Dangerous Spirits

  Dangerous Spirits

  (Spirits #2)

  Jordan L. Hawk

  Dangerous Spirits © 2015 Jordan L. Hawk

  ISBN: 978-1-941230-14-5

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art © 2015 Jordan L. Hawk

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Annetta Ribken

  Chapter 1

  “And that is my report,” Henry Strauss concluded. “We successfully put an end to the haunting, and the usefulness of my inventions was proven once and for all.”

  He stepped away from the podium where he’d placed his notes and gazed out over the gathering. Almost every member of the Baltimore Psychical Society had come to hear his lecture, and he scanned the faces of the men—and a few women—awaiting the spread of approving smiles. The beginnings of applause. Perhaps a standing ovation?

  The small lecture hall remained utterly silent, save for the occasional cough or rattle of papers. Stony faces stared back at him, and two of the women leaned together, whispering behind their fans.

  “Er…” Henry resisted the impulse to tug at his collar. Although the windows were open to let in a breeze, the inescapable heat of early July remained oppressive even after sunset. “Are there, ah, any questions?”

  Dr. Kelly, the Psychical Society’s president, slowly folded his arms over his chest. His beard jutted out in front of him, like an angry badger attached to his chin. “Mr. Strauss,” he said, and Henry tried not to flinch at his cold tone, “for years you have insisted on expounding your wild theories to us. You have claimed our beloved dead are nothing more than electromagnetic aberrations—”

  “Because they are,” Henry objected. “Otherworldly spirits do manifest as electromagnetic fields, at least on this side of the veil. But our brains themselves are powered by just such impulses. There is nothing wrong with accepting the findings of science.”

  “These are the souls of the departed! Not mere—mere electrical impulses!” Dr. Kelly glared at him. “I granted you one more opportunity to speak to us, in the hope you might have something useful to say. And you bring us this?”

  “Er…yes?” Henry’s knees turned to water. He wanted to sink through the floor. Or hide behind the podium, perhaps, until everyone left. “I…I thought my inventions made a very good showing.”

  Kelly dropped his arms to his sides, his face thunderous. “A good showing? Mr. Gladfield, the very man who invited you to try your inventions, died, Mr. Strauss! I’m sure I have no need to remind you he was a close friend of this society’s former president.”

  “Well, yes.” Henry’s thoughts scrambled wildly, like rabbits in a trap. “But—”

  “Not only did this haunting end in utter disaster, the owner of the house dead and yourself almost killed by a maniac, but you still had to rely on the actions of mediums to remove the spirits.”

  “But we did remove them!” Henry seized on the fact. “By combining the best of our abilities, Mr. Night and I put an end to the haunting and freed Reyhome Castle’s trapped spirits.”

  “It seems to me,” said Mr. Tilling, the secretary, “your presence rather made things worse. If Mr. Gladfield hadn’t made the thing into a contest and involved you, a group of competent mediums would have cleared the house without such…mayhem.”

  Henry swallowed. “I-I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but if Mr. Gladfield told us beforehand what to expect, things might not have—”

  “Don’t blame Mr. Gladfield for your failure,” Kelly cut him off. “I suggest you retire to your store and ask yourself if you might be better suited to another line of work. And I will thank you not to darken the doorstep of this society with your presence again.”

  He rose to his feet and departed with swift strides. The rest of the society took its cue from him, shuffling toward the exit, collecting capes and hats along the way. A few shot Henry amused looks, others sly sneers as they exchanged remarks with their friends. Thankfully the scuff of shoes and rustle of clothing kept him from making out their words.

  Henry’s face burned with humiliation, and his fingers shook. He wanted to flee, but there was nowhere to go. So he only stood on the stage, until everyone had left except for one other man.

  “I’m sorry, old boy,” Arthur Burwell said as he made his way to the stage. His steps echoed in the otherwise empty room, magnified by the acoustics. “Dr. Kelly is an ass, to have said such things in front of everyone else.”

