Dangerous Spirits Page 6

  The weariness in his voice drew a sympathetic wince from Vincent. “I’m sorry, Sylvester. I didn’t know.”

  “I thought about asking you to join me, after James died. The three of us together might offer something new…but Lizzie has good reason to stay out of the limelight I thrive in, and I knew you’d never leave her. Or the shop.”

  Vincent shook his head. “I wouldn’t have been any use to you. I stopped channeling for a while. As for the shop…we lost it anyway, but you’re right. I wasn’t ready to let go of it yet.”

  “Still, if you’d only come to me after Reyhome…”

  Would Vincent have said yes, if Sylvester approached him then? The tender words he and Henry had spoken to one another at Reyhome seemed tenuous in Henry’s absence. And after weeks of silence, Vincent had concluded their brief affair at Reyhome had merely been a bit of passing fun.

  Then Henry showed up on his doorstep, and Vincent’s heart took wing just at the sight of him.

  “You’ll understand more when you see Henry’s instruments in action,” Vincent replied. “He’s a brilliant man, truly.”

  “An unusual one, at least. I was surprised to hear his cousin introduced as such.” Sylvester hesitated. “Is she his cousin?”

  “Of course!” Vincent scowled, and Sylvester held up his hands quickly. “And just as brilliant in her own way. Henry’s white family have ostracized him for acknowledging the relationship, but he said Jo needed him more than he needed them.”

  “You seem very fond of him,” Sylvester observed.

  Vincent glanced down at his whiskey. “Dunne would have loved him.”

  “I’m sure he would have.” Sylvester drained the last of his whiskey and put down the glass. “But enough. If you have such faith in Mr. Strauss, I will give him a chance as well.”

  Chapter 6

  Rather than retire to his bed, Henry opened one of the crates the porters had stacked in his room. Ortensi might dismiss Henry’s devices out of hand, but it would be harder to do so if the medium actually saw one of them in operation.

  He removed a set of Franklin bells and the glass dome meant to protect them from wind, thankfully still intact after the long train ride. Carrying them in his arms, he sought out the hotelkeeper.

  Peterson stood near the front door, talking quietly with the clerk and one of the porters. “…the damned ghost,” Henry heard, before the clerk nodded in his direction. The hotelkeeper turned to him with a hasty smile.

  “Is everything in order, sir?” he asked, peering at the set of bells in Henry’s arms.

  “Quite,” Henry replied. “But I thought I might be able to offer you—and any guests—reassurances the ghost hasn’t approached the hotel. Or at least, a warning if she does.”

  “Can you do that, sir?” the porter wondered.

  “This device will ring if the ghost is nearby. Or a thunderstorm,” he added honestly. The Franklin bells reacted to changes in the electromagnetic field. Unfortunately, he had yet to find a way to get them to differentiate between changes caused by ghosts and those caused by lightning. “I’ll need to place it outside, attached to one of your lightning rods.”

  “Please, sir,” the night clerk said to Peterson. “It’d put my mind at ease, having to stand here all night, wondering if the ghost is coming back.”

  “Of course,” Peterson said. “Come, Mr. Strauss. I’ll show you where the nearest lightning rod is.”

  Installing the Franklin bells was but the work of a few moments. After making certain the glass dome was secure, Henry went back inside, to the profuse thanks of the night clerk.

  Vincent’s voice drifted out as he passed the saloon. No telling how long he’d be up, reminiscing with Ortensi. Returning to his room, Henry changed into his nightshirt and threw the coverlets back.

  He ought to lie down and try to sleep. Not sit up and wait for the sound of Vincent’s door, conveniently located next to his. There was no reason for him to feel on edge. Vincent was just having a drink with an old friend.

  An old friend with an expensive suit, fancy pocket watch, and a history of performing before the crowned heads of Europe.

  “Do you think that will be us, someday?”

  Ortensi had it all today.

  Henry took a deep breath and calmed his racing heart. He’d gotten himself into this mess. He’d get himself out of it, by proving his worth to Vincent and Lizzie.

  And Jo. When she found out Henry had lied…

  His imagination supplied a look of betrayal, which soured his heart. God, anything but that.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall outside, and a moment later, there came the soft click of the key in the lock of the neighboring room. Henry rose hastily and eased open his own door. Vincent paused, the gaslight at the end of the hall gilding his dark hair. There was no sign of Ortensi; perhaps his room lay on a different floor.

  Henry gave him a questioning look he hoped conveyed his meaning. A slow smile crossed Vincent’s full mouth, and he nodded.

  Henry slipped from his room and into Vincent’s, just as Vincent pulled the curtains tight across the window, to prevent anyone from glimpsing them together. The rooms were tiny, no more than a narrow bed, washstand, and clothespress. While Henry threw the bolt, Vincent removed his coat, shook it out, and hung it up carefully. Clothes make the man, he once told Henry. Especially if the man had skin of a darker shade. A shabbily dressed Indian would be sneered at, or—for all Henry knew—might even face being dragged off to a reservation somewhere. Impeccable fashion formed the key Vincent used to open doors that would otherwise be closed to him.

