Dangerous Spirits Page 12

  For a long moment, Sylvester gazed at them both. Concern showed in his hazel eyes, reminding Vincent irresistibly of Dunne, who always worried for the apprentices in his care.

  But Dunne was dead, and Vincent no longer an apprentice. “You know we’re right.”

  “Of course.” Sylvester’s concern eased into a wry smile. “You’re absolutely correct. Vincent, stay with me.”

  “Perhaps I should remain as well?” Henry offered.

  Sylvester’s smile slipped away. “Thank you for the offer, Mr. Strauss. But this is a case where your instruments aren’t called for. I’m at a loss to think what you might do should I prove wrong and danger come upon us.”

  Henry’s shoulders slumped, and to Vincent’s surprise, he didn’t argue. “I…yes. Of course.”

  Soon Vincent and Sylvester were alone with the unearthed coffin. “Allow me,” Vincent said, reaching for the pry bar. He might be sore and bruised, but Sylvester had a good three decades on him.

  Thankfully, the nails pulled free of the aged wood with ease. Vincent dragged the lid aside and stared down at the pitiful remains within.

  Whatever Zadock’s appearance in life, death had left him nothing more than a jumble of rag and bone. The previous disinterment had jolted the remains: the skull had rolled free, vertebrae mingled with finger bones, and ribs with toes. The ivory arch of the pelvis showed through rotting cloth, whatever color it might have been dyed black by the decaying body it covered.

  The stench of death had long dissipated, leaving behind only the scent of rich earth. Vincent swished his tongue against his teeth, then opened his mouth and took a deep breath.

  “Nothing,” he reported.

  Sylvester nodded. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  Sylvester crouched beside the coffin and began to handle the bones—the skull, a femur. He brushed aside cloth, inspecting a wedding ring, the rusted lump of a belt buckle, and a series of brass buttons.

  Still nothing.

  Sylvester investigated the remains thoroughly. At length, he sat back on his heels. A pensive look crossed his face.

  “Is something wrong?” Vincent asked. “Did you feel some trace of his spirit?”

  “What? No.” Sylvester shook his head, as if coming back to himself. Flexing his fingers, he said, “I felt nothing, in terms of emotion or physical sensation. Let’s get him to the forest, before the sun can go down.”

  “What a charming way to spend an afternoon,” Vincent said, shoving the coffin lid back into place. “I should have thought to bring a picnic.”

  ~ * ~

  Vincent sat on the edge of his bed and wondered tiredly if he could remove his clothing without too much pain and effort, of if he should just collapse onto the blankets and fall asleep fully dressed.

  His head ached, and his back and arms ached even worse. He’d washed the worst of the dust and dirt from his face and hands, but the prospect of struggling out of his coat, let alone bending over to untie his shoes, seemed far too daunting to face.

  The sun went down just as they left the woods behind. There’d been no incidents on the way to the old town, nor back from it. Nothing but a sense of watchfulness as they reburied Zadock’s coffin in one of the empty holes beside the church. No taste of ashes on his tongue; no tingle in Sylvester’s fingertips.

  At least tonight the townsfolk would sleep peacefully, for the first time in days. The ghost still needed to be dealt with, of course, so the steel mill could be built without spectral interference. But for now she’d remain in the woods, content with her lover’s bones.

  There came a soft knock on the door. “Come in,” he said automatically.

  Henry stuck his head inside, the dark honey of his hair damp from washing. The summer sun had tinged his forehead and cheeks pink, and brought out a spray of freckles across his nose. Unlike their first night here, when they’d had adjacent rooms, he remained fully dressed. “May I come in?”

  “Please.” Vincent started to make a welcoming gesture, but was brought up short when his back spasmed.

  Henry noticed, of course. “How are you feeling?” he asked as he shut the door behind him.

  “As though a ghost threw me into a tree, before I spent the day doing unfamiliar physical labor in the hot sun.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” Henry said dryly, before casting a nervous glance at the wall, having forgotten to keep his voice down.

  Vincent took his meaning. “Don’t worry. Thanks to the ghost, the hotel is rather empty, other than our group. There’s no one to either side of me. I wouldn’t suggest you spend the entire night, but we can converse freely.”

