A Summoning of Souls

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  Lest he think she was deliberately throwing his game, Eve tried to find the right balance of fight and resistance. The industrial disaster that set him on this path drove him to desire power, to reign supreme in mental prowess, so she would let him think he had a greater hold on her than he did. She could feel the gemstones she’d kept in her pockets heat up though she’d had to leave Antonia’s circlet of protection behind; it would have drawn too much attention. She pressed the knife sheathed at her arm against her ribs, just to feel that it was there.

  Descending the stairs, Eve asked the looming presence where he wanted her to go.

  To the most mystical of structures: an arch.

  Worrying for Sanctuary, she tried to keep her mind clear of that special, solitary arch. There were thousands of arches in the city, in all kinds of buildings and squares, that could be anywhere.

  “Tell me about what happened to you. How you became so powerful,” she prompted, hoping flattery would get her somewhere.

  His form followed her through every window as she descended, a black pall floating, inescapable.

  I nearly died. Some people see God in that moment. I saw nothing. But at the crossroads, I was given a choice. I accepted what was rightfully mine and came back like God, my mind opened by death. But I don’t want to be haunted anymore. Now I can do something about it.

  He was leading her out the front door. Surely this was ill advised on his part, Eve thought, walking slowly. Gran’s hired security would see her and follow at a distance as had been instructed.

  But, glancing side to side, they were nowhere to be seen. That wasn’t something she’d accounted for.

  A carriage sat at the end of the walk that Eve didn’t recognize. When one of the hired hands from the door approached the top-hatted driver, the man showed him a paper and waved him off. The guard walked away looking similarly dreamy.

  Eve wasn’t the only one being controlled, clearly, and because she’d opened herself so fully to the spirit world, she was a walking ghost herself.

  Early in the understanding of her gifts, when she didn’t know enough not to open too wide as she was doing now, she had experienced that she could easily pass unnoticed or unseen. Because she walked with ghosts, sometimes she took on their passing qualities, if too much in their world. Shifting somewhat invisible hadn’t been so much of a liability until now, when she needed someone to notice if things got ugly. No one was noticing her now.

  Eve felt the world fall away, her breath short as she approached the waiting carriage, a hulking black compartment that looked more a prison cell than a comfortable ride.

  The spirit world was anxious; the voices that she could usually pick out were all a nervous, whispering, chattering, nail-biting mass. She wanted to speak to the driver, who was staring forward on his bench, dazed and detached, but like a nightmare where she couldn’t scream, so was she unable to reach out. She’d let Prenze too deeply in and overestimated her ability to control her shield, and underestimated his effect upon the environment around her.

  Get in. Prenze’s voice was sharp in her ear. Another nudging push nearly tripped her on the walk. She grabbed at the wrought iron gate, but her hand missed the handle. The carriage door swung open, revealing a dark, empty interior.

  The interior appeared smooth, oddly reflective. Strange.

  Eve tried to pull further away from Prenze’s mental press, but in trying to do so, like a tug-of-war, she stumbled forward, losing ground and falling against the side of the carriage.

  Get in.

  Her step inexorably lifted to the baseboard, and her head ducked under and in. Her body fell heavy on the bench inside, jostling her bad shoulder and she groaned in pain.

  The compartment door slammed shut of its own accord, and upon closer inspection, she saw the material, that strange, reflective quality on every surface, was metal.

  A buzzing arose around her. The hairs on her arms and neck stood on end; any hair not pinned to her coiffure floated around her.

  It dawned on Eve in a slow horror that the walls of the carriage were electrified, pulsing in a manner to keep the ghosts out. Eve saw Zofia try to float into the carriage, but the little girl’s spirit bounced back as if repelled. Zofia hissed and waved her hand like she had been scalded. The most terrible look passed over her little face: a sense memory of the fire that ended her life. The electricity burned her, and Eve watched an old trauma overtake the young ghost.