  Henry sat on the edge of the bed and watched while Vincent undressed. Cuffs, collar, vest, bracers, shirt, and trousers all followed the coat. His ochre skin glowed in the soft light of the night candle, contrasting with his cotton drawers. The sight made Henry’s chest tighten and his breath hitch, and not just from lust.

  For years, his only contact with men who shared his inclinations came in the form of a hasty tug in some back alley, both of them going their own way as quickly as possible after. No kisses or kind words. No caresses. No watching while the other man undressed for bed, his movements calculated to tease.

  “You didn’t eat much at dinner,” he said.

  Vincent shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “I thought seeing Mr. Ortensi again might have brought back memories of your mentor.” Dark memories of the man’s death.

  Surprise flickered across Vincent’s face, before vanishing behind a smile. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

  “Of course I do,” Henry said simply. “I care about you.”

  Vincent’s lips parted, eyes widening slightly, as though the words caught him off-guard. Surely he understood Henry’s regard for him? Then Vincent’s expression melted into a warm smile. “Thank you for the concern. But we have much more interesting things to talk about tonight. For example, you could tell me if you like what you’re seeing?”

  Henry swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “I do like. Very much.”

  Vincent shed his drawers; his cock stood half at attention. “Surely you don’t mean to deprive me of the same pleasure?”

  Henry hurriedly slipped off his nightshirt. Vincent sat on the bed by him, pulling him in for a kiss. Vincent tasted of whiskey and cinnamon, his lips soft against Henry’s. Desire fired through his blood, washing away the lingering bitterness of jealousy. Whatever the future might hold, tonight Vincent was his. And he would take full advantage of the fact.

  Vincent pulled back, his breathing rough and uneven. “Who’s in the next room?” he whispered. “Do you know?”

  Henry nodded. “Lizzie, thank heavens. We’ll still have to be discreet, but…”

  “But not worry too much about the occasional moan or creak of the bed,” Vincent agreed with a sly grin. “And I mean to make you moan, Mr. Strauss.”

  “Do you, Mr. Night?” Henry challenged, although in truth he had no doubt Vincent would do exactly
that.

  Vincent cupped the back of his head, dragging him in for a rough kiss, before shoving him back onto the bed. Henry tumbled onto the surprisingly soft mattress, and Vincent wasted no time straddling him.

  Just the sight of him made Henry’s mouth water. How he’d attracted the attention of someone like Vincent Night, he still didn’t know. Vincent’s body was lithe and muscled like a dancer’s, all lean, hard muscle clinging close to the bone. His long hair framed the strong bones of his face, and thick lashes accented the dark heat of his eyes. The sheen of sweat from the warm room made Vincent’s skin look dusted in gold.

  “You’re beautiful,” Henry said as Vincent bent over him. The silver amulet hung between them, spinning slowly in the light.

  Vincent’s hands splayed over Henry’s chest, shaping the fan of his ribs, pausing to tweak one nipple, then the other. Henry whimpered, hips jerking in response, but Vincent’s weight kept him pinned to the bed. “So are you,” Vincent said.

  Henry’s cheeks warmed. He was all too aware of his own lack of any particular charms. Still, something about him had caught Vincent’s eye during those hectic days in Reyhome Castle. What, he couldn’t imagine.

  Vincent’s grin widened. “How I love to see you blush.” He traced Henry’s lower lip with his thumb. “The way you bite your lip when you’re busy thinking.”

  He did? Henry hadn’t even been aware of it. He sucked Vincent’s thumb into his mouth and was rewarded with a low growl of desire.

  Vincent pulled his thumb away and kissed Henry, hard. Henry moaned into his mouth, then sucked on Vincent’s tongue when it slid past his lips. Vincent’s hips jerked in response, and a rush of pleasure and pride went through Henry, to make this man want him so.

  Vincent pulled away, bracing his hands on Henry’s shoulders. Their cocks rubbed together, slickness from their slits trailing along Henry’s stomach. “Wrap your hand around us,” Vincent urged, and Henry obeyed.

  Vincent began to move against him, a slow slide of hips. The friction of their pricks against one another wrung a soft gasp from Henry. He drowned in sensation, Vincent’s length rutting against his. Henry caught slickness from the tip of Vincent’s cock, using his thumb to smear it over the head. Vincent gasped and picked up the pace. The bed creaked beneath them, faster and faster. Vincent looked utterly wild, his hair disheveled, his eyes hot with lust.

  “Vincent,” Henry whispered, although in truth he wanted to scream it at the top of his lungs.

  Vincent seemed to understand; his kiss-swollen lips twisted into a feral grin. “Yes, Henry,” he crooned. “You’re going to come for me, aren’t you? Come for me!”