  Henry crossed the room. “In that case, tell me what I can do for you.”

  Vincent wagged a suggestive brow. Henry snorted. “What else I can do for you.”

  “Honestly, I’m so tired I’ve just been sitting here trying to work up the energy to get out of my clothes,” Vincent confessed.

  “Then allow me to help.”

  Henry gently peeled off Vincent’s coat, batting away his hands when Vincent reached for the buttons on his vest. Henry undid each button and those of the shirt beneath, then knelt and removed Vincent’s shoes.

  Soon Vincent’s skin was exposed to the relatively cool night air wafting through the open window. “Lie on your stomach,” Henry instructed, going to the washstand.

  Henry let out a sympathetic hiss when he saw Vincent’s back. “My poor Vincent. You must be in pain.”

  Vincent smiled against the pillow. My poor Vincent. My Vincent. Maybe not forever, but for now…for tonight…Henry wanted him.

  The soft touch of a damp cloth swiped across his shoulder. “Let me know if I hurt you,” Henry said.

  “I will,” Vincent lied. But there was no pain in this. Just tenderness. The gentle kiss of the washcloth, cleaning away sweat and grime. And Henry’s kisses, dotted one on each shoulder, in the center of Vincent’s spine, right at the cleft of his buttocks. Little kisses, sweet rather than passionate.

  “Turn over.”

  Vincent’s cock bobbed lazily, semi-erect from his lover’s touch. Henry had shed his own coat and vest, and rolled up his sleeves. “You must be sore yourself,” Vincent said. “You’re no more used to digging holes than I. And you took two turns while uncovering Zadock, and I only one.”

  “True, but I’m not the one with a cracked head and a bruised back.”

  “My head isn’t cracked,” Vincent mumbled. “The doctor said so.”

  The cloth traced patterns across Vincent’s chest. “That’s because he’d never met you.”

  Vincent pretended shock. “I’m wounded, sir! Wounded to the—oh!”

  Henry’s mouth closed around his prick. His thoughts scattered as it seemed all the blood in his body rushed to bring his cock to full attention. “Henry…”

  A soft whimper escaped him when Henry let his cock slip free. “Shh,” Henry said. “Let me tend to you. Unless you wish me to stop?”

  “No, of course not. I’ll return the favor, naturally.”

  Henry’s hand rested on Vincent’s hip. “You’re exhausted, and I won’t ask it of you. Just let me do this for you, Vincent. Please.”

  Vincent could count on one hand the number of people who’d cared enough about him to do anything for him without wanting something in return. The girl—sister? mother?—who featured in his earliest memories. Dunne. Lizzie. Sylvester.

  Men in alleys wanted pleasure in exchange for money. Or for nothing, if they were cruel enough with their fists. Lovers gave pleasure in return for pleasure of their own. A transaction, where everyone involved knew where they stood.

  Being with Henry was like walking on quicksand. Henry did things for other people without always thinking of himself. There was no transaction, no checking of the balance sheets to see who owed what.

  A moan escaped Vincent. Henry’s mouth was warm and wet, his tongue playing along the underside of his shaft, the lightest nip of teeth at the very tip of Vincent’
s cock, before plunging back down again. And oh God, Vincent wanted this—not just the sex, not even mainly the sex, but the kindness, and the laughter, and Henry’s oh-so-clever mind. His enthusiasm and his confidence, both of which had been so strangely lacking over the last few days.

  “Henry,” he whispered—no, pleaded, desperate. I’m yours; I want to be yours, but he locked the words behind his teeth, because he had no right to demand such things. Not now, not when Henry stood right on the cusp of fame…

  His next cry was wordless, a rush of ecstasy, thought obliterated in a moment where he could do nothing but cling to the bed sheets while Henry moaned around his cock.

  With a sigh, Henry drew back, licking his lips. “I take it you were satisfied with my performance?”

  Vincent flung out an arm, feeling nearly boneless. “More than. Are you certain…?”

  Henry pressed a kiss against eyelids that had somehow slipped closed. “You’re drifting off in front of me. Just scoot over. I want to hold you for a while, before I have to leave.”

