Dangerous Spirits Read online

  “Thank you,” Vincent managed. He pulled away to let Lizzie have her turn, surreptitiously wiping at his eyes.

  “Sylvester,” he said, when Lizzie finished her greeting. “Let me introduce Miss Jocelyn Strauss.”

  Sylvester took Jo’s hand and bowed over it extravagantly. “My sojourn in Devil’s Walk has been worth it, to meet such a rose.”

  Jo’s cheeks darkened, and she giggled.

  Vincent grinned. “And this is Jo’s cousin and our partner, Mr. Henry Strauss.”

  Sylvester smiled and held out his hand. Bandages swathed his hands, although he seemed to have the use of his fingers. Still, Henry took it gently. “A pleasure to meet you,” Henry said.

  “And you,” Sylvester replied. A little frown creased his forehead. “I must admit, I was surprised when Mr. Emberey’s wire said you would be joining us.”

  “You must have gotten my letter after we moved to Baltimore,” Lizzie said, taking a seat at the table beside Jo.

  “I did, and I recall your explanation of Mr. Strauss’s little inventions,” Sylvester said. “I’m merely uncertain what use they’ll be of here.”

  Henry’s nostrils flared, and Vincent winced. Before Henry gave vent to his offense, Vincent said, “I assure you, Sylvester, Mr. Strauss has many talents.”

  Henry flushed red. Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Henry’s machines have proved quite useful,” she said. “Trust me when I say Vincent and I were rather skeptical at first as well. But Henry has convinced us, not to mention the finest minds in the Baltimore Psychical Society.”

  Rather than looking proud, Henry turned even redder. Vincent would have expected him to shout his accomplishment from the rooftops. Instead, he’d been strangely reserved about the matter.

  But why? Surely the Psychical Society hadn’t mentioned their rejection of Vincent. Henry would have quit the society on the spot.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Vincent sat beside Sylvester, with Lizzie across from him. A waiter appeared and offered the hotel’s menu, a choice between beef and lamb. Sylvester approved a bottle of wine, and the waiter began to pour.

  “Lemonade for Jo, if you please,” Henry said.

  Jo gave him a pleading look. “But Henry…”

  “Wine isn’t suitable for young ladies,” he said primly. “You may have lemonade or tea.”

  Sylvester chuckled. “Having become used to continental ways, it is sometimes odd to return to American temperance,” he told Jo sympathetically. “Still, I’m sure your cousin only wishes the best for you. How did you find the journey here?”

  They settled into a round of small talk, while the waiters bustled in and out, bringing them drinks and, in short order, dinner. When the last of the staff retreated, shutting the door after him, Henry turned to Sylvester.

  “Mr. Emberey said your injury came from attempting a séance?” he asked.

  “I fear so,” Sylvester replied as he cut into his lamb. “Did Vincent or Lizzie tell you of my talent?”

  “They only said you apprenticed with their mentor,” Henry replied.

  “Sylvester is clairsentient,” Vincent explained. “He receives impressions from ghosts, both emotional and physical. Usually the latter manifest in his hands.”

  Sylvester smiled ruefully. “Quite. Although ordinarily they’re but sensations. In this case…well. There’s a reason I sent for help.”

  “What did it do to you?” Lizzie asked.

  “It burned my hands.” Sylvester’s smile was gone now, his face grave. “For the spirit that walks here is a creature of fire, both within and without.”

  ~ * ~

  Ortensi held up his wine glass. “The tale begins with the fire of passion,” he said. His deep voice was mesmerizing, and Henry understood how he must hold the attention of his audiences. A gold ring showed from beneath one of the light strips of gauze, and the gaslight caught on the ornate pocket watch pinned to his vest. His exquisitely tailored clothing contrasted rather sharply with Henry’s shabby suit. Even Vincent’s carefully measured fashion couldn’t compete. Clearly all of those performances in front of the crowned heads of Europe paid well.

  “Devil’s Walk wasn’t the original name of this place, nor this the original town,” Ortensi went on. “Over a hundred years ago, a colonial village stood not far from here, at the base of the waterfall Mr. Carlisle wishes to utilize for his steel mill. Whispering Falls, it was called, the site of a small but prosperous enough town. There was a mill at the falls, and a church, and fertile fields surrounded by forest.”

