Dangerous Spirits Page 2
He sat back for a moment to admire his handiwork. Without the shields of his gold-rimmed spectacles, Henry’s eyes looked oddly vulnerable, their blue a thin ring around pupils gone wide with desire. Vincent’s bites marbled his pale skin with spots of red. His nipples were hard nubs, his prick dark against his belly.
“Mmm, what a sight you are.” Vincent licked his lips slowly, watching from beneath his eyelashes as Henry tracked the movement hungrily.
“I could say the same of you,” Henry replied. His hand went to his cock, stroking slowly. Moisture glistened around the slit. “Just looking at you tries my control.”
Vincent bent down and licked away some of the slickness from the tip of Henry’s cock. “And what would you do, if you lost control?”
Henry’s face reddened. Vincent lost any shame at an early age, but Henry’s upbringing had been rather more refined. Still, he was beginning to come around with suitable encouragement from Vincent. “Fling you down and bugger you until you spill.”
Vincent tugged at his own prick, hips thrusting forward both to tease Henry and in response to the pleasure of his hand. “Do it.”
Chapter 2
Henry rolled to his knees, catching Vincent against him for a passionate kiss. Vincent groaned into his mouth, rubbing his cock against Henry’s belly. “I adore the way you kiss me,” he said, when Henry gave him the space to speak again. “I’ve told you that, haven’t I?”
“Many times,” Henry replied. “But don’t stop. I like hearing it.” He kissed Vincent again, then ran his lips down Vincent’s throat, avoiding the silver amulet Vincent had worn for the last year.
He released Vincent to rummage in the dresser for the jar of petroleum jelly. Vincent took the opportunity to stretch out on the bed, stuffing a pillow beneath his hips in order to offer an easier angle. Drawing his legs up, he hooked his hands around the backs of his knees.
Henry’s eyes flashed with lust at the sight, and his hands trembled visibly as he slicked his fingers. But his touch was sure against Vincent’s passage, gliding around the ring before pushing in. Vincent let out a moan of his own at the invasion. Henry knew all the ways to make him gasp and cry out, and he put them to good use.
Vincent had never had a lover who knew him so well. He bit his lip to keep from crying out too loudly when Henry entered him. The stretch felt marvelous, waves of pleasure spreading through him as Henry worked in deeper and deeper. Henry’s hands gripped Vincent’s hips, sweat darkening his hair. The soft glow of the night candle dusted the short hairs of Henry’s arms in gold and outlined the muscles of his chest. Vincent let go of his legs in favor of clutching Henry’s forearms, tugging him closer.
“Is it good?” Henry gasped. His lips remained parted, as if begging for a kiss or a cock.
“Amazing,” Vincent said, barely able to form a coherent sentence. “Feels good, Henry. Don’t stop—ah!”
His words ended in a soft cry as Henry wrapped one hand around his prick, giving it a long stroke. Vincent arched his back, fingers digging into Henry’s arms, awash in pleasure. It felt good, to be touched by someone who knew him this intimately, to be filled by someone he cared for, and he hoped cared for him. Henry’s hips rocked more urgently, driving in harder, and his fingers tightened on Vincent’s cock. It was too much, and Vincent bit back a shout as the wave of ecstasy crested, hot semen spilling out and over his belly. Henry gasped his name, pushing in and stilling, their bodies locked together in a single circle of heat and desire.
The sound of their ragged breathing filled the little room. Henry sat back, dipped a finger in the spend pooled on Vincent’s stomach, and brought it to his mouth. Vincent grinned at him lazily, feeling boneless and content. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and drift off into blissful sleep.
But he couldn’t. Vincent rolled to his feet with a groan, and went to the bag of salt sitting on a shelf near the door.
He’d spent most of his life sleeping without lines of salt across the doorway and window sills. But ever since the night last year, when Dunne died and the ghost that killed him vanished, Vincent never slept without a barrier of salt. He couldn’t shake the fear the ghost still lurked out there, waiting to complete the job it began.
