“Nothing,” Rose replied. “We should return home and protect our own before it’s too late. Only people like us are quite prepared to disseminate precautions properly.”
Adira nodded and shut herself away again, the weight of grief heavy in the room. If there was sorrow to be borne, it best be borne at home.
* * *
Spire had planned, that day, to introduce Stuart Grange to the solicitor, a Mr. Bertram Knowles, so that Grange could begin searching properties held by Apex or the Master’s Society. When he arrived at his office to find the lengthy wire to decode, courtesy of Miss Everhart, his plans, as so often happened at Omega, changed.
The message, once deciphered and transcribed, read:
America implementing Wards to combat supernatural attacks. Ward recipe follows. Change ingredients to suit England. Not your forte, enlist Dr. Z. Expediency advised. Root out M. Soc. sympathizers in government. Attacks may mirror American targets. Warn loved ones to avoid public spaces, hold to personal protections.
If chemical and electrical attacks are planned, they will target theaters and public gatherings. Society loves a good “show,” see notes on Nathaniel Veil case. Bishop to mesmerize Congress to insist on Warding. England needs follow.
Mosley recruited, given papers, return ticket, safe house instructions. Bodies of scientists burned; irrecoverable. A wishes to return with R’s body. All requesting permission to return home to address society.
He swiftly sent a reply of assent, struggling to come to terms with the fact that he’d lost Mr. Wilson before really getting much of a chance to work with the famed assassin and spy. It was tragic and senseless, and the death made Spire feel helplessly angry.
In terms of the Warding, he’d have to do his best. Rose didn’t advise anything lightly, understood his skepticism, and so this was likely a matter of formality of what Lord Black would additionally expect of their team.
The “recipe” Rose included was a list of New York relevant items and an explanation that Wards would have to be adapted to suit the specifics of London on principles devised by the Eterna scientists before their deaths.
Spire, a bit baffled, looked up all the meanings of the word “Ward” and bit back a groan at the notion of that list of ingredients providing “magical protection.”
Who in the world would help him begin to sort this out? Ah, Miss Everhart had already thought of that. Dr. Z—Zhavia, that quirky madman, likely not even a qualified doctor.
Upstairs, Spire found the arched door of Lord Black’s office sitting open. The nobleman waved him in without looking up from his correspondences, thin wire-framed reading glasses on his aquiline nose.
“Word from Miss Everhart.” Spire slid the transcript across Lord Black’s lavish desk.
Black read the whole of it, then removed the glasses to look up at Spire, who hadn’t taken the liberty or initiative to make himself comfortable.
“Yes, bring them back, especially after Reginald…” Lord Black’s voice caught. “Horrid. So horrid and unexpected…” He collected himself before continuing. “I’m going to ask the Americans for their help,” Black stated. “If Bishop has to mesmerize his Congress, I’m sure we’ll need something like that in Parliament, or they’ll never listen.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Spire countered. “But having the Eterna team here can’t help but be useful. And if they aren’t trustworthy, we have the advantage of being on our own soil.”
“If things worsen, they will worsen here most drastically. If that wretch Moriel is still alive—”
“It’s my hunch that he is,” Spire offered. “I’ll presently be instructing my Metropolitan contacts to keep a close eye on public spaces, theaters, and anywhere Apex has touched.” Spire realized that this would mean having to see his father, theaters having been a previous target. “I will get Mr. Zhavia on the ‘Wards’”—he couldn’t help neglecting the man’s questionable title or saying the word Ward with distaste—“straightaway.”
Back downstairs and left entirely, blessedly, to his own devices, Spire wrote a note to Grange, warning him of potential attacks and promising more details soon, before locating the file on Nathaniel Veil, a popular London actor who appeared in wild Gothic dramas and was an unfortunate devotee of Spire’s father. Two years prior, Veil’s theatrical audience, at a New York event, had been tormented by temporary insanity thanks to a powdered toxin. Though major injuries were reported, the group had suffered no reported casualties. It was the chemist Stevens who had reportedly made the toxin, before being extradited, as Moriel had been, back to England. With the details of the cases in mind, he set off across the Lambeth Bridge toward a downtrodden section of the South Bank.