  “Even more horribly bucolic than now,” Vincent remarked, holding out his glass for more wine. He’d barely touched his lamb. “How ghastly.”

  Ortensi chuckled. “Quite. At any rate, as the story goes, two women named Mary and Rosanna fell in love with the same man. Zadock, the mayor’s son and the handsomest bachelor in the village, gave his heart to Rosanna. Alas, Rosanna had only her heart to give in return. She was the daughter of a charcoal burner whose death left her with nothing save a tiny hut within the surrounding forest. Mary, on the other hand, was the miller’s daughter, her family second only to the mayor’s in money and prestige.”

  “Allow me to guess—he married the rich one,” Lizzie said dryly.

  “You guess correctly.” Ortensi paused while the waiters returned to lay out their dessert of apple pie. “Rosanna was heartbroken—and vindictive. She swore she would have her revenge on the man who had wronged her. The incidents began soon after the wedding. Zadock and his young wife heard the sound of someone—or something—beating against the outside of their house. But when he went to investigate, he found no trace of either animal or man. The sounds continued, night after night, as if something sought entrance.”

  Ortensi paused. “Until the night they began to come from inside the house.”

  Jo shivered. Henry patted her hand. “Don’t let it frighten you.”

  “I’m not frightened,” she said quickly. He suspected the statement wasn’t entirely true, but let it go for the moment.

  “The situation grew steadily worse,” Ortensi went on. “Bed clothes were violently ripped back, pillows tossed about. An invisible entity began to slap and pinch Mary, leaving terrible bruises all over her body.”

  Now it was Vincent’s turn to shudder. “It sounds like a poltergeist,” Lizzie said.

  “On the surface of it,” Ortensi agreed. “As vicious as the attacks against Mary were, Zadock bore the worst of them. He was thrown about and struck, waked constantly from sleep, hounded day and night by unseen forces. And not just within his home. When he and Mary fled to her parents’ house, their invisible attacker followed them.”

  Alarm flashed over Vincent’s handsome features. “It doesn’t sound like a poltergeist.”

  “No, it does not. Nor does what happened next. Mary awoke one morning to find her husband dead at her side. Strangled by otherworldly hands.”

  All the blood seemed to drain from Vincent’s face, and he sagged against his chair. “God,” he murmured.

  The similarities to the spirit that had used Vincent to kill Dunne were painfully clear. Henry wanted to put an arm around Vincent for comfort. But of course he couldn’t, so he said, “Are we sure? Perhaps Mary did away with her husband herself, and blamed his death on unseen forces.”

  “I repeat only the words of the legend, Mr. Strauss,” Ortensi replied, a bit coolly. “I have no way of proving or disproving them at this late date.”

  “Of course. Please continue.” But he glanced at Vincent, who stared blindly at his uneaten apple pie. If only they were alone.

  “Times were different then,” Ortensi went on. “Less than a century before, men and women accused of witchcraft hung from the gallows at Salem. The people of Whispering Falls knew of the suffering of Mary and Zadock, and had long turned a dark eye toward Rosanna. They called her witch, and wondered if her hand lay behind the couple’s torment.”

  “But surely that’s absurd,” Henry said. “How could Rosan
na be responsible for the actions of a spirit? Even if she were a medium, the best she could do is summon one from the otherworld, not cause it to go on a murderous rampage.”

  Ortensi looked less than pleased at the interruption. Lizzie had half-lifted her glass, but now set it down again. “Necromancy,” she said

  Vincent shivered.

  “I’m familiar with the term, of course,” Henry said. “But are you saying it’s…well, real?”

  “There are always rumors.” Ortensi steepled his bandaged fingers before him. “Legends. Tales of talismans that allow the living to command the dead. Even someone with no mediumistic talent can use them to control spirits on this side of the veil, although supposedly the spirit in question must have some connection of blood or bone to the talisman. Needless to say, in the hands of a medium they can do a great deal more.”

  “So Rosanna had one of these talismans?” Jo asked.

  “Perhaps. If she was responsible at all, and not an innocent victim, blamed for things beyond her control.” He paused to sip his wine again. “If I may continue?”