Maybe it was foolish. Henry didn’t seem to think so, indeed went out of his way to provide salt for the nights Vincent stayed over. But did he really believe something stalked Vincent, or did he consider it a delusion on Vincent’s part? Certainly there was no evidence the ghost even lingered in this world, let alone had any interest in Vincent.
But the memory of Dunne’s staring eyes, face purple from the ghost squeezing the life out of him, sent a slick surge of fear down Vincent’s spine. The spirit had used his hands to kill Dunne. What if he awoke some morning and found Henry lying beside him, eyes glazed and throat bearing the marks of his fingers?
Vincent bent over and hurriedly began to pour the line of salt in front of the closed door. Even if Henry only humored him, at least he didn’t point out that Vincent Night was afraid of the dark.
~ * ~
Henry rose with the dawn. Vincent, who seldom moved from bed before noon, rolled over to Henry’s vacated side, mumbled incoherently, and fell back asleep with his face buried in Henry’s pillow.
Henry shaved and dressed quietly, then paused by the bed before letting himself out. The white linens gleamed next to Vincent’s sienna skin, the sheets thrown back to reveal shapely limbs and long muscles. The sight of him stole Henry’s breath and softened something in his chest, and he leaned down and tenderly swept a lock of hair back from Vincent’s face. Vincent sighed softly but didn’t wake.
Henry suppressed a sigh of his own. He should have confessed the truth about his failure before they made love. Instead, he’d let himself be carried away by passion, unable to think of anything beyond pleasure.
Well, no. There was pleasure, but not just of the physical sort. He…enjoyed didn’t seem a strong enough word, but it would do. He enjoyed Vincent’s company. Making him smile and laugh, and groan in ecstasy. And drifting off in his arms, and waking up the same way.
He needed to confess. To see Vincent’s disappointment, and hope…what? That Vincent didn’t regret throwing his lot in with Henry? Didn’t break off their relationship and carry on with Maillard instead?
Assuming he wasn’t already, depending on what sort of “performance” Maillard referred to last night. Ministers wrote long letters to the newspaper, ranting against the debauchery accompanying séances. Although hardly the orgies painted by the over-active imaginations of self-appointed moral guardians, the accusations did hold a kernel of truth. A small group of adults, sitting in a dark room, tension high as they waited for a ghost to appear, created a definite atmosphere. The holding of hands, the long black cloths draped over the séance tables, heightened the possibility of illicit activity. Spirits drew on sexual energy—as Henry knew first hand, given what Vincent did to him during a séance at Reyhome Castle.
They’d made no promises to one another, outside of their business contract. Perhaps Vincent already grew bored with Henry. Vincent went to art salons and drank coffee with poets. He already knew half the musicians in the city, white and colored, and felt at home in the company of his fellow aesthetes like Christopher Maillard.
Whereas Henry attended scientific lectures, read every new journal article on electromagnetism, and preferred to be at home and in bed by nine o’clock. Could he really be surprised if Vincent took advantage of the opportunities afforded him?
Henry suppressed a groan and let himself out. A sitting room separated the two bedrooms, and many mornings he found Jo sitting there, studying scientific journals. Her late mother had gifted Jo with a genius for mathematics, along with tightly curled hair and chestnut skin. This morning, however, the chamber lay empty.
The downstairs floor was divided into two parts: the occult shop out front, and Henry’s workshop in the back. A second building in the yard just behind the shop offered an alt
ernate place for him to work, when the chemical smells or sounds might otherwise disrupt séances or disturb any customers.
He found Jo in the back room, working on an idea of her own: a headlamp such as miners used, but with a small arc light in place of a candle. A yellow scarf kept her hair out of the way, and matched the cheerful hue of her dress. The apron covering the front of the dress was, as usual, stained from grease and chemicals, with small holes eaten in the fabric by acid.
To Henry’s surprise, as she usually shared Vincent’s sleeping habits, Lizzie was there as well. She wore a long, flowing dress, corseted tightly about the waist to lend her figure a certain shape nature had not provided. A wide choker matched the dress, and golden hair hung in soft ringlets about her face and shoulders.
