Eterna and Omega

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  “Certainly not,” Black agreed, and bid Francis sit on the arm of his chair by the fire. He did so, and Black folded his hands over his beloved’s knee.

  “You speak so clearly about the early part of this century, Miss Templeton,” Spire said with a bit of awe.

  “Because I remember it,” Clara replied. Spire blinked at her. She continued. “Memory, experience, emotion, evocative details, the finer points of a past life, and the contexts in which it was lived all mix in the air like sensual fog. Those of us skilled enough can pluck out distinct moments from our elder mists. Sometimes we cherish what we’ve found in the gloam, as all such lost heirlooms should be treasured when they find a safe heir.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Rose said.

  “She is,” Bishop agreed.

  Clara blushed.

  “Our next task is to be sure our country is similarly protected as we have tried to do here,” Clara continued. “The Society has holdings in America, so we must systematically disassemble any remaining framework that exists. Those from the Eterna Commission who remained behind should have things well in order, but this trip has proved full of terrifying new insights.”

  “Do let our department know how we can be of service,” Lord Black offered. “I believe we have felled the beast today, but tell me if other death throes in your country need any of our resources.”

  “Thank you, milord.” Bishop nodded.

  There was a long silence before Clara felt the weight of the day collapse upon her and she rose to her feet. “Whether nightmares and constant replays of the horror and loss we’ve faced tonight will allow me any rest, that will be as yet determined, but I must try. Shall I take the same guest room, Lord Black?”

  “Yes indeed, and consider it yours whenever you wish to visit us,” the nobleman said cordially.

  “Come, I’ll escort you up,” Bishop replied, going to the stairs. Clara moved to him. She could feel Mr. Spire staring after her as she crossed the room, as if wanting to say something else, his skeptic’s mind likely straining harder than hers after a day like today, fumbling for sense and purchase. She turned at the landing.

  “Good night, Mr. Spire,” she said. “Thank you for your work in keeping us alive today. Thank you all.”

  “And thank you both for yours,” Spire replied.

  At the top of the landing, Bishop’s room directly across from hers, he stood at the threshold, his tall frock-coated figure elegant in the gaslight. “I’m here if you need me,” he said softly.

  “As am I,” she replied from across the hall. The two shared a smile and closed their doors.

  Alone in her white-walled guest room decked in blue, this was the first time Clara had a moment to breathe, to process, to grieve for all the horror she’d seen.

  The inevitable question for Clara was, What to do next? Where was she called to be?

  Clara was not alone with her thoughts for long when a chill draft pervaded the room. Louis’s presence, while welcome, caused a feeling of dread, as the look on his face spoke of something they’d been ignoring since his first appearance …

  Louis’s ghost had traveled great lengths to be at her side this day, to fight the demons whose unwanted presence had cost him his own life.

  In essence, his purpose had been fulfilled.

  “Clara, my dear love,” Louis began cautiously, wafting close, trailing a ghostly breeze of a fingertip down her blushing cheek. “I am so proud of you for all you did today.”

  “As am I of you. Your magic saved the day,” she replied.

  “Only thanks to your implementation and your actions, as the anchor of our compass and impressive wielder of time and lives.”

  They stared at each other for a long time, solid and shade. Finally, Louis breached the silence. “You and I both know our states cannot remain connected indefinitely.”

  That truth hung in the air as his incorporeal body did. This was not a state that could last forever, even if the spirit was an eternal concept.

  “This is good-bye then, I suppose, darling…” Clara whispered.

  Her grief over Louis had taken many odd turns since his death. His current, albeit hollow, existence was a great comfort to her, and she’d have accepted it over nothing at all, but it was selfish of her to deny him the peaceful journey she hoped for all spirits.

  “Can we make a promise?” Louis asked.

  “Of what, my love?” Clara said, forcing her voice not to break.

  “To find one another again…”

  “In a future life?”

  “Yes, in a future life. We know these truths now.”