  Clearly the man wasn’t used to anyone interrupting with questions. “Please,” Henry said.

  “Zadock’s death was the final straw,” Ortensi said. “The old laws against witchcraft had fallen before the onslaught of reason, but reason and legality meant little to a group of terrified and angry villagers. They dragged Rosanna from her house. Foregoing the noose, they chose the Inquisition’s method of disposing of a witch.”

  “Fire.” Lizzie’s face took on a greenish cast, and Henry suddenly wished he hadn’t eaten quite so much pie.

  Ortensi nodded gravely. “She burned, and they celebrated to the sound of her screams. When night fell, they went to their homes, congratulating each other on ridding the world of a dangerous evil. They didn’t think to make certain the fire went out. The autumn had been a dry one, and the fallen leaves provided plenty of tinder. In the deepest part of the night, flames roared through Whispering Falls. Half the town was engulfed before anyone knew it. Beds became pyres.”

  Ortensi stared down at his bandaged hands. “Only a few townspeople survived, all of them children. According to the legend, when they were found days later, hungry and terrified, they claimed unseen hands shoved their parents back into the burning houses, while allowing the children to escape.”

  Henry frowned. “Is that…possible? Even a very angry spirit surely shouldn’t have so much power.”

  Ortensi let out an exasperated sigh. “As I said, Mr. Strauss, I but repeat the legend. Most likely it has grown much in the telling. But ever since, it’s said the devil walks in these woods. The original village was utterly abandoned, and the surrounding forest consumed the remains. The townsfolk I spoke with claim any hunters venturing within would sense unseen eyes upon them. They whisper of being chased by a dark shape, or of becoming separated from companions who stepped only a few feet away.”

  “And now the haunting has spread into the town,” Lizzie said thoughtfully. “But none of the original incidents occurred on this land?”

  “No. Why she’s chosen to leave her forest and walk the streets of the town, I couldn’t say. When I tried to contact her…” Ortensi displayed his wrapped fingers. “I sensed her anger. The heat of her pyre against my skin. Before I knew it, the heat turned to pain. I broke the circle, but not before she’d managed to harm me. The burns are mild, but if I’d waited for even a few seconds longer, I fear the damage would be far worse.”

  Henry studied the bandages. “And such power to harm you through your gift is unusual? Forgive me, but I don’t know much about mediumistic talents.”

  “And yet you work with two mediums,” Ortensi said.

  Henry flushed at the delicate note of censure in the older man’s voice. “I leave such matters to Vincent and Lizzie,” he said.

  “Of course,” Ortensi replied mildly. Did he mean to imply Henry should have taken the time to study such things, or did Henry read too many of his own fears into the man’s tone? “Physical injury occurs only when the spirit the clairsentient is sensing is both very powerful and very malevolent. I’ve had it happen only twice before, and both times in my youth, when I practiced far less caution than I do now. You see why I chose to send for Vincent and Elizabeth. And you, of course.”

  “Of course,” Henry replied stiffly. It seemed obvious enough from his earlier remarks that the Great Ortensi saw no more use for Henry’s “little inventions” than Dr. Kelly and the Psychical Society.

  But he would show Ortensi wrong. Show them all wrong. He would prove himself, and Vincent would forgive his foolish lie, and everything would be fine. “Do you have any ideas as to how to deal with the ghost?”

  “A few.” Ortensi shifted in his chair. “But I’m certain you’re all very tired. We’ll confer over breakfast as to our best course of action.”

  “Mr. Emberey seemed to think the matter urgent,” Henry countered.

  “It’s late, and I’m exhausted,” Lizzie replied. “Not to mention, when dealing with a powerful spirit such as this, we’re far better off waiting until daylight. She’ll be weaker then.”

  Outvoted, Henry could only nod. As they rose from the table, Ortensi said, “Vincent? Elizabeth? If you’d care to catch up…?”

  “I will bid you good night,” Lizzie replied, with a fond smile for Ortensi. “We’ll have plenty of time later.”

  “Of course. Vincent? A drink in the saloon, perhaps?”

  “I’d love to,” Vincent said.

  Henry paused by the door, waiting for an invitation from Vincent to join them. It wasn’t forthcoming, and Ortensi didn’t even glance at him when they passed by.