His destination was a run-down tenement filled with rich smells, a haze of smoke, and foreign languages from Slavic and Russian inhabitants. It never ceased to amaze Spire how many different worlds lived side by side in London’s heart; one section of a street could represent any number of native lands as London proved a refuge or last resort for some of the world’s populace.
After the sound of slippered footsteps on the other side of the door, the glint of the peephole was darkened by a peering eye.
“Mr. Spire!” Zhavia said in heavily accented English, clucking his tongue and flinging the door open. Spire had never seen the man dressed as anything but a wizard from old fairy tale books and today was no exception.
The elder, energetic man sported a sweeping blue velvet robe tied with a gold cord, and his long dark hair infused with silver shocks was worn down around his long, silvering beard. He was short, and yet his distinct character made him larger than life.
“Mr. Zhavia, I need your help,” Spire said, stepping into the dark book-filled flat lit by candles in leaded-glass lanterns and steeped in an array of scents that Spire’s keen nose recognized as tea, incense, sage, and some kind of meat stew.
“Anytime, Mr. Spire,” the doctor said genially, his wide black eyes glittering as if his own sockets were two of the candlelit lanterns in the place. “I am of your department. This is my job; I am daunted by nothing.”
“Well, that’s a relief to hear, really. I am not”—Spire cleared his throat—“comfortable with my latest task. We have been asked to create a ‘Ward’ on behalf of England. Does the word make sense to you?”
“A Ward? Oh, yes, of course.” Zhavia eagerly took the paper Spire was holding out to him and read it closely, humming all the while. “Very necessary things, Wards. Critical.” He moved his hand in a graceful, dance-like gesture, watching the tendons move and murmuring in Russian. After a moment, the little man said, “What lovely mystic cooked this up?”
“It comes from the American Eterna Commission. It has supposedly been tested on their populace. I have seen no proof.”
“Seeing proof and feeling proof.” Zhavia poked Spire in the forehead and then in the stomach, and the former policeman managed not to growl or flinch. “Two different proofs, but don’t take one as valued over the other.”
Spire set his jaw. “We have no guarantee that this is not another trap like what happened to my team on Longacre.”
“Oh, no,” he said, waving a curled hand, “this is different. There, Longacre was tainted by the dark forces that have tried to turn these very nice, lovely little things into their precise opposite. That was the whole trouble at that rendezvous.” Zhavia tapped the paper. “This is smart, simple, good. How much do you need? I assume you’d like me to make it?”
“Yes, please, if you would,” Spire said, grateful for the man’s enthusiasm, even if the sanity underpinning it was highly questionable. Spire was just following orders. If he was about to host America’s Eterna Commission, he had to at least entertain their directives, even if he couldn’t allow himself to trust them. “As for quantity, the whole city is what needs protection, I doubt to a man, but at least a representative population.”
Zhavia made a whistling sound. “How much time do I have?”
“I am under
the impression as quick as you can.”
“Indeed. Do I have permission to enlist help?”
Spire thought carefully to craft a reply that in no way incriminated the Crown. “We are limiting involvement only to trusted contacts who have worked against Society aims before. So … yes, as we’re asking for a large quantity, you’ve permission, but be utterly circumspect in your associates and let our offices know everyone involved. Is this clear?”
Zhavia nodded. “Quite, sir.”
“There’s a solicitor named Knowles who dealt with the Moriel affair before it went to trial, I’ve included his location herein.” Spire gestured to the Ward document. “Lord Black at this very moment is out trying to ascertain where in the world the Crown’s secret ghost patrol regiment might be hiding; that’s a pet project of his. But he’ll be readily available to any of your needs, especially as he is far more of a … believer. Lord Denbury will prove your most valuable resource of all. Go easy on the poor chap; he’s been through more than his fair share as a victim of the Society from the start.”