  “Oh, yes, please do. Please come find me,” Clara exclaimed.

  “Good, then.” Louis smiled and his translucent form seemed a warmer shade of gray than before.

  Clara rose from the bed to face him. She knew it was time. There was no prevaricating, no lingering. Only corporeal tears and the faint hint of vapor.

  “Good-bye, my dear,” Louis said with a sigh. “You’re not alone, you know, Clara. Someone who loves you very much is with you, alive, in the here and now. You have loved him before and are beautifully suited now. I will love you in our future.”

  Tears poured down her face as she nodded. “Good-bye, Louis Dupris. Rest well.…”

  She lost him for the third time.

  It was no easier than the first.

  There were no words to capture the particular pain of saying good-bye to a loved one multiple times, and the finality of this last moment.

  It was difficult to believe, even for a Spiritualist, that they would meet again. It was hard to believe anything while grieving. Hard to see any light through the hot, silent tears of loss.

  She clung to Louis’s last words, knowing that he spoke the truth. A love waited for her, a devoted, patient, pining love. Love that was, despite all, meant to be in this life.

  Her beloved senator.

  * * *

  Every year, on the anniversary of David Templeton’s death, Rupert Bishop performed a solemn ritual. That he was far from home this year did not mean he would shirk this duty. In fact, the anniversary falling on such a day of import made this rite all the more important.

  In his white-paneled guest room, the furnishings and draperies in the complementary colors of russet and orange, opposite Clara’s room, he lit a tallow candle that made the whole room glow autumnal.

  He rang a small bell, letting the delicate note linger in silence.

  He placed his palms flush upon a sturdy oak desk.

  Then he asked the same question he’d been asking for the last several years on this day.

  “David, my dear friend,” Rupert murmured to the air. “Do I have your permission to ask for her hand? I cannot and will not proceed without your blessing.”

  For years, the only answer had been silence.

  But tonight …

  Tonight the candle went out as if snuffed. There was a faint trembling in the air.

  A quiet voice whispering in his ear …

  In the darkness, Rupert Bishop smiled.

  He quietly moved across the hall to Clara’s closed door.

  He knocked.

  “Come in,” she said. She was sitting stock-still on the end of the bed, fully dressed, looking as if she’d just seen a ghost. Perhaps she had. She looked up as the door opened. “Hello, my dear…”

  Rupert approached Clara slowly. She rose to her feet, searching his gaze intently for clues to his mood, why he was here. If there was fire in his eyes, for the first time he did not hide it.

  His hand protectively cupped the back of her neck, then his fingertips trailed up her ear. She shivered and allowed a small breath to escape her mouth, soft and sensual.

  He pressed his lips to her forehead, prompting her to lean even nearer, closing the last distance between their bodies. Rupert loosed a gamesome huff of contentment at this now covetous embrace. He kissed her temple and was thrilled when she tilted her head to increase the pressure of his lips.
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  After an aching moment, he shifted slightly to place his lips against her ear.

  “Tomorrow, we go home, my darling, to further protect our country,” he whispered. “And then … a future awaits us, one that we’ve not allowed ourselves to think about, but should.”

  “Yes, my dearest,” she replied in the same quiet tone. “It is time to go home.”

  * * *

  Black and Francis retired, leaving Rose and Spire alone in the parlor, staring out at the sloping garden behind Lord Black’s home, a quiet spot of green, a little oasis of verdant life against so much dark death. “Shall we retire, too?” Rose asked gently.

  “Retire? Can I?” Spire said with a little chuckle. “Can I be done with this dreadful business for the rest of my life and live out my few remaining days on a quiet beach in Suffolk? Tell me, Miss Everhart, that you are a messenger of the angels come to promise me a future of the blessedly silent absence of humanity!”

  “It will hardly be a ‘few’ days, Mr. Spire. You’re full of health and vigor. Well, venom, at least. Full of health and venom.” She grinned. “You’re not fond of people, are you?”

  He snorted. “Truthfully, I have found that most people are hateful. I like a great many of them better when they’re behind bars.”

  Rose scowled at this extreme statement. Spire looked at her steadily, then allowed the corners of his mouth to turn up.

  She laughed. That felt good. Spire stared at her. She held his gaze and did not look away.

  “Suffolk, you said?” she asked quietly.

  “Suffolk, yes, Miss Everhart. Do you like Suffolk?”

  “I do.”

  “Well.” Spire seemed surprisingly contented. “That’s good.”

  “However,” she cautioned, “Suffolk or no, there’s a great deal of work to be done before any such future rest.”

  “Pragmatic, Miss Everhart,” Spire said, amusement in his tone.

  “Would you expect anything less?”

  “Promise me you’ll never be anything but.”

  They shared a smile that Rose sure was the happiest she’d ever seen on Harold Spire’s face. She was fairly sure she was returning a similarly unprecedented expression, life far fuller with such blossoms of possibility on the horizon.

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  The queen demanded an immediate report, of course. The papers were full of incredulity.

  Black invited Spire and Rose to come along, and they agreed, if nothing else out of support and respect for Black and all he’d done, risking and fighting at their side.

  They met over tea in one of the very finest receiving rooms of the palace. Black offered a relative account of what occurred, with Spire and Rose contributing the occasional detail. That it wasn’t a full account was for the best.

  “And what of Moriel’s estate?” the queen asked. To Rose’s chagrin, she seemed to be somewhat titillated by the story, as much as Rose could tell given her generally dour mien. “Do tell me your department has seized it and purged it of all foul magic, that it can never be resurrected.”

  “The estate burned to the ground the night of the procession,” Spire assured her.

  “Electrical fire,” Rose added.

  “Electrical … that reminds me,” the regent said, eyes lighting. “That Mosley person, did you have any luck with that man?”

  “No, Your Majesty,” Rose said quietly. “He is presumed to have started the fire and most certainly perished in it.”

  “Oh … that’s a shame.” The queen clucked her tongue and took a sip of tea.

  “It is,” Black agreed.

  “I hear electricity may prolong human life,” Victoria said airily. “There are sparks of it within our bodies, you know. I had hoped that Mr. Mosley might be a healthier key to the Omega initiative toward immortality.”

  Rose noticed Spire’s grip tighten upon his saucer and prayed the delicate china would not shatter.

  “Don’t worry, Your Majesty,” Black said, “we’ll still chase immortality for you.” His companions knew full well they would not, but they’d be happy to put on a show of it as long as their honest work would keep true evil at bay.

  “It isn’t for my vanity, you know…” the queen said coquettishly.

  “Of course not,” Spire confirmed. Only Rose, and perhaps Black, could detect the undercurrent in his voice, and Rose would commend him later for his tact.

  Rose kept her smile to herself and thought of Suffolk.

  Soon dismissed, the three were off to meet the Eterna team at the bustling grand train station that marked the beginning of their journey home.

  * * *

  Evelyn and Lord Denbury were already assembled in particular finery when Clara and Bishop met them at the station, Clara rushing up to embrace her mentor.

  “Yes, my dear,” Evelyn began before Clara could ask. “I promise to tell you everything about our wild time at Vieuxhelles in vibrant detail. After a drink or two.”

  “Or four,” Denbury added. He looked exhausted, but a weight was off his shoulders, and his striking blue eyes had regained some measure of sparkle.

  “Lord Denbury,” Clara said, “I’m relieved to see you looking healthier than I’ve seen you in some time.”

  “Thank you, Miss Templeton. I’m desperate to get back to my wife and child. The news of Moriel’s death has made me feel like a new man. Thank you also for your work. I know what you did yesterday was nigh impossible.”

  “I’m so proud of you both,” Evelyn exclaimed, hooking a satin-decked arm around each of their necks.

  Effie and Andre were there on the hour, with trunk and carpetbag, talking animatedly together like old friends.

  They were interrupted jovially by the arrival of Spire, Rose, and Lord Black.

  “This is not the last our teams will see of one another,” Spire stated as hands were shaken and hugs exchanged. “If I may be so bold, I would like to suggest a biannual meeting between our commissions, in addition to a free and regular flow of communication.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Clara said. “After all, one cannot separate siblings indefinitely.” She smiled at Rose, who beamed back at her. “Neither of us has blood family to claim or tend to us, so you and I, Rose, must build the one that magic brought together. Write me every week. Promise?”

  “We must,” Rose agreed with a nod and a smile. “And also we must make sure that long after our tenures, our respective offices do not take what we’ve done in vain, or become something they should not. We’ve made some very important promises, to very important forces and figures.”

  “I’d rather take magic right out of the equation,” Spire said, shaking his head, “regardless of the inexplicable things we’ve dealt with. If I never see the like again, it will be too soon. Omega’s purpose remains to make sure what we killed remains entirely dead, no further resurrections. Otherwise, you’re all on your own, and I go back to blessed, bloody police work.”

  Lord Black held up his hands in no contest.

  Clara moved forward to embrace Spire. He seemed taken aback but did not withdraw. “England needs you just as skeptical as ever, Mr. Spire. Keeps us ‘damnable mystics’ on our toes. May your skepticism prove ever a fruitful challenge to the great mysteries of the world, my friend.”

  “Why, thank you, Miss Templeton,” he said, seeming moved.

  “Be blessed, my friends,” Senator Bishop said.

  Just then, a harried letter carrier in a telegraph company uniform rushed up to them.

  “Are any of you Senator Rupert Bishop?”

  “I am.” Bishop stepped forward.

  “Thank goodness. The office that sent this didn’t know where exactly you’d be, only that it was an emergency and to try and find you here.” The young man thrust an envelope at him and darted away.

  Clara’s sensitivities allowed her to feel everyone’s heart jump to their collective throats, hers included.

  Bishop opened the envelope and read the wire. Hi
s face was grim. Clara felt her heart begin to sink from throat to stomach.

  “It’s from Franklin,” he stated, and read the message aloud. “‘Today: The torch borne by the hand of Lady Liberty burst into a green, inextinguishable flame. Trinity Church graveyard emptied of bodies. Columbia College overrun with the reanimate. Request your return. Request help.’”

  Everyone stared at Bishop. The train whistle screamed.

  “Bloody hell,” Lord Black whispered.

  Evelyn, stone-faced and all business, made sure porters got all of their things on board. Clara wrung her gloved hands.

  “Well?” Bishop stared at his British compatriots. “There was that offer you made, Lord Black, about requesting—”

  “Bloody hell,” Black moaned again and stepped on to the train, turning at the compartment door to look expectantly at Rose and Spire.

  “I … but I don’t have my things…” Rose protested meekly.

  “We’ve a safe house for these kinds of emergencies, Miss Everhart,” Black declared. “And I’m rich. I’ll get you what you need, and we’ll wire everyone with news of our plans from the port. After these Americans bravely risked their lives for us on our soil—”

  “We’ll do same on theirs,” Spire muttered. “Bloody hell.”

  The train whistle screamed again, louder and higher, the unbearable sound the only appropriate underscoring for the mood and moment.

  “It … it won’t be long,” Clara said with a shaking smile, trying to sound hopeful as they all filed onto the train and Lord Black procured tickets for his team. “Think of all we’ve learned. It’ll just be a quick few … supernatural fires to snuff out!”

  “How many states in your country?” Spire asked, taking a seat across from Bishop.

  “Thirty-eight,” Evelyn replied, next to him, her elegant face as angry and fed up as Lord Denbury’s across from her, whose gray pall had descended once more with sickening swiftness. Effie and Andre’s bright conversation had fallen into silence as they stared out the windows past plumes of steam.