The Eterna Files

by Leanna Renee Hieber

  “It must be the Americans, but I don’t know why they bothered. To them, Eterna was a failure, so why would anything from the site be relevant?”

  Rose narrowed her eyes, pensive. “Perhaps part of the principle of the compound is residue. What is left behind. That in and of itself, the very process, has life.”

  Spire shrugged. “That’ll be for the new scientists to determine.”

  “Would you mind escorting me home to Whitehall, please?” Rose asked.

  “Indeed. I’ll have a carriage brought round,” Spire assured her. “Zhavia and Knight wanted me to tell you they were sorry they were not at your side the moment you fell. As it happened, Knight doubled over herself in the next street over, at their post. Zhavia said Knight experienced your strike simultaneously, in parallel with you. For whatever that is worth.”

  “It’s worth the fact that the woman is, truly, a gifted asset, Mr. Spire,” Rose replied softly. Spire shrugged and exited.

  After he left, Rose shifted forward slowly, less dizzy than when she first woke but still a bit queasy. The nurse appeared, checked her head, fussed over her a bit, then looked her straight in the eye. “I’m sure you’d like to go off with your gentleman friend, but are you—”

  “Oh, we’re not, like that,” Rose stammered, blushing. “I mean, he is my employer.”

  “Are you up to it?” the nurse continued, either not interested or not believing her. “You’ll have to be able to walk to the door without assistance before I let you go.”

  Rose took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, placed her stocking feet upon the floor, stood up, and walked to the door. She did not tell the nurse that she felt lingering pain in her head and that her vision tracked oddly, that it was an effort to stay upright and on a straight path to the door. She was happy to return to the bed and sit long enough to put on her shoes, but she was ready to leave.

  Spire was waiting in the receiving hall beyond. He offered his arm and she deigned to take it. They descended to the street level at a careful, steady pace.

  “You have not shared your perspective of the incident,” Spire said once he’d helped her into the waiting cab.

  It took only a few moments to relate the events—omitting her dream, of course.

  “Seems we all saw shadows,” Spire mused once she finished, staring out the window of the carriage with a furrowed brow.

  The rest of the short ride passed in silence. At her home, Rose climbed out of the carriage on her own before Spire had the chance to disembark. “Until tomorrow, Mr. Spire.” She bowed her head.

  “Take as much time as you need to recover, Miss Everhart.”

  “I am as eager to unravel this madness as you are,” she replied. “I beg you not to let this incident make you question whether or not you’ll have a woman on your force. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Spire, and thank you for escorting me.”

  “I’ve many things to question; I’d rather your position not be one of them. And you are welcome, Miss Everhart,” he replied.

  She closed the carriage door with a capable smile, ignoring all her aches and pains.

  Letting herself into her home and ascending the stairs slowly, wincing from her bruises, Rose allowed herself to smile. She was alive, and had proof that someone would notice and care if she were gone. The basic, human desire for community was served. Still, that feeling of the missing link, which she had confessed to Miss Knight, remained, and something about her nightmare made that hole inside her ache.

  At the top window, her cousin was at her post. The day’s count was rattled off.

  “Sixteen gentlemen. Twelve working class. One middle. Three upper, walking to hail hansoms. Fourteen ladies. Four were with the accounted for working-class men, one was alone; whore, the rest were doubled up with other women.”

  “Thank you, Minnie dear.”

  “And one very pretty lady in a very fine dress with a feathered hat. Stood staring up. For a long time.”

  “Miss Knight,” Rose murmured.

  Whether colleagues cared if she was alive or dead—until now, she wouldn’t have placed much importance on it. Work, and working, mattered. But suddenly those relational qualities were vital, in fact; who cared made all the difference.

  She took a deal of time getting out of her clothes and into her nightdress. Her corset hadn’t been laced tight but removing it reminded her of her bruises. Layer by layer, hook by hook, it was only now that she noticed several of the fixtures were torn. Likely from when she fell. Somehow this upset her more than the scrapes on her skin.