“Of course you can borrow my earrings,” she said to Jo.
“Earrings?” Henry asked. “What on earth do you want earrings for, Jo? Don’t you already have a pair?”
Jo and Lizzie exchanged a look. “See?” Jo asked.
“You didn’t have to convince me,” Lizzie replied. “Your cousin has no sense of fashion whatsoever. I’d hoped Vincent might prove a good influence, but I fear it isn’t to be.”
Henry tugged self-consciously at his coat tails. His clothing might not be exactly new, but nothing was frayed, and there were surely more important things for him to spend his money on, anyway. The memory of Maillard’s stylish cream suit flashed through his mind, but he put it aside sternly.
“My wardrobe is fine, thank you,” he said. “Should I go for coffee and pastries?”
“Without even telling us how things went at the Psychical Society?” Lizzie asked, raising a brow.
Jo all but bounced on her stool. “Yes, tell us all about it, Henry!”
His tongue lay thick in his mouth. “I…”
“It was a triumph, of course,” Vincent said from the stairs behind him.
Startled, Henry turned. Vincent stood there, clad in his silk oriental robe, his hair still mussed from sleep. A proud smile curved his lips.
Of all the days for Vincent to actually rise before noon.
“I knew it!” Jo leapt up and hugged Henry, her thin arms surprisingly strong around his waist.
“Well done,” Lizzie agreed. “I will admit, I was a bit skeptical when Vincent pled the case for us to go into business with you.”
“After my behavior at Reyhome Castle, you had every right to be,” Henry said faintly.
“Indeed,” she agreed. “But it seems Vincent was right about you.”
Oh God. He wanted to sink through the floor, or burst into flames, or perhaps just fall down stone dead.
“And Vincent, really, put some clothes on,” Lizzie went on, oblivious to Henry’s distress. “Wandering about in nightshirt and robe in front of two ladies! Your manners are deplorable.”
“It’s not scandalous,” Jo protested. “Vincent is family. Right, Vincent?”
Vincent tugged affectionately at Jo’s scarf. “Right, Jo.”
Henry’s heart plummeted even further. The disaster at the Psychical Society last night wouldn’t just affect him, would it?
After Jo’s parents died in a railway accident, she’d first gone to their aunt. The wretched woman behaved as if President Lincoln never freed a single slave, and considered Jo her property rather than her niece. When Henry dared write to the girl, Aunt Emma tried to warn Jo off by telling her the family rumors of his proclivities. Jo decided Henry the lesser of two evils, and showed up on his doorstep shortly thereafter. The matter of Henry’s preferences had never come up…until Vincent.
Far from being repulsed by him, Jo adored Vincent. If he left, it wouldn’t only be Henry who ended up with a broken heart. And while Henry and Lizzie might not precisely be friends, she and Jo had formed something of a bond.
“Put on some trousers, Vincent,” Lizzie ordered. “Jo and I will go to the café and fetch breakfast.”
Vincent waited until Lizzie and Jo left, before giving Henry a kiss. “Good morning,” he murmured against Henry’s lips. “You don’t seem to be feeling the effects of last night too badly.”
“No.” Not the way Vincent meant, anyway. “Are you?”
“A bit of a headache.” Vincent pressed against him more tightly. “A little bit of an ache somewhere else.”
Heat flooded Henry’s face. “I’m sorry—”
“I’m not. I like it when you get enthusiastic.” Vincent nipped Henry’s lower lip gently with his teeth.
Henry pushed him away. “You’d better go and get dressed, before Lizzie and Jo return.”
“I suppose.” Vincent’s hand skated lightly over the growing bulge in Henry’s trousers. “You could join me.”
“Dear heavens, no!” Henry exclaimed, mortified. “I mean—we don’t have time before the others get back—they’d know—”
Vincent laughed. “I rather imagine they know already,” he said with a wink. “But have it your way.”
Henry turned to the workbench, determined not to admire the sway of Vincent’s backside as he made his way up the stairs. As the familiar silence of the shop settled around him, he slumped onto the stool Jo had vacated. Parts lay in front of him, a scatter of batteries and acid flasks, the carbon electrodes for Jo’s headlamp, and spools of copper wire.