  Did Ortensi really want to talk to Vincent and Lizzie about old times, or had he some other purpose behind excluding Henry? Did he intend the mediums should make their plans tonight, without Henry present?

  “Henry, are you coming?” Jo called.

  Henry took a deep breath. He was being paranoid, surely. Ortensi had no reason to exclude him from anything.

  And if he tried, he’d find Henry not so easily dissuaded.

  ~ * ~

  “To James Dunne,” Sylvester said, when the barkeep set the whiskeys in front of them.

  Vincent clinked glasses with Sylvester, then downed the shot. Maybe its warmth would chase the cold from his belly.

  “I can’t believe it’s almost been a year,” Vincent said, motioning for the barkeep to refill his glass. A year of wearing the silver amulet, save for when he channeled during a séance. A year of salting his doors and windows every night before bed.

  A year of feeling as though the thick, oily substance of the dark spirit that possessed him still stained the inside of his skin. Of fearing the taste of rot and slime, of blood and wet bone, would bloom again on his tongue.

  “James was a good man,” Sylvester agreed. “The world is lesser without him in it.”

  “The best,” Vincent agreed. “He saw something worthwhile in everyone he ever met.” Even Vincent.

  “Yes.” Sylvester tugged at the bandage on one finger, revealing the bright pink of scalded skin. “We could use more men like him. We had such plans…it grieves me he won’t be here to see them come to fruition.”

  “Plans?” Vincent leaned forward curiously. “He never mentioned any such things to us.”

  “I think he wanted to wait until everything was in place, before mentioning it to you and Lizzie.” Sylvester swirled the whiskey in his glass. “Let’s just say some of my trips to more obscure corners of the world held a purpose beyond simple curiosity.”

  “Oh.” Vincent sat back, unsure how to feel about this revelation. He’d believed Dunne shared everything with them. This sounded important, like something Dunne and Sylvester had worked on together for years.

  And yet Dunne never mentioned it to Vincent, even once.

  “As soon as we’re done here in Devil’s Walk, I’ll explain everything fully, to you and Lizzie both,” Sylvester went on. �
��I hope you’ll agree to help me. I could certainly use your assistance, now that James is gone.”

  “Of course,” Vincent said immediately.

  Sylvester smiled. “Don’t you want to hear what you’re agreeing to first?”

  “I don’t need to. If it was something Dunne thought important, that’s enough.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, my boy.” Sylvester took a sip from his whiskey. “And I’m glad to have you here. Although your friend Henry…”

  Vincent took another sip of whiskey. Henry had been in rather a mood over dinner, although Vincent wasn’t entirely sure why. Perhaps his distrust of mediums colored his perceptions of Sylvester.

  “Henry can be a bit of a challenge,” Vincent said wryly. “But I assure you, he has only the best of intentions. His methods are unconventional, but there is merit to them.”

  “I see.” Sylvester turned his tumbler in a circle, as if studying the light reflecting in the depths of the whiskey. “If you say he is trustworthy, of course I’ll accept your judgment.”

  “I’d trust him with my life. Have, in fact.” He hesitated, but it needed to be said. “Henry doesn’t have as much practical experience as the rest of us when it comes to actually dealing with the spirit world, however.”

  Sylvester’s look sharpened. “How much?”

  “Our work at Reyhome Castle and a few séances after,” Vincent admitted.

  Sylvester’s mouth tightened. “Vincent, this is a dangerous affair. It’s no place for an amateur.”

  “Henry is learning,” Vincent insisted. “And he’s no fool. He has a level head and keeps his wits about him when things go badly. I saw it for myself at Reyhome.”

  “I’m sure you did.” Sylvester sighed. “Truthfully, though, I hoped to speak with you and Elizabeth, not only to catch up, but in order to plan for tomorrow.”

  Vincent frowned. “I don’t understand. Henry is our business partner. We want him included.”

  “I know. I only wish you’d spoken to me before your move to Baltimore.” Sylvester tilted his glass, watching the golden liquid within shift. “The truth is, I’m no longer young. My face has become a familiar sight on tour posters, and the public always wants something new. It’s hard to compete with fresh-faced young ladies, even if they have little talent as either true mediums or as fakes.”