  Moving to the window and opening it, easing onto her window seat, Rose watched the bustle of London below. Her nerves were raw and her senses strained; she felt every creak of the house, every vibration of the floorboards beneath her satin-slippered feet.

  The moon was bright above the steepled tops of London, countless tendrils of smoke wafted up from innumerable hearths as clouds raced over the moon’s silver face. The sky, full of movement and wondrous excitement, was mesmerizing. Rose realized with a start that she was no longer sitting, but had gotten to her feet.

  Judging by the moon’s progress, she’d been standing at the window in her nightshift for a full hour. Bright swaths of moonlight lit her white room so brightly it glowed. A full moon. A wind-whipped sky. The stuff of Rose’s guilty pleasures.

  She’d never admit to anyone that she read Gothic novels. But the sentiments of such books allowed her to experience the extremities of emotion she knew she would not experience for herself. Feelings swept over her like the wind that pushed the clouds and toyed with the moon, penetrated the layers of her clothing and kissed her skin directly.

  Danger had its pleasures—in fiction. If she were living in such a tale, she’d be worried. The incident with the carriage was making her rethink everything. Careful what you indulge in, perhaps. Careful what you romanticize, perhaps. It might come true.

  Just as she was wondering if sleep would come like a lion or lamb, she drifted toward a gentle darkness. Another odd dream. Perhaps her subconscious was waking to new senses.…

  She was standing at her window—if her window was a tall, wide lancet high in a castle. The moon was bright and silver, her robe luminous, her hands ghastly pale as she stretched them out before her. Wind wrapped around her, kissing her flesh with cool moisture.

  Unsure what she was reaching for, she knew it was something delicious, inviting, and dangerous; as delicious and inviting things so often were.

  Something sweet and seductive called to her from the darkness, in a voice she recognized but could not understand … a male voice with an undercurrent, as if a symphony accompanied his whisper.

  There was a soft pressure upon her wrist, as if someone gripped her there, but she saw nothing. As the pressure gently increased, the whisper ceased, replaced by something lower, a purr or a growl.

  When morning came, Rose’s usual sharp awakening at first light was a sluggish rouse. Turning onto her side was painful; she felt heavy and ponderous. Her awareness of her bruises came to life as a punch to her ribs. Secondarily, she noticed a fresh ache in her wrist.

  Bringing her arm close to her face, she saw two small puncture marks upon the inner side of her wrist. The skin was not inflamed, nor were the wounds bleeding, yet she was sure those twin holes had not been there before. Perhaps she’d injured herself somehow.…

  Rose looked at the window frame and from her limited vantage point saw no immediate protrusions or traces of blood. However, the window, which she was sure she had shut and locked the night before, was slightly ajar.

  The moment she sat up, the room spun, sending her back down again. Her body felt entirely made of lead. She looked at the puncture wounds. She thought about the penny dreadfuls playing in Covent Garden. The vampir was all the rage.

  “No,” she said thickly. Even her tongue was not cooperating. “No, no, no, no…”

  She tried to get out of bed. She couldn’t.

  To her distress, Rose real
ized she was unable to go to work. Her cousin wasn’t able to carry a message. How was she to let anyone know she was ill? With one great heaving motion she threw her legs off the side of her bed. Her feet made a hard thump when they hit the floor and she was terrified by how little she registered the impact, by how numb her limbs felt.

  An attempt to stand ended with her landing painfully on the floor. Her lip split. She tasted copper, but dimly, as if all her senses were dulled.

  If she still had blood to spare, then she hadn’t been bitten by a vampire. Indeed, they didn’t even exist. The wounds were insect bites, surely. From a spider.

  What would Spire think if she mentioned the possibility of a vampire? While she wasn’t the skeptic he was, vampires would strain anyone’s credulity.

  It took everything in her power to drag herself inch by inch to the threshold of her bedroom. From there, she tried to call out, but her cousin’s name emerged from her mouth as a numb, inelegant wail.