  Opening her mouth to shriek and rail against such a cruelty, the words died in Eve’s throat as what felt like an unseen hand clamped around the back of her head and shoved to the side, dashing her head against the door in a sickening thump.

  With an explosion of pain, there was only darkness, cutting Eve’s renunciation to the quick.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Is Detective Horowitz here?” Cora asked the patrol officer stationed at the Mulberry Headquarters entrance. The officer shrugged. “He was injured in the line of duty yesterday, but as he is the most diligent of men, my guess is he’s already back to work. I’ll check his offices myself if you don’t mind.” Cora held up the card, her finger placed pointedly beside Governor Roosevelt’s signature of clearance. “I know the way.”

  The officer held up a wide, calloused palm. Cora sighed. “I’ve been to see him before and you gave me, and him, similar resistance. It’s exhausting. Don’t obstruct an ongoing case,” she said simply, holding her head high. “Just because you don’t like us won’t deter us; it only slows us down from good work, the results of which will benefit all the force. We’re not going anywhere, so it’s best you adapt and get used to us.”

  He frowned, lowered his hand, and took the latch off a wooden gate. Cora passed through, allowing a strained breath to exit her lungs once she was out of sight down the rear hall.

  A knock on the doorframe of a dim, narrow office had the detective looking up from his desk, desperate and hopeful. A wide-brimmed hat mostly covered the bandage over his head, but the corners of a nasty bruise and scrape across his forehead were visible in the lamplight.

  When the detective saw it was Cora, she could see a flicker of disappointment cross his face. He was surely thinking it was Eve that had come to call. But he recovered immediately with a genuine smile, and Cora did feel he was glad to see her as well.

  There was no artifice, no games about Jacob Horowitz; he was all kind heart and diligence. Moment by moment he softened Cora’s heart that had been predisposed to think him a rival for her position as most important to Eve and the precinct.

  “Miss Dupris, what news? May I ask, where is Eve, how is she? When I woke in the hospital, she and her family were gone. My parents said she…” He swallowed hard. A distinct anguish worked across his face so openly that it drew Cora forward. “She left saying she didn’t want to…see me or work with me again. That can’t be true, can it? After we’ve been through so much? After we…” His face colored and he looked away.

  They must have shared some kind of moment of passion before the attack. Cora could tell the poor man was reeling. She wanted to reassure him but didn’t know how.

  “Eve doesn’t want you near her after being specifically targeted so violently. What happened is so terrible; are you feeling better? I was there at Bellevue to check in on you both, but the doctors didn’t want all of us crowding everyone.”

  “Apart from headaches and a few dizzy spells, I’m all right,” the detective said. “Thank you for your concern.” Setting his jaw, he leaned forward and continued. “My parents said Eve went so far as to remove me from the case. She has no authority to do so as she has no authority over my rank. I won’t abandon what I’m working on, and I won’t abandon her. I don’t know what she thinks—”

  “She thinks she’s trying to protect us,” Cora interjected with exasperation. “She’s done the same thing to me, trying to distance her own team, being stubborn again. She�
�s trying to spectrally force his hand, to reveal whatever he has planned, like challenging an old courtier to a duel. She’s so old fashioned sometimes. Trying to keep us away from the confrontation is daft. Why have a precinct and a department? She should have just been a hired Pinkerton if she wanted to act like a vigilante.”

  Cora and the detective both folded their arms and huffed in frustration, then looked at one another and chuckled.

  “Then we are agreed, we’ll not let our dear lady go on as some lone and reckless firebrand,” the detective said. “Where is she?”

  “She is tending to spiritual matters from a room in Gran’s townhouse. The papers today began the challenge; I don’t know if you saw.”

  The detective shook his head. Cora plucked the latest paper from a pile on the corner of his full desk. His workspace was stacked with papers, letters, books and notebooks, the sign of a man on constant intake, diligent work, and thoughtful process.

  Just then, they were joined by another man who stood at the threshold, the same officer who liked to give Cora an uneasy time in the reception area. He looked utterly baffled, verging on angry. Cora clenched her fists.