  Henry looked at Arthur, the only person who’d stuck by him after the Strauss family fell from respectable wealth to impoverishment. He’d stood at Henry’s side since boyhood, through all the years of striving and setbacks.

  For the first time, Henry wished his friend absent. Thank heavens neither Vincent nor Lizzie possessed any interest in joining the Society, and thus missed the debacle.

  Henry swallowed again; his collar seemed intent on strangling him. “I…I thought they’d finally see. Now that I have proof…” He trailed away as Kelly’s accusations came back. “You don’t think he was right, do you? Was I responsible for Gladfield’s death?”

  “No, of course not,” Arthur said staunchly.

  Arthur didn’t know the details, though. If Henry hadn’t exposed Lizzie’s secret—that the anatomy beneath her petticoats wasn’t what one might expect—Gladfield wouldn’t have attacked her. The swirl of pain and fury wouldn’t have given the ghost the energy to hurl Gladfield over the balcony and to his doom.

  “Clearly Mr. Night and Miss Devereaux believe in your work,” Arthur went on. “They wouldn’t have gone into business with you otherwise, would they?”

  “I suppose not.” Still, Kelly’s words seemed to ring in his ears.

  With a sigh, Henry gathered his papers from the podium. How proud he’d been of the presentation. He’d worked on it for weeks, performing it in front of a little audience of Jo, Arthur, Vincent, and Lizzie. Jo clapped when he finished, her face bright, so proud of her cousin. And Vincent—they’d joked about Henry having to go on tour, or being invited to take over the presidency of the Psychical Society.

  Oh God. “Vincent. I’m supposed to meet him at the saloon.”

  Arthur nodded solemnly. “A good thing. I imagine you could use a drink.”

  ~ * ~

  Henry stood outside the saloon and tried to dredge up a smile. He wished for Arthur’s strong shoulder to lean on, but his friend had a wife and young child, to whom he returned immediately after the lecture.

  Vincent had suggested they meet here to celebrate Henry’s triumph. Tonight, after all these years, the Psychical Society was to have finally given Henry his due. They were meant to toast Henry’s victory with whiskey, laugh and sing until the barkeep threw them out, then stumble home to bed and a more private celebration.

  Instead, he’d have to go in and confess the humiliating truth.

  He took a deep breath, fighting against the hollow ache in his chest. Vincent would be outraged on Henry’s behalf when he found out, surely. As Arthur said, he’d seen the usefulness of Henry’s inventions, believed in them so much he agreed to go into business together. Moreover, to talk Lizzie into doing the same, uprooting them both from New York to Baltimore in the process.

  In other words, Vincent had bet his entire livelihood on Henry’s ability to make his inventions acceptable—marketable, even. And Henry couldn’t even convince the Psychical Society they were anything but a hazard. What hope did he have of convincing other mediums, or the general public?

  Perhaps Dr. Kelly was right. Perhaps he should give up on the spirit world an
d turn his attention to more practical pursuits. But it would mean admitting Vincent had wasted both his time and his money on Henry’s schemes. What could he say? “Sorry you and Lizzie poured every cent you own into our shop. Better luck next time?”

  The situation hadn’t come to that yet. Perhaps it wouldn’t. Henry would simply worry about getting through the next few minutes and gauge Vincent’s reaction afterward. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and pushed open the door.

  Laughter and the clink of glasses greeted him. The saloon was a comfortable place, full of polished wood and brass, and he’d drank here many a time with Arthur. Sometimes when he needed encouragement or a friendly ear, sometimes to celebrate—his scraping together enough funds to buy his repair shop; Arthur’s engagement; the opening of the new occult store with Vincent and Lizzie. Tonight was supposed to have been another one of those bright memories to cherish long after the final pint was drained.

  Henry squinted through the haze of cigar smoke in hopes of spotting Vincent. He wasn’t at the bar, or any of the tables near the front door. Where…?