“Much appreciated. I’ll get right to work, Mr. Spire, and bring everything to your offices. Do I have leave to work there? If I am making many…” He gestured around his small flat.
“There won’t be the room here. Quite. The basement level of the department offices is reserved for researchers, so please avail yourself. Lord Black will give you access and a carriage will be sent for you. Would you like a security detail of any kind? I’ll not take my assets lightly.”
“No.” Zhavia looked up toward the heavens and made another graceful gesture, as if casting a spell. “I’ve a significant”—he smiled enigmatically—“how did you say … security detail, which has kept me alive thus far.”
“Suit yourself. If you change your mind, call on Stuart Grange at the Metropolitan Police’s Westminster precinct if you can’t find me.”
“Thank you, Mr. Spire.” Zhavia placed a warm hand on Spire’s forehead. “You don’t have to believe anything to still be able to do the right thing.”
To Spire’s surprise, this was actually a comfort. “Thank you,” he said.
Zhavia suddenly looked horrified. “Oh! I forgot to make you tea! Forgive me.”
Spire exhaled slowly, relieved it was nothing worse. “Least of my worries, Zhavia, truly. I’ve got to go persuade my mad father to protect his own business. Which I doubt will get me anywhere but a headache.”
“Ah, well!” Zhavia bounded up with spry agility and shuffled off to a cabinet. Spire heard the clinking of glass before the man returned and bid Spire hold out his hand. He placed two small white tablets in Spire’s outstretched palm.
“For the headache,” he said with a smile.
“Thank you … Doctor.”
* * *
Spire had only one relation to warn—his father, with whom he was not on the best of terms. At least his father was a creature of habit, easily located at the small Covent Garden stage where he’d trod moldering boards for the last three decades to varying degrees of melodramatic, sensationalized success. To Spire’s abhorrence, that success had peaked after Spire’s mother had been killed by a violent intruder. The case had never been solved thanks to bungling, incompetent law enforcement. The event—and his father’s embrace of his enlarged audiences, even though they were driven by morbid curiosity—spurred both Harold’s estrangement from his father and his mission to become a policeman.
Spire stood for a moment in the dim foyer just inside the theater doors, where red-globed gaslights at half-light cast long shadows, exaggerating Gothic arches and rococo flourishes, the lobby as much a stage set as the theater itself. He grimaced at the theatrical poster for the present production:
* * *
THIS WEEKEND ONLY!
An Eighth Wonder of the Dramatic World by Victor Spire, inimitable author of The Northernmost Castle! PRESENTING A STORY OF PASSION AND POISON! OF REVENGE, RUINATION, AND LARGE REPTILES:
THE DEADLY DAMSEL IN DISTRESS:
ONE IMPERILED BUT CONNIVING WOMAN!
THREE MEN!
WHO … WILL … SURVIVE???!!!
* * *
An advert for the following month’s fare was posted across the lobby. Spire audibly moaned at the second shrieking announcement:
* * *
IF YOU THOUGHT
VICTOR SPIRE’S The Northernmost Castle WAS A DRAMATIC PINNACLE, WE BRING YOU ALL THE MOUNTAINS ALL AT ONCE—JUST YOU WAIT.
ANNOUNCING
AN AMALGAM OF VILLAINY
IN ITS MOST GRUESOMELY PASSIONATE!
FEATURING SWORDFIGHTS, MAGIC HELMETS, AND POSSIBLY VAMPYRES:
LADY, WHERE, O WHERE, ART THY HERO?!:
ONE DASHING BUT DASTARDLY VILLAIN!
THREE WOMEN!
WHO … LASTS … THE NIGHT???!!!
* * *
Could Spire blame the Master’s Society for targeting a place like this? It seemed to play right into their overdramatic, seedy hands.
The eccentric box keeper, wearing a brightly colored caftan and a turban stuck with ostrich feathers, turned the corner. Startled to find Spire standing there, she began making overly affected noises and fanning herself.
After suffering through a long moment of her feigned palpitations, Spire finally said, “I need to see my father, please.”