  “Why would you, of all folks, Has-no-wits, get a package from Scotland Yard?” the man squeaked. “Not just from Scotland Yard, but how would Chief Inspector Harold Spire know your name?”

  “Chief Inspector Spire!” Cora lit up and made a pointed exclamation, driving the point of rank and prestige home. “He worked with my parents, under commendations from the Queen herself; he’s brilliant! You couldn’t have a better man on your side, Lieutenant Horowitz!”

  The officer questioning them now turned his shock to Cora. Horowitz came out from around the desk with a confident smile. The detective’s calm competence and Cora’s own family history with the respected police chief stood strong against this officer’s hateful air that underestimated them as much as it marginalized them.

  “Officer Portman, I asked Chief Inspector Harold Spire for his help on a related case. You’d be surprised, if you’d let yourself be resourceful enough to ask a man with more experience for his assistance, how far you might get. Thank you for bringing it to me. If I’m right, it’s his casebook on a suspicious suicide related to our case.”

  “He…sent you his casebook?” Portman whispered incredulously.

  “It pays to be polite and trustworthy,” Horowitz replied with a winning smile, reaching out for the package.

  Portman handed it over, shook his head, and walked away. Cora exhaled, half sigh, half laugh.

  Horowitz moved to close the door partway. “Shall we have a look?” he asked, eagerly opening the paper-wrapped package. A black leather-bound notebook with a letter slid into his hand.

  He read aloud, moving around the room as he spoke. Cora noticed that he winced from pain at certain steps but seemed too excited to sit still.

  Dear Detective Horowitz,

  My best wishes to your colleagues. Any friend of Evelyn Northe-Stewart is a friend of mine. I am glad you wrote; you confirm my suspicion that there was something off about the suicide in the Prenze tonic laboratory and the burned body left behind. May you find something useful in this that can put your pieces together and perhaps stitch together a few of mine. I’ll retrieve it from you when you’re finished; keep it as long as you need. In the front you’ll find my numbers to send wires; call or visit if you’re in the country. If you can tie up the burned loose ends that led nowhere in England, I’ll heartily commend you. Give my regards to all Evelyn’s associates, please, and good luck. Cheers.

  Yours truly, Chief Inspector Harold Spire

  At this, Horowitz nodded deferentially to Cora. The missive brought unexpected tears to her eyes. She missed her family so much, a fact she generally tried to repress. Spire worked with her parents when they first fell in love, all while fighting a violent cabal. Beautiful things can thrive amid terror and violence, in direct defiance of it, a lesson Cora had learned young and one that they all needed now as much as ever.

  “I promise to do right by you and everyone involved,” the detective replied to the letter as if the chief were in the room with him. His energy certainly was imbued into the casebook.

  The detective moved to open the book when a burst of cold air overtook them all and Cora’s vision was filled with Zofia’s face floating before her, wide eyed and concerned. Baffled, Horowitz suddenly shivered, turning to Cora.

  “The big bridge!” the little ghost cried. “Gran and the girls have gone to Sanctuary. Because Prenze wired something to Sanctuary’s arch that can threaten the portal. But Prenze is forcing Eve toward Brooklyn, to the bridge for something worse! None of Gran’s guards have been able to follow! She’s all alone!”

  Cora repeated the spirit’s words as she said them.

  Hearing Eve was in danger, everyone ran for the door.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Maggie only had a moment in the Prenze mansion to herself, and while she wanted to use Arielle’s body to try to stop Albert, enough of Arielle’s instinct gave her pause.

  The ghosts had flown out. Alfred had lost consciousness again in his room, and his mother’s spirit was fussing over him in a pattern she must have overdone in life.

  “I need you to help me, Arielle,” Maggie tried to say, but her voice could only translate to a mumble from Arielle’s tongue. Still, the woman had to hear her. “Please. We don’t want anyone to get hurt anymore.”