  Vincent obeyed. “Can’t wait until we get back to Baltimore,” he mumbled against the pillow.

  The mattress gave as Henry crawled in beside Vincent. He’d stripped, and tucked his erection between his thighs, presumably to avoid poking Vincent unduly. “Why?”

  “So I can wake up beside you.”

  Henry was silent, and for an awful moment Vincent began to think he’d said something wrong. Then Henry’s lips pressed against the back of his shoulder. “Agreed.”

  ~ * ~

  Henry lingered for more hours than prudence dictated, and it neared midnight when he pulled on his trousers and buttoned his vest. Vincent lay sleeping in the bed, the soft glow of the night candle burnishing his skin. Henry’s heart ached at the sight, as if some ghostly hand slipped inside his chest and squeezed hard.

  They’d half finished their duty here. With Rosanna back in the woods with her lover’s bones, bereft of the energy of the townsfolk’s fears, a medium like Ortensi would surely be able to send her to the otherworld. Then they’d go home to Baltimore. And Henry would no longer be able to put off his confession.

  Tonight might have been their last night together. If not, certainly it must number one of the last.

  Ignoring the burning behind his eyelids, Henry bent to retrieve his shoes. He’d put them on once in the hall, to keep from waking Vincent. His own sore muscles gave a twinge when he stood up again.

  As he turned to the door, the scent of smoke drifting through the open window caught his attention. Who on earth would have a fire going at this time of night, in this heat?

  The Franklin bells began to ring.

  Vincent’s dark eyes shot open, and a gasp escaped him. “Rosanna. She’s here.”

  “She can’t be,” Henry protested. “We gave her what she wanted. There’s nothing left to tie her to the town.”

  Vincent rolled out of bed, yanking his drawers up over narrow hips. “Something must have gone wrong. She’s nearby. Damn it!”

  Fear iced Henry’s veins. “The fire. You don’t think…?”

  “I think we’d better hurry,” Vincent replied grimly. Trousers in place, his slender fingers flew over the buttons of his shirt. Abandoning vest and coat alike, he pushed past Henry. “Come on!”

  They ran through the hall and down the stairs. “Fire!” Vincent shouted. “In the town!”

  Muffled cries of alarm and inquiry followed them, but they didn’t slow. Outside, the smell of burning grew even stronger, and a column of smoke rose against the sky, blotting out the stars. Shouts rang through the night, some calling for a bucket brigade. Others though…cries of “devil” and “witchery” and “the ghost has come for us” sent sparks of panic into the air.

  The burning building stood one row back from the main street. As they rounded the corner, Henry let out a shocked oath. Despite the tightly packed houses, at the moment only a single structure burned, the fire confined to its blackening beams.

  As for the flames themselves…they burned not with a wholesome red and yellow, but rather the sickly blue of the grave.

  Three children stood in the street in front of the house, screaming and clinging to each other in panic. “Is there anyone still inside?” Henry called.

  “Mama! Da!” shrieked the youngest.

  Oh God. Henry turned to the conflagration with a sinking heart. Holding up one arm as if to shield himself, he started forward. A wave of heat struck him, so intense it seemed to suck the moisture from his very lungs. Smoke billowed from the burning house, turning the night even darker. There came the crack and groan of weakening beams…

  “Henry, no!” Vincent’s hand seized his left shoulder. A sharp point of pain flared through the old wound. “No one could survive in there!”

  The wails of the children dinned in Henry’s ears, almost drowned beneath the hungry roar of the flames. “The ghost did this!” he shouted, trying to pull free from Vincent’s grasp. “We were supposed to get rid of her, and she came back, and she did this! This is our fault!”

  No. It was Henry’s fault. He’d suggested reburying the bones. The idea had failed, just as his trap in the cemetery failed.

  And now people were dead. Because of him.

  Ortensi let out a pained cry behind them. “Sylvester!” Vincent cried, letting go of Henry. The other medium crouched in the road, not far from the huddled children, his hands pressed to his temples.

  “She’s furious,” Ortensi groaned. “God! Stop, please!”

  Vincent caught Ortensi by the elbows. “Focus, Sylvester. Deep breaths. Center yourself. You aren’t her; her pain isn’t yours.”

  “What can we do?” Henry demanded. He’d run out here with nothing—no ghost grounder, not even a handful of salt. A sense of helplessness seized him, and he turned again to the roaring flames.

  Their eerie blue light seemed to have frightened away any hope of a bucket brigade. Even as he watched, there came another groan, followed by a roar as the roof and upper floor collapsed. Sparks flew madly into the air—but they didn’t spread to the houses around them. As if some force held them in check still.

  Something moved in the flames.

  For a mad instant, he thought it might be one of the missing parents, even though nothing living could possibly have survived such heat. The flames coalesced into hair, flushing orange-red amidst the blue. The blank white eyes of the ghost stared at him, into him, as if mining the very depths of his soul.

  “Vincent,” he whispered. “R-run.” But his own feet stuck to the earth as she advanced on him.

  “Bring him back,” she snarled in a voice like dry leaves catching fire. “Bring him back; bring him back; BRING HIM BACK!”

  “Henry!” Vincent seized him, dragging Henry to the ground. A burst of heat rolled over them, and terrified screams filled the night.

  “She’s gone,” Vincent said a moment later. He sat back on his heels. Henry raised his head. The other townsfolk who came to help either huddled in terror, or else fled, all hope of a bucket brigade abandoned. At the moment, he couldn’t blame them.

  “Vincent,” he whispered, and pointed at the house across the way. “Look.”

  Before departing, Rosanna had left a final message. Burned into the wooden siding of the house was a single word.

  Tomorrow.

  Chapter 12

  “You will give me a full accounting of this disaster,” Emberey said the next morning. A mixture of sleeplessness and anger shadowed his eyes, and he glowered at them over the breakfast table. “You said the ghost would be pacified by moving Zadock’s body. You assured me her activities would be confined to the woods. You claimed she’d be weakened without the fear of the townsfolk to draw upon! And instead, one of my foremen is dead and the entire town is in a panic!”

  Henry stared at the untouched eggs on his plate, slowly turning rubbery as they cooled. He had no appetite, couldn’t even imagine ever being hungry again. At least only the one house had burned—so
far.

  “Was it a warning?” he wondered aloud. “Will she return tonight and burn the rest of us?”

  Vincent’s hand found his beneath the shield of the tablecloth. “Let Sylvester speak,” he said quietly.

  “I understand you’re upset, Mr. Emberey,” Ortensi said. His voice sounded hoarse, from either lack of sleep or from breathing in too much smoke. Perhaps both. “I can only say we truly believed Rosanna to be searching for the bones of her lover. That by returning him, we would curtail the worst aspects of the haunting and buy ourselves the chance to act.”

  “Well clearly you were wrong,” Emberey snapped. “I’m paying you a great deal of money to remove this ghost, and what have you accomplished? Nothing! Norris is dead, and now Mr. and Mrs. Brooks have perished as well. My workers are fleeing the town—those who can’t afford train tickets are setting off on foot, with nothing save the clothes on their backs. I cannot build a mill under these conditions, Mr. Ortensi!”

  “No, sir,” Ortensi agreed. His mouth pressed into a flat line, and Henry thought resentment flickered in his eyes, there and gone again. “I can only say the supernatural isn’t always straightforward. We have done everything in our power to end this, and will continue to do so.”

  Henry closed his eyes, then opened them again. Nausea turned his stomach, his eyes aching from lack of sleep. “She only burned one house.” He focused on the memory, the heat and flames, the sparks so oddly confined. “Why? And why that one?”

  Lizzie stirred for the first time. She and Jo had arrived at the blaze too late to do anything but help Ortensi back to the hotel and find a cool cloth to ease his subsequent headache. “Who lived in the house?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Walter Brooks,” Emberey said. “And their three children.”

  “Brooks.” Vincent sat back and looked at Ortensi. “We…well, not met him, exactly. He was the foreman Mr. Emberey demoted.”

  Ortensi’s eyes widened slightly. “You’re right.”

  “Yes, yes.” Emberey waved an impatient hand. “What does it matter?”

  “Norris. Brooks. Rosanna killed them both.” Ortensi frowned. “There must be a connection!”