsmen scanned the area for any sign of Jonathan and his men but found nothing.

  “Since he didn’t use the House cars to pick him up, then he most likely commandeered taxis for him and his men,” the guardsmen offered. “There are a couple of ways he could have gone at that point.”

  “Prioritize them,” Samuel ordered. “Then go.”

  The man’s foot hit the pedal, and they shot forward. As they passed two abandoned taxis, the men gave each other a knowing look.

  Soon they drove headlong into another mob, but this one was different. Their rage had a single-minded ferocity that Samuel had seen only once before: at the Homestead Steel Mill. His hands trembled, and he gasped for breath. He didn’t have time to fall apart; lives were at stake. Samuel concentrated on forcing the encroaching despair out of his mind.

  “There!” The guardsman at the wheel pointed at a House Gardner truck being attacked. Sawyer and several other Weldsmore guards fought to keep the mob at bay.

  “He must be in there. And even if he isn’t, we need to help those men.” Samuel pulled out one of his pistols and loaded it.

  “Hang on!” The driver yelled.

  They drove through the mob not caring who they ran over and skidded to a stop behind the House Gardner truck. Samuel and the rest of the guardsmen jumped out, beating back attackers to get to the truck’s back door. When they had cleared a path and met up with the men guarding the vehicle, Samuel pounded on the door.

  “It’s Samuel Hunter with House Weldsmore!” he shouted. “Let us get you out of here!”

  He heard a creak then a clank as the door opened to reveal a workman with a wrench in his hand. When he saw Samuel, he sighed in unmitigated relief. “You be a sight for sore eyes.” The worker opened the door a little wider. Jonathan stood crouched behind him ready to pounce, but relaxed when he saw Samuel.

  Samuel motioned for two of his guardsmen to help Jonathan while the others helped Jonathan’s guardsmen fended off the mob. Those who were able to walk jumped into the Weldsmore trucks and helped those who were injured. As Jonathan stumbled past him, he grabbed him by the shirt.

  “Is Elizabeth . . . ?”

  “We have to find her.” Samuel shoved Jonathan inside the truck.

  “What do you mean?” A panicked look crossed the older man’s face.

  “It’s complicated. Now get in!”

  As Samuel slammed the doors, a sense of dread fell over him. The mob of eerie attackers were dressed exactly like the people Elizabeth had described in her vision, which meant Rachel—and Elizabeth—were out there somewhere.

  “Go!” he yelled, as he climbed into the cab.

  ***

  Elizabeth’s confidence surged when a stream of amethyst and emerald green stars poured through the small hole she had created out of Abigail’s mind and back into the spirit passageway. Tendrils slithered through and to her side, attaching themselves to the psychic wall like an octopus. They gripped it, pulling it backward in an effort to demolish it. Not wanting to be the damsel in distress, Elizabeth once again imagined her arms thrusting a blast of energy.

  In her mind, the wall melted layer by layer until it was weakened so much by their dual attack that it blew apart. In front of her stood the spectral entity she called the emissary. He was more defined this time. She could see the outline of a man, but his body was composed of an ever-shifting pattern of stars.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I need to find Rachel or something terrible is going to happen.”

  He gestured for her to leave Abigail’s mind; the brick wall was rebuilding itself. She stepped through and stood next to him.

  “A man is using Rachel, and he’s blocked me from getting to her. Can you help?” Elizabeth thought she sensed him smile as he wagged an incorporeal finger at her. “Now, you’re making fun of me.”

  The emissary made a gesture for her to go ahead and he would follow.

  Elizabeth focused on the trinity knot, trying to detect where it was. If she found it, she could find Rachel. The problem of entering the medium’s consciousness would come next. The emissary’s body undulated around her like he was impatient. It wa
s time to stop thinking and start doing.

  To help herself, she drew the trinity knot in the air and put her palm in the middle. The psychic energy Rachel had taught her how to use flowed down her arm, out through her palm, lighting up the knot. A flare shot out of the top of it then burst out into sparkles, which descended like falling stars. As they fell, a light pulsated in the distance as if to acknowledge the call.

  It was Rachel.

  Elizabeth sped toward the beacon without hesitation, assuming the emissary followed close behind. It wasn’t until she got closer to the true image of the trinity knot that it became apparent she had a new obstacle to face. Between her and Rachel’s psyche lay a swirling mass of psychic debris. In it were images—the haunting memories of what must have been every person Rachel had connected with as a medium. When Elizabeth tried to touch the dark morass of broken dreams and hearts, it tore at her emotions. Had Leland stripped Rachel of all her memories and set them adrift in order to control her? Was that even possible? Or had Rachel thrown up one more barrier to stop Elizabeth from helping her?

  The emissary was there. Once again, he offered her his arm.

  Elizabeth placed her hand on top of it only to have it sink into the miasma of stars that filled the space where an arm should be. At first she felt nothing, and then a tingling moved through her hand and up her arm. Frightened, Elizabeth tried to remove it, but couldn’t. The sensation crawled up her shoulder and onto her back. It whirled inside her neck, paused, then exploded into her brain. Terrified, Elizabeth used all her strength to pull herself away from it, but failed. Her consciousness flailed in confusion as the entity she had named the emissary cascaded into her thoughts and memories. Familiar images of her mother, Sampson, her father, and finally Samuel whipped around her as if she were viewing them through a kaleidoscope. She latched on to the image of Samuel, but it was subsumed by the miasma of stars she recognized as the emissary. They were becoming one.

  As both their consciousnesses intertwined, raw power surged through her. It spun her around with such force Elizabeth thought the emissary was stripping her memories from her. Panicking, she tried to flee what she could only describe as a torrent of stars fused with emotion. She focused on sweeping the stars away to find a way home—until a wave of calm swept over her. It was the emissary. He was trying, she realized, to show her how to use their power together. With that understanding, her fear abated and she let herself float among the stars. Now she understood. Together they could destroy this barrier that kept her from Rachel.