  The weary, bleary woman only laughed hollowly.

  Show me something I can use, Maggie bid her host, one mind to another. I’d like to do this with you willingly, but I’ll force you to move if you won’t. Spirits said something about a study upstairs?

  Maggie found herself lurching out of the room and down the end of the hall opposite. A wooden balustrade divided, going up a level or down to the front entrance foyer in a grand, winding slope. Above, golden light shone down from a bay window.

  Shaking in mind and body, Arielle was a heady mix of sentiment and fear. Maggie reeled within her as though she were seasick, every step a trial.

  What don’t you want to face up there? Maggie asked her.

  “Everything,” Arielle replied. A lifetime of regret in one sad, raspy word of confession.

  Tears leaked hot onto Arielle’s cheeks. Maggie ached at the feeling. It had been so long since she had felt the warmth of breath, the salty sting and heat of tears. So bittersweet, this blending of life and death. Shame was as heavy as her tread.

  He is not a good man, and it has clearly affected you, Maggie continued in Arielle’s mind. You are not to blame for his misdeeds.

  “Oh, but I am. We all play our part.…”

  At the top of the upper-floor landing a door appeared to be boarded shut at eye level. Arielle was leading now. She fumbled for a key behind the board, unhooked it from a small peg on the underside, and unlocked the keyhole, ducking under the slanted board, the back of her coiffure knocking against the underside, shifting the copper-red braid at the back of her head lopsided, hairs tearing on the rough wood.

  Inside, bookshelves were half-empty, covered with dust and cobwebs. Light filtered in from an umber stained-glass window in geometric shapes.

  Rather than pressing the woman about what was here or what they would find, Maggie tried to enjoy the sensation of being corporeal again, even if it felt a bit like puppetry.

  Shuffling forward, Arielle pressed a lever, and the rear bookcase opened like a wall. Maggie felt her whole being flutter with a thrill of delight at a secret passageway. One benefit of dying young was that things that proved exciting as a child never ceased to enthrall. Maggie might have grown more wary, but simple pleasures of magic and mystery remained.

  The room beyond was pitch black, electric lights dashed by Mosley’s interference. Arielle ran her hand along the side of the wood-paneled wall until she found a knob and turned. Fire flickered to
life in brazier sconces across the room, the old gas fixtures still working.

  “I insisted we keep the old pipes at the ready against unreliable newer technology,” Arielle stated proudly.

  Maggie took in the chilling rectangular anteroom, all dark-paneled wood and tortured-looking forms. A sculpture stood at the center of each wall, robed figures with arms reaching upward as if for mercy. Figures in Purgatory or Hell. Maggie could nearly hear them crying out. Perhaps she did. Perhaps the statues were haunted, just like Dupont’s stage production and his chapel of reliquaries, still restless dead to be soothed.

  Maggie forced Arielle’s hand to gesture to the figures. What are those?

  “The first art Albert ever commissioned from Mr. Dupont. Years ago.”

  Before Albert staged his death? Maggie clarified.

  “Yes,” Arielle replied. The drugs Albert had administered to sedate and keep her from interfering must be wearing off as she seemed more lucid. She stood before a wax figure of a tortured woman, bare chested, clawing at herself and the sky. “At the beginning of Albert’s macabre interests, he began assembling artists of like mind.”

  Arte Uber Alles? You do know the association led to the deaths of many, Maggie replied in Arielle’s mind. She could feel the woman recoil, shame and panic flooding her body. I’m not interested in implicating you, Arielle, if you can help me and my colleagues put a stop to all this.

  The part of Arielle interested in self-preservation rallied. She spoke quietly. “I…thought his intentions were entirely pure, that he was concerned with sanctity of spirit, that he wanted spirits to go to Heaven, not lingering here in pain. I understand now he wasn’t interested in healing. But in controlling. That I should have known.”

  Still staring at the figures, something chilled Maggie to her core. Those weren’t just statues.