The woman “recovered” immediately and led Spire through the peeling, gaudily painted orchestra doors into the darkened two-hundred-seat theater that reliably sat only half that number.
Victor Spire was rehearsing against the solitary ghost light, creeping back and forth across the stage in an overdone, painful display of scenery chewing. He wore a long black cape and a too-tight tailcoat trimmed in red baubles that flashed with every exaggerated step. His hands were held out, fingers splayed as if they were claws; he flexed them repeatedly, like some sort of strange reptile. Clearly he was to play the “dastardly villain.”
The box keeper turned away in a huff, leaving Harold the sole audience. “Father, it’s me.” His sure voice echoed through the space’s brilliant acoustics. “I need you to be aware of a group that may be targeting theaters and public spaces for dramatic displays of hideous evil. Things … more terrible than what you’re presenting. This place would regrettably make the perfect candidate to launch a spectacle.”
The elder Spire gave no sign that he had heard his son speak. He scurried across the stage on his toes, clawed hands held up close as if he were now some sort of nocturnal mammal.
“Father, are you listening to me? Evil will target your theater! It was done to Nathaniel Veil. A chemical compound was released on his followers; it may be as easily done to you!”
The name of a theatrical rival stopped Victor Spire dead in his exaggerated tracks. “Veil.” The actor snorted and made a sour face. “That childe imitator!”
“Mr. Veil was extraordinarily helpful to the authorities when he was targeted in New York. You could be as well,” Spire said, doubting that his father even cared.
A dismissive sound came from the stage. The elder Spire waved one hand before resuming his high stepping, this time with a few dastardly “ahas!” punctuating the ever-so-artful verisimilitude.
“Let me know if anything or anyone out of the ordinary turns up. Though how you’d discern that, I’ve no clue. Good day, Father,” Harold Spire said, then turned and began to exit, confident that he had done his duty. Frankly, he couldn’t care less if this audience and actors turned to monsters; no one might know any different.
“You know, Harold,” his father called out to him in a plaintive voice that was not affected nor theatrical, just the sound of a tired, pained old man. Spire stopped but did not turn around. “Sometimes one has to mimic the darkness, imitate it, so that it doesn’t come lurking about. It’s camouflage, really. I’ve always hoped you could understand that…”
He wasn’t sure he could understand, but he did not fight back. With no further word, he exited the darkened space. This explanation, or justificati
on, was at least some measure of relief, as his father’s seemingly impenetrable oblivion had been the chief source of strife between them.
The fact that Miss Everhart would soon again be returned to him was the bright spot in his near future. Thinking of what befell poor Mr. Wilson, he resolved not to let her go off on further field missions. People he could trust and tolerate were few indeed, and he had no desire to lose the very best of them.
CHAPTER
TEN
Good Sir,
It is strange circumstances indeed that press me to request of you trust, action, service, and—dare I ask?—friendship.
You’ve not been inclined to trust my operatives, and for that I cannot blame you. In my defence, not all operatives have acted under my orders or in best judgement. I regret the misunderstanding that resulted.
I am humbled, I am desperate. London’s way of life, whatever virtue it possesses, and indeed, the very survival of the Empire, may rest on whether or not you help.
Your Templeton and my Everhart have conferred as colleagues, and I understand you are to convince your Congress, by mesmeric means I am keen to see demonstrated, that drastic measures of protection must be implemented.
Eager to discuss our situation, perhaps over a stiff drink, I pledge to assuage any lingering ills. If the Ward you have developed to keep the Master’s Society at bay as well as an antidote to chemical toxins are indeed a realities and not fiction created to throw England off—for all our sakes, I beg, no games—my parliamentary colleagues will require the same sort of persuasion.
The tragedies you have incurred across the ocean are pending here. All hell could break loose. Help me avoid unnecessary death and destruction. Please let me know when I may employ your considerable talents. I, and my country, will be in your debt, and I look forward to hosting you and any travelling companions at my estate in Knightsbridge. I await your reply, post haste.
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