  Henry’s lips parted, and he barely bit back a cry as his balls tightened. Pleasure shot through him, hard and fast as a lightning strike. Vincent thrust against him, until the sensation became too acute. Henry shifted his grip, letting his softening prick fall against his stomach, forming a tunnel for Vincent’s length with his spend-slicked hands.

  Vincent’s jaw clenched, and his eyes squeezed shut. A shudder went through him, and with a low groan, he shot into Henry’s grip.

  The tension left his arms, and he half-collapsed against Henry. “Mmm,” he mumbled, and turned his head for a tender kiss.

  “Good?” Henry asked against his lips, once the kiss ended.

  “The best.” Vincent snuck another kiss. “Stay a little while? I know you have to leave before morning, but surely…?”

  The longing in his voice tightened a band around Henry’s throat. “Of course. Here—let’s put down the salt, before we drift off. I set up Franklin bells outside the hotel, by the way, against the wall. We should get a warning if anything approaches, but I’ll still wake you when I get up. You can lay the salt down again behind me.”

  A sad little smile touched Vincent’s mouth. “Thank you, Henry. You take such good care of me.”

  He wanted to. God, more than anything. He wanted to be the man Vincent thought him. The one to make all of Vincent’s dreams come true.

  “Don’t be silly,” he admonished weakly. “Now come—the sooner we get the salt in place, the sooner we can sleep.”

  ~ * ~

  Vincent woke from a deep sleep, the sound of the Franklin bells ringing madly in his ears.

  He jerked upright, hand going to the amulet about his neck before he even fully awoke. The silver burned cold in his hand, and the air of the room went from summer to winter. The night candle guttered sullenly, its flame sickly blue.

  The taste of ashes and overdone pork flooded his mouth, courtesy of his clairgustance, and he barely kept from gagging.

  Henry stirred beside him. “Vincent? Do I hear the bells?”

  “Yes,” Vincent whispered. His breath turned to steam. “The ghost is close. I can sense her presence.”

  Henry went still. “Where? She can’t have gotten past the lines of salt on the windows.”

  It had been foolish to fall asleep together and risk being caught, but at the moment Vincent could only feel grateful for Henry’s solid presence. He slid out of bed and snatched up his nightshirt, before tossing Henry’s to him. The boards felt like ice against his feet, and the taste of ash and burned flesh turned his stomach.

  “Where is it?” Henry repeated. “How close does a ghost have to be for you to sense it?”

  It was such a Henry question to ask, Vincent would have laughed if not for the searing cold. “I can’t say I’ve ever measured it.”

  Was the spirit inside the hotel? Curse it, he should have warned the hotelkeeper to put down lines of salt at all the doors and windows. The ghost hadn’t entered any buildings yet, as far as he knew, but the precaution should still have been made.

  Henry pulled on his nightshirt and spectacles. Vincent motioned for Henry to remain still, and turned all his attention to listening. Only the ordinary creak of settling beams came from inside the hotel. No screams or startled cries sounded. Just the wild ringing of the Franklin bells outside.

  There came a low scrape, like a fingernail against glass.

  Henry started beside him, and Vincent grabbed his hand automatically. The sound came again, its pitch grating on Vincent’s nerves.

  “The window,” Henry whispered, his breath puffing in the icy air. He stared fixedly at the tightly drawn curtains. One bare foot slid across the floor, edging closer to the aperture.

  Nothing. Just the bells, ringing their frantic alarm.

  Henry glanced at Vincent, then back to the window. His hand trembled visibly as he reached out and brushed the fabric back just an inch.

  A white eye, without iris or pupil, stared in at them.

  Henry sprang back with a startled oath. The curtain tangled in his fingers, wrenching it aside and revealing the horror in full. A woman pressed against the glass, her red hair streaming flames. The skin of her face bubbled from heat, and her eyes were nothing but pallid, cooked orbs that still conveyed a terrible malevolence.

  “Oh God!” Henry staggered back. Vincent caught him, pulling him close.

  “She can’t cross the salt line on the window sill,” Vincent said, grateful his voice remained steady.

  Henry nodded. “Y-Yes. Of course.”

  The ghost opened her mouth. Her lips split wider and wider, gaping far larger than a human mouth should.

  She screamed.

  The sound pierced Vincent’s ears like knitting needles. He dropped to his knees, dragging Henry down with him, as the glass in the window exploded. They grappled for a wild moment, each trying to shield the other from the flying shards. The stench of burning pork filled the room, accompanied by a blast of hot air contrasting painfully with the icy cold of a moment before.

  Silence. Even the bells had stilled.

  Vincent’s forehead pressed against Henry’s, and he stared into his lover’s blue eyes for a long moment. The taste of ashes faded slowly from his mouth.

  “She’s gone,” he said, and this time his voice did shake.

  Shouts of alarm came from th
e rooms around them, and more distant ones from the night staff. “Go,” Vincent ordered, and shoved Henry toward the door.

  For once, Henry didn’t argue. He flