The Eterna Solution

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  “Blessing, Evelyn, and I can talk to church officials about all ringing bells on the hour, rather than just one in a neighborhood. That’s bound to shake off some of the trouble, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course,” Clara said. “Brilliant. Also, if any industrial lines carry negative charge via these death tokens, perhaps the ley lines need a natural and living charge from living tokens. To boost their signal. Lord Black and I had an amazing walk in Central Park together. He works in the ways of old, green magic.”

  “All that ivy in his house…” Bishop recalled. “I knew the ancient world whose ways we’ve forgotten must live in him. The oldest magic; that of flowers and trees.”

  “Exactly. He and I spoke about Warding with plantings and parks. We mused that what if every state had a flower, tree, an animal, or all, that it chose in a way of Warding, taking localized magic in a new direction in addition to the personal, physical Wards? A state flower, bird, tree…”

  “That’s wonderful. I’ll suggest it to Congress immediately. To them it will seem entirely innocuous, and can help broadly strengthen any site-specific plantings.”

  Bishop was warm and enthusiastic to these developments, but when he reached out and covered her hand with his, it was to address concern.

  “But to Mosley’s point,” he said quietly. “What he brought to your attention. Perhaps we should move. In case what’s coming here isn’t a positive line but a violent one. Seeking to undermine the power we’ve built together?”

  “I…” She faltered, unable to put her thoughts into words. The thought of losing this home, a place she loved dearly, cut like a knife. She’d poured so much energy into these bricks. What good was localized magic if one would be deposed anyway?

  “I’ll do anything to keep you safe,” Bishop said quietly. “Just tell me what you feel is wise. In the meantime, we redouble our Wards, agreed?”

  “You are so sensible, Rupert,” she said with a smile.

  She wanted to kiss him. To lead him upstairs. To feel safe in his arms, to be intimate in a way she’d never before let herself dream of.… This, too, overwhelmed her.

  He must have sensed something of this, for a look crossed his face that was both desirous and pained. He took her hand and kissed her palm, then kissed her again, close to her wrist. Two more delicate kisses followed, moving ever so slightly up her arm. Clara shuddered.

  “Perhaps this is the power he meant…” Clara murmured.

  “You have been my ward. And now you are my Ward … Guardian of my heart … We must take the greatest of care and caution,” Bishop replied in the same quiet tones, his hot breath racing along her forearm like a bold caress. Her shivers made him pause. “I am sorry, forgive me, I am not sure how to proceed with you—”

  “Don’t be sorry, Rupert. Learn how to interpret when you move me, my dear senator.… A shiver can mean delight, and I’d rather you see that and not assume it is the shaking of a seizure.”

  “I’m learning.…”

  “We both are.…”

  Bishop cleared his throat, looking wistfully at her neck, her lips. He straightened up on the divan and smoothed his waistcoat. Clara was torn between leaning back into him and taking his cue to control themselves.

  Harper calling that they should attend to some dinner decided decorum for them.

  “How was legislative business?” Clara asked as they entered the dining room.

  “Necessary. No word on whether Washington is feeling any of the unrest we are here. So I have to believe nothing has erupted there yet. However, while we were away, an Apex holding was found, in old Sleepy Hollow, no less, and the stolen bodies discovered there were returned to their graves. Seems for some doctors, the resurrectionist lure has been just too appealing.”

  “And with the lore of that town already priming its pump, I can only imagine.”

  Clara turned to the window, where gas lamps just outside had been lit. The very corner of their offices could be seen from that angle.

  “What do we do,” Clara mused, “with the Eterna Commission, save for our continuous Warding? Keeping with our Spiritualist patterns? Do we keep searching? For the paranormal? I’ve received warnings, in various ways, from dreams, to instinct, to a direct order from visitor Marlowe to make sure the Eterna office doesn’t become something it isn’t. Perhaps this energy tangle has something to do with it.”

  “It most certainly does,” Bishop replied. “The ley lines, now, are the new heart of the matter. Bolstering positive energy as if it were its own industry.”

  “You know, the fact that our dear Mary Todd,” Clara continued, “the whole reason for the commission in the first place, died and neither of us saw her and neither of us went to her funeral pains me. I will forever regret we did not see her before she passed.”

  “I just couldn’t bear it,” Bishop added. “I was afraid she’d ask me if we’d made progress. I didn’t dare tell her. And so the quest for immortality died with her.”

  “It died with Louis, really,” Clara countered with due reverence, “but the spirit of the commission went with Mary.”

  “Perhaps her spirit will come in time to give us that closure,” Bishop offered gently. “As for what to do with Eterna, it will have to change to suit the needs of the city. We evolve like it does, until we’re tired of where and what it becomes.”

  Here, he smiled and stared at her in wonder. “But you, my dear. If we were looking to truly bottle immortality, we should have looked to you. All your lives. Your consciousness, your tie to them, the fact that we can see so clearly in you the fact that life is an ongoing cord, an ever-resurrecting link, perhaps that was the key. To lives.”

  Clara shook her head, thinking of how overwhelming it was when all the lives unfolded. “But better to let that stay, die even, with me, as so few could take on that responsibility, or understanding.”

  Rupert was discomfited by her words and countered her passionately. “I want nothing to die with you. I want everything of life with you. I will awaken to that as slowly as need be. Yes, we must tend to our work. But we must also pay attention to each other.”

  “Finally,” she murmured.

  “Yes, finally.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment, unsure if they should touch, kiss, make vows or plans …

  “Shall we rest?” Bishop asked awkwardly.

  “Indeed,” Clara said, rising, deferring to his cue. There would be no discovery of one another this evening.

  For all they cared about each other, longed for one another, they seemed equally terrified of taking the next steps, crossing once-so-forbidden boundaries.

  “Tea at Evelyn’s tomorrow,” Clara stated, taking to the stairs. “I have this sinking feeling she has something to tell us.”

  “Something lovely?” Bishop asked, the hope in his voice an endearment.

  “No, I don’t believe so,” Clara said mordantly.

  Bishop sighed. “Damn. Someday the tide of this all will turn. It has to.”

  “It might just have to be forced, not coaxed. Man-made solutions for man-made complications. There will be a wedding, I can at least say that.”

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  After the following infuriating morning with Chief Patt—Clara was right on all counts but Spire hadn’t anticipated just how stubborn the man would be—he wanted to get something done before he joined the others in Evelyn Northe-Stewart’s fine mansion. Thus, he was pleased, upon returning to the safe house, to find Rose handing him the key to the postal box associated with the note found at Columbia’s little resurrection club.

  “How do you have this?” he asked.

  “You can thank Lord Black,” Rose explained. “This morning he proved once again that he’s the most charming and persuasive man. It just so happens that the box is associated with a British bank, and our lord and governor happens to have rather official-looking documents on his person, indicating that he is not to be trifled with or denied. Shall we?” />
  “Gladly,” Spire said.

  They quickly made their way to the bank on Fiftieth Street and Fifth Avenue, a narrow, multistory, gilded facility with marble floors and sparkling fixtures. The immaculately dressed and groomed staff was happy to oblige “operatives of the Crown.” The banker who showed them into the vault was so delighted to be helpful that Spire sent Rose a piercing glance. He didn’t trust such effusive enthusiasm for the law. It often concealed equally enthusiastic crime.

  The safe-deposit box contained a note with the address Forty-seventh and Sixth Avenue and a key. Come calling, the note said.

  “Thank you for the invitation,” Spire said to the unknown author of the note. Pocketing paper and key, he returned the box and set out, with Rose, for their new destination.

  As they walked downtown and west, the blocks grew considerably less crowded with mansions and their attendant finery, replaced with residential town houses, carriage houses, and businesses.

  The address was that of a white stone town house in the Federal style, surprisingly clean considering the soot of the city. A printed sign in the first-floor bay window declared it to be the office of Mr. Ted Swift, Medical Doctor. The white curtains of the window were closed.

  Spire climbed the small flight of stairs to the wooden door, which opened to his key. The plain entrance hall bore framed anatomical pictures of the human head and torso on the white-painted walls. An open parlor, which probably served as a waiting room, was on the right; on the left, a blue-carpeted staircase with a simple oak banister led to the upper stories.

  The place was silent and there was no one in sight. Exploring the empty waiting area, Spire saw a closed wooden door marked OFFICE. He walked right to it, opened the door, and immediately loosed a vehement curse. Rose hurried over.

  Slumped over a desk strewn with occult books, medical texts, and bloodied equipment was a man in shirtsleeves, with a gaping hole in his head. A small black pistol lay in a pool of blood on the floor below a limp, dangling hand.

  “Oh, God,” Rose said, turning away for a moment. “We need a different hobby than stumbling upon dead bodies.”

  Spire studied the scene before crossing the room’s threshold. Rose followed. They inspected the desk, one on each side.

  A broken fountain pen bleeding its own black blood lay atop a letter addressed to a Lady Celeste. What could be read outside the inkblot was, above, an apology, and below, something about the nature of the experiments and not believing in the vision anymore.

  Spire went to a huge black metal safe behind them that took up nearly half of the office wall, its door slightly ajar.

  A deep metal clank swung the safe wide, and the stench of death accosted them, their nostrils no longer spared.

  On one side of the safe were stacked several coils of wire, each with a body part attached—an ear, a finger, a bloody jawbone. Opposite was a pile of metal spikes.

  “Railroad spikes?” Rose asked, stepping closer. “Also with attached body parts,” she added ruefully.

  “Little tokens for the industry. I assume meant to be used as Mosley showed us at that incomplete booster station. To do what, literally haunt the system? Befoul it?”

  “I believe so. Attaching the dark magic of the Society to the industrial framework of this city, piece by human piece. Perhaps ghost by ghost, too, if they are connected to these objects as they are to the reanimated bodies. It is rather cold in here, which may be an indication of spectral presence.”

  Spire ignored Rose’s mention of ghosts and bent once again over the desk.

  “Lady Celeste,” he said. “I don’t suppose the poor chap left us an address on an envelope there?”

  “You’re welcome to move him to check,” Rose replied, “but I see no envelope; he seems to be lying on a knot of rubber tubing and a pair of shears. The letter itself—” She peered closer, then cautiously slid the paper out from under the broken pen to examine it. “—has no seal nor any other identifying characteristics.”

  Spire was looking around the room at texts and certificates on the wall. “The man was indeed involved with a university program. Though it would appear he did not graduate with honors. Perhaps he was trying to gain credibility in other, more insidious ways.…”

  “He couldn’t have sewn up all those bodies on his own,” Rose said with a frown

  “I’m sure there were medical college volunteers, all of whom knew that what they were doing should be kept off books and records, but wanted access to the raw materials, as it were.”

  Spire strode back across the room to the safe, picking out a scrap of wire that was free of human flesh and pocketing it as evidence.

  “What next?” Rose asked.

  “I suppose we’d best alert the authorities and advise them to keep it quiet. I can stop by the chief’s office again, loath as I am to see him. Then, back downtown.

  “I want to see if this is the kind of wiring that is used by Edison. That, and something about Mr. Volpe continues to irritate me and I cannot put my finger on it. While I’m glad I spared you from grumbling and offensive commentary from Chief Patt earlier in the day, I hope you’ll come with me presently.”

  “Of course,” she replied.

  * * *

  At the Edison plant, an effusive worker—not Mr. Volpe—greeted them.

  “Hello! Welcome to the most wondrous place on the planet,” the man said cheerfully. “I’m Mr. Ansel, and you are?”

  “Mr. Hamilton and my sister, we’re very interested in all aspects of your company,” Spire replied, producing the wire. “A building I have a financial interest in had scraps of this lying about. Are they putting in electricity? Is this a kind of wire your company would use?”

  Ansel looked at the sample. “It would appear so. Is the building located nearby?”

  “Up by Columbia, actually.”

  “Oh.” The man frowned. “Well, we aren’t quite that far uptown yet but hope to be, I know Mr. Edison has been courting folks at the university. Maybe he’s had some breakthroughs.” This seemed to make Ansel doubly nervous. “We’ll need more booster stations, though, going that far up. I’d best be prepared! Why am I the last one to know,” he muttered.

  Rose was looking around the office and noticed that various pamphlets on countless new inventions and devices were set up on a rack near the front windows. She had heard that Edison was interested in getting his hand on every kind of patent by any and all means possible, often being rather an ass or thief about it in the process.

  “Perhaps you could be our investment guide,” Rose said softly, offering wide, inviting eyes to Ansel, gesturing to the pamphlets. “Mr. Edison is involved in so much, what is the one aspect of his industry you find most fascinating? Most … misunderstood?”

  The man’s eyes lit up. “Mr. Edison, as you know, is at the forefront of audio recording and transmission. I’ve heard him discuss how pictures might be presented in such a manner.”

  “This would be engaging indeed,” Rose said encouragingly.

  “In fact, there is a man from France,” Ansel continued eagerly, “who has been experimenting with this very idea. After a series of private demonstrations he has agreed to do one at the Park Theatre, Monday at noon. Only the finest folk will be there, I am sure. Mr. Edison himself may be in attendance, indicating this will likely be one of his next ventures in the coming years. I would get on board with our company now, if you don’t mind my saying so. And you should attend the picture show!”

  “Wonderful!” Rose turned to Spire, who nodded in agreement, both playing their roles.

  “One last question, Mr. Ansel, what of Mr. Volpe? We met him on our first inquiry here.”

  “He’s not in today,” Ansel replied. “He keeps … irregular hours.” It did not escape Spire’s notice that the name Volpe filled the excitable Ansel with either anxiety or concern.

  “Curious fellow,” Spire said carefully. “Has he, too, always been in the business of illumination, of new industry?”


  “No. From what I understand, he used to be a funeral director. Near that big university uptown. But I suppose he wanted something a little more lively!” Ansel chuckled nervously at his own joke. “But I confess, it’s he who told me about the picture presentation, and all the possibilities it could offer industry and entertainment. He seems the most interested among us all in the ways the Edison Company can expand.”

  He didn’t mean this to sound ominous, Rose was sure, but it was.

  “Ah,” Spire began. “Well, do tell him we called, and that we remain serious about our involvement with your projects.”

  “Will do, sir, thank you.” Ansel started to walk away, lost in thought before remembering himself and offering a nicety. “Oh. Thank you for your company, my friends, have a lovely day.”

  They exited the whirring roar and Rose rubbed her ears a moment before they were far enough from the door to speak candidly.

  “Volpe, the former funeral director, and his Columbia connection cannot be unrelated to the recent disaster,” Rose said.

  “Can’t be coincidence,” Spire agreed.

  “And they kept whatever turbine powered the dead a secret from the rest of the employees. That’s something indeed.”

  They walked a circuitous route back toward Broadway that took them past J. P. Morgan’s great mansion. The first electrified house in the country. Even the pretension of great wealth was heeded like royalty here in this country, Rose mused, though Morgan was no pretense; he was likely worth more than most British aristocracy at this point.

  Whether or not the rest of the team would have any interest in the show of pictures that Mr. Ansel was so excited by was yet to be determined, but Rose’s instinct that they needed to see it was strong. It might be the horror of City Hall Park all over again.

  “You’re positively whirring, Everhart,” Spire stated as they walked up Pearl Street. “I can hear your mind from here.”

  “Am I truly so loud in my thoughts?” she chuckled. “I’m sorry.”

  “Never, ever apologize for something so attractive,” Spire countered. At this, Rose beamed. “But do share.”