  Her head swam miserably. The tip of her cousin’s head came into view as Rose slowly, agonizingly, drew closer to the stairs: unkempt mousy brown waves beneath an askew lace cap. As the world once again grew dark around her, Rose sincerely hoped fainting into unconsciousness wasn’t becoming habitual.

  * * *

  Spire arrived to find Knight back in the Millbank offices perusing some of Everhart’s files on the paranormal. Blakely was nearby, sniffing, poking at, and dividing some sort of powder on the small, smooth metal table that he had claimed as his space, working to determine some of the chemistry of the event. The short, thin man was dressed in a surprisingly simple suit considering his usually flamboyant tastes, and Knight had followed his lead in wearing something simpler. It was as if the events had sobered all of them, right down to their fashion.

  “Where’s Rose?” Spire barked. “She said she’d be in this morning.”

  “She suffered quite the fall, Mr. Spire,” Blakely replied. “I’d not expect—”

  “I wanted her to stay in and rest,” Spire exclaimed angrily. “She’s the one who wished to go on as if nothing happened.”

  Mrs. Wilson entered in a simple black dress with a brimmed hat with a tulle veil atop the head scarf that tucked her hair from sight. “Reginald is recovering,” she assured, seeing that everyone had turned to her expectantly. She added, to Spire, “What’s our plan?”

  “I’d like to investigate the scene around the incident,” Spire stated. “To see if there were details I missed or if anything is still lingering there. Blakely?” Blakely looked up from examining the powder. “You’ll attend with me. I’d like to think, because of your theatrical perspective and experience with crowds, you’ll see things that others do not. Don’t prove me wrong.”

  Blakely nodded, scooping the powder into a container before rising and standing stiffly as if at attention.

  “I know the street very well,” Mrs. Wilson added. “I might notice subtle differences we did not see in the thick of the smoke and trauma.”

  “Let’s get to it then, we three. Knight?”

  “Miss Everhart,” she replied. At Spire’s nod, she swept out the door to check on her colleague.

  * * *

  The carriage itself had been taken into government holdings and placed in a stable behind the Millbank offices, where it would be examined. Longacre should have been going about its business quite normally.

  That was most definitely not the case.

  The air was freezing cold though it was high summer.

  A crowd had gathered around the intersection where the altercation had taken place.

  Spire, Blakely, and Mrs. Wilson paused on the fringes of the crowd. Blakely and Mrs. Wilson began to make their way around the group while Spire surveyed those who stood before him, who were staring as if entranced by the very air.

  The watchers seemed to represent the whole walk of London life, as if anyone passing had stopped in their tracks to stare, a bit slack-jawed. People seemed to be murmuring something about spirits and hauntings.

  Irritated at the forced pause in his investigation, Spire began to make his way toward Blakely and Mrs. Wilson, who had reached the other side of the street. There was a flurry of movement as six persons on horseback charged into the center of the seemingly mesmerized pedestrians. People shouted, horses whinnied, and chaos erupted on all sides.

  The six dismounted. Spire studied them—three men and three women, apparently adults but there was something odd about them, a youthful fire and at the same time something older, ancient even.

  A tall man, all in black, held court in the middle of the group, staying each horse by merely holding up his hand in front of each animal. Black cloak billowing about him, black hair buffeted by a wind he himself seemed to be creating, he gestured for his fellows to gather around. Clearly, the leader.

  The six formed a circle in the center of the lane. The wind rose, tugging at clothes, hats, and hair. Spire swore there was some sort of odd light hanging about the imperious looking fellow who had first attracted his attention. He considered the other five: one man wore a priest’s collar, one blond woman seemed a bit more ragged, perhaps working class. Another woman was severely and plainly dressed, like a school matron. All six seemed to be focusing on something above the street, though Spire saw nothing in the air.

  He wondered suddenly if this wasn’t perhaps that other department. He heard soft chanting from the group. Yes. This was Lord Black’s mysterious, ghostly department!