He began to sort through the jumble, as though imposing order on the workbench might do the same for his thoughts. Parts to one side, completed tools to the other. The ghost grounder lay buried beneath a pile of loose wire, its copper rod slightly tarnished from disuse.
How dare Dr. Kelly accuse him of reducing the “beloved dead,” as Kelly put it, to mere electromagnetic impulses? The ghost grounder worked by draining the electromagnetic energy of spirits—wasn’t that proof enough that they were comprised of electrical impulses, no different from the activity of the human brain in life?
Scowling at the tarnish, Henry put aside the grounder and began to sort the loose copper wire by gage. He just wanted to save people the heartache he’d gone through as a lad—was that so wrong? Why shouldn’t they protect their families from unscrupulous fake mediums by detecting themselves whether a cold spot came from a spirit or a badly fitted window? Or sleep peacefully, knowing Strauss’s Sure-Fire Spirit Finder would warn them of ghostly activity?
But it all cost money. His gaze went to the dispeller, with its crystalline wafers and electrodes and batteries, and God, why did everything have to be so damned expensive? Purchasing the shop had eaten through the five hundred dollar prize from Reyhome Castle, and a good deal of their personal savings as well. Business since had been just enough to buy parts and keep food on the table, but no more. Last night had been supposed to fix all of that, give them the money to manufacture his devices and keep the shop afloat.
The copper wire bent in his hands as he tightened his grip on it. He’d failed, then lied about it, and now everyone thought prosperity was right around the corner. What had he been thinking? He had to confess, but how on earth was he to do so?
There came a knock on the front door, despite the closed sign. Grateful for the distraction, Henry set aside the wire and went to answer it. Heavy drapes covered the windows, blotting out the sunlight that would interfere with a séance and preventing him from seeing who stood on the stoop.
“We’re closed,” he said automatically as he opened the door.
The man outside possessed a plain face, remarkable only for a luxuriant mustache and mutton chops. His suit and top hat were of excellent quality, if a bit drab in color. A carriage waited on the street behind him.
Henry straightened automatically. Whoever this fellow was, he obviously had money to spend.
“Forgive the intrusion,” the man said, extending his hand. “But I come to you on a matter most urgent. Allow me to introduce myself. John Emberey, at your service.”
“Henry Strauss,” Henry said automatically. Up close, the lines of strain framing Emberey’s eyes became visible. “What might I do for you?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, good.” Some of the tension left Emberey’s shoulders. “Another medium referred Mr. Night and Miss Devereaux to me. We—the company I work for, that is—are having a problem with a ghost.”
Politeness dictated Henry invite Emberey inside. Possibly even up to the sitting room, given the quality of his clothing.
The sitting room beside Henry’s bedroom, where Vincent even now dressed for the day. There was no possible means of explaining such a thing.
Each back alley encounter with another man had been tainted with the fear of being caught, or of the other fellow proving to be a police officer tasked with luring and then arresting men on an indecency charge. Henry hadn’t realized just how pleasant the last few months truly had been, until faced once again with the fear of discovery.
“Er, I’m afraid my partners haven’t arrived just yet,” Henry lied, trying not to fidget. “Rather than force you to await them, perhaps it would be more convenient for us to come to you?”
If Emberey was disappointed, he didn’t show it. “How very kind of you to offer. I’ve taken a room at the Altamont Hotel. I must impress upon you the urgency of the case. A man may already be dead.”
“May?” What did Emberey mean?
“I’ll explain everything at the hotel.”
Did Emberey exaggerate, or was the situation truly dire? “Of course,” Henry said. “I’ll summon them right away. We’ll join you within two hour’s time, you have my word.”
As Emberey’s carriage clattered away, Henry shut the door slowly. There came the soft whisper of shoes against the thick rugs covering the shop floor. Vincent stood in the doorway, fastening his cufflinks. “Well. I wonder what the devil that was about?”
Chapter 3