  There. Vincent sat in a far corner, and even after half a year, the sight of him stole Henry’s breath. Some would dismiss him for his copper skin, but Henry had always found Vincent achingly beautiful. He’d grown out his thick black hair, adopting the style flaunted by Mr. Wilde during his recent American tour. It seemed to emphasize Vincent’s eyes, so dark it was almost impossible to distinguish between pupil and iris. High cheekbones, a wide nose, and full lips completed the picture, but it was the heart within that had truly captured Henry.

  And right now, Vincent sat with another man.

  Henry recognized the pale hair and skin, coupled with a cream linen coat, even without seeing the man’s face. Christopher Maillard, self-styled poet and artist, and handsome as the very devil. A man of independent means with a keen interest in spiritualism and a disdain for the Psychical Society as being too skeptical.

  Henry crossed the room quickly. “What do you think of my verse?” Christopher asked Vincent. “Your performance at the séance last month inspired me.”

  What on earth did he mean? Of course Vincent did private séances, as did Lizzie. But what sort of performance would inspire Maillard to capture it in rhyme?

  Vincent offered Maillard a lazy smile. “Exquisite work, Christopher. As always.”

  Henry clenched his fists. Was this to be the cap on his night? To stand here in defeat and shame, while his lover was seduced away by some—some poet?

  Vincent’s black eyes shifted from Christopher, perhaps alerted by some movement of Henry’s. A spark seemed to light their depths, and his smile slid from lazy to welcoming. “Henry! You’re here at last! I expect all your admirers kept you late with their questions?”

  Henry opened his mouth to confess his own heavy feet caused his delay. Combined with the desire not to spend his funds on a cab, as they might have to soon tighten their belts.

  “Yes, do tell us all about your lecture,” Maillard put in. “I’ve heard nothing else from Vincent all night. He’s positively bursting with pride.”

  Maillard gave him a look of droll amusement, as if he couldn’t imagine Henry having anything interesting or important to say. Vincent gazed at him hopefully. Waiting to hear how all his faith in Henry was repaid.

  Without conscious decision, Henry said, “It was a resounding success. The president himself wished to offer his congratulations. I’m sorry to have made you wait.”

  Vincent threw back his head and let out a laugh of sheer delight. “I knew it! Barkeep! Another round for the table—your best whiskey!”

  The smirk slipped from Maillard’s face. “Well done,” he muttered.

  “I…yes,” Henry said faintly. And downed his whiskey in a single gulp.

  ~ * ~

  Vincent linked arms with Henry, and they walked—or perhaps stumbled—through the streets back to the shop. Although Vincent rented an apartment of his own, he frequently spent the night in Henry’s bed above Strauss, Night & Devereaux: Occult Services. Given the lateness of the hour, Jo ought to be asleep by now. Henry certainly hoped so, not because she didn’t understand the nature of his relationship with Vincent, but because he didn’t want to spin another false tale of the evening.

  Why on earth did he make such a statement? And why hadn’t he corrected himself immediately?

  Vincent had been so proud of him, though. And to confess he’d failed in front of Maillard, to admit Vincent made a mistake when it came to joining his fate with Henry’s…seemed unendurable.

  “I wore the cufflinks you gave me for my birthday, to bring you luck tonight,” Vincent said, holding up his free arm. The small gold stud gleamed faintly in the gaslight. “See? It worked.”

  “I see,” Henry said weakly. He needed to confess the lie. Now, before it was too late.

  “Look there!” Vincent exclaimed, swinging Henry around. Startled by the sudden move, Henry nearly lost his footing. Vincent caught him, laughing. “How much whiskey did you have?”

  “Not enough,” Henry muttered.

  “Good.” Vincent’s eyes took on a new heat. “Because I have another celebration in mind.”

  Desire tightened Henry’s throat—and his trousers. He ached to pull Vincent close and kiss him. But ending the night in jail, on charges of unnatural acts, would take the evening from humiliating to disastrous.

  “Don’t say such things on the street,” he cautioned.

  Vincent gestured. “It’s after midnight. We’re the only fools about. Now look.”

  Vincent’s object of fascination seemed to be an advertisement, pasted to the side of the nearest building.