  A lean, blond, sharp-featured man in ostentatious clothing dropped his gaze from the heavens to the gathered crowd. He began waving his hands at them, gesturing them away.

  “Off, off, off you go,” he said in a casual, foppish tone. Those watching began to look away and wander off, still looking dazed. The blond gentleman, who looked like a misplaced royal, turned his back to his fellows, who seemed to be addressing the air itself. Spire shuddered briefly at a cold gust—the whole of the lane was frightfully chilled. When he looked again at the circle of five, he saw an unmistakable ring of pale blue light around them. The stormy, dark-haired leader gestured with both hands, as if conducting an invisible orchestra.

  All around Spire, people continued to turn and walk away—even Mrs. Wilson and Blakely.

  “Excuse me, you are not dismissed, get back there,” Spire barked at them. They did not respond, simply disappeared around the corner along with many others.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the blond man called. It took a moment for Spire to realize the man was addressing him.

  “What the bloody hell is going on here?” Spire barked as he approached. “This is the site of an investigation—”

  “Indeed, sir, and you’re not the only ones investigating. What you are going to do now is turn around and walk away,” the man said calmly, giving Spire a wide, sharp-toothed smile.

  Spire set his jaw and stepped forward defiantly, closing the distance to something less than polite and staring directly into the man’s pale blue eyes. The other fellow kept waving his hands about as if he were casting off insects. The crowd of watchers had thinned to next to nothing. Spire growled his response, “I work for Her Majesty’s government.”

  “So do we,” the man replied, his smile transforming into a goofy grin as if he were most delighted with himself. “If by ‘Her Majesty’ you mean an ancient force from long, long ago that far outranks Queen Victoria, long live her and all. But the restless dead are indeed our jurisdiction, sir, so leave us to it, will you? You’ve no choice. And you won’t remember us even if you try.…”

  “You are that department!” Spire cried. “The ones Lord Black was banging on about!”

  The man’s bright eyes narrowed. “Someone … knows about us?”

  “Yes, well, no,” Spire muttered. “My superior has said that when it comes to ghosts, there is a rumored department that no one really knows about.”

  “Ah. Yes. Well, that would be us,” the man said, and made an exaggerated bow.

  “Don’t chat them
up, Withersby,” shouted the leader in a reverberant baritone, his dark eyes blazing. “Wipe them and get them out of our way!” The man seemed to strike the air and if Spire wasn’t mistaken, the air shimmered. The temperature seemed to be rising to more comfortable levels.

  “Yes, your royal eeriness,” called the blond, evidently Withersby. He winked at a pretty, dark-haired woman in the circle; she was shaking her head at him and chuckling. “This is why no one really knows about us. Now be a good dog and run along.…”

  He waved a languid, long-fingered hand very close to Spire’s face.

  Harold Spire wandered amiably away from Longacre. For the first time in a long while his face was not contorted by a furrowed brow or a stiffened scowl. A pleasantness had come over his mind. He almost smiled at the gentle warmth of the day. His thoughts wandered. It was a wonderful day in this wonderful city.…

  He’d visited the scene of the incident and had nothing to report. Nothing at all odd had happened. He’d dismissed Blakely and Mrs. Wilson … hadn’t he?

  Wasn’t there something he should tell Lord Black? Something that had made Spire think of him?

  No.

  Everhart. Spire should go and check on her. That’s what he’d been meaning to do. It was only courtesy, after all, to stop in and see her.

  * * *

  The first sensory tether Rose had, climbing out from the dark pit, was her hearing. Someone in the room was murmuring in Russian.

  Oh, she thought as she swam toward awareness, struggling to gain purchase. Zhavia. He’d come after all. She was in bed again. And she had help.

  How had Zhavia known to come? Rose thought back to the last thing she remembered: crying out for her cousin. The acuity of her memory was somewhat of a curse, for even if her body was compromised and uncooperative, her mind was too focused for its own good. She often wished she could be a mind alone, floating out in the world, and not be troubled with a silly body and all its trappings. Especially a female one with all the limitations decreed upon it.