  One Week Only!

  Dr. Calgori

  Oracle of the Spirits

  Will Astound and Amaze You!

  Learn the Insights of the Otherworld!

  And in smaller print:

  This lyceum sponsored by the Baltimore Psychical Society.

  Vincent leaned his head against Henry’s shoulder. “That’s going to be us, someday,” he said dreamily. “Up on a stage together. Performing for crowds in New York. San Francisco. London.”

  Bile clawed at Henry’s throat, as if the whiskeys wished to return the way they’d come. He swallowed hard. “Is that what you want?”

  Vincent seemed to consider. “I never thought about it before. It would have seemed an impossible dream.” He turned his warm smile on Henry. “But with you…everything seems possible.”

  ~ * ~

  Vincent had barely shut the door behind them before Henry pounced. Henry and his cousin Jo lived in the small suite of rooms above the shop, while Vincent and Lizzie each leased apartments a short distance away. Henry occasionally spent the night in Vincent’s bed, but as he disliked leaving Jo alone for too long, they more often found themselves here.

  A situation to which Vincent didn’t object. All of his previous affairs had been of the most casual sort, and he rather liked seeing some of his spare clothes hung in the wardrobe, bright against the more somber tones of Henry’s suits. It made him feel as if perhaps moving from New York to Baltimore had been the right thing to do. As if he might again find the sort of home he’d once enjoyed as an apprentice, after James Dunne rescued him from the streets of the Bowery.

  Assuming Henry didn’t leave him behind.

  Henry caught Vincent’s hair in his fingers, tugging him down for an urgent kiss. Henry’s mouth tasted of whiskey, his tongue hot and wet as it slid against Vincent’s. Vincent shaped Henry’s form, shoving beneath his coat to catch his slender hips and pull him tight. The hard ridge of Henry’s erection pressed against Vincent’s own, and he ground against Henry, receiving a moan for his efforts.

  “I want you,” Henry breathed when their lips parted again.

  The words made Vincent’s heart speed. “What do you want from me?” he asked, lust thickening his voice.

  Henry’s pale skin flushed pink, whether from the whiskey, the heat of a July nigh
t, or desire Vincent didn’t know. All three, most likely. “Everything,” he growled, and kissed Vincent again.

  Vincent wished he could give it to Henry. The fame and recognition Henry craved. The dream they’d shared in front of the poster.

  He hadn’t told Henry when he applied for membership in the Psychical Society. Not because he wished to hide anything; it simply slipped Vincent’s mind during the chaos of the move from New York.

  Then the letter came. Oh, it was polite, as such things went, but still sent a clear message. The Baltimore Psychical Society was for whites only.

  He’d kept the rejection a secret from Henry and lied when Henry suggested he join. The thought of confessing to his lover he’d been turned away because of the color of his skin etched his veins with an acidic mixture of anger and shame.

  Henry wouldn’t have stood it for a moment. He would have been furious, would have sworn never to speak to a single member again. Probably would have written Dr. Kelly an angry letter. All of which would spell disaster for S, N, & D.

  Tonight’s triumph meant great things for their business. New connections. New opportunities. And if the price was Vincent keeping his mouth shut, he would pay it. Grudgingly, perhaps, but it was how the world worked.

  He pushed the dark thoughts aside. Tonight they celebrated, and he refused to let his lingering anger sour Henry’s moment of triumph. Vincent dragged Henry to the bed, shedding clothes as they went. The breeze wafting through the light curtains was a blessing against his naked skin. He ran his hands over Henry’s shoulders, avoiding by habit the still-painful scars where a bullet tore through flesh and bone last January. He ducked his head, kissing his way down Henry’s throat, his cock swelling with anticipation when Henry tipped his head back to give him access. The taste of salt and sweat filled Vincent's mouth as he sucked first on one pink nipple, then the other, biting and worrying until Henry moaned softly beneath him. He made his way down farther, pausing to nibble at the ticklish spot on Henry’s belly and getting a strangled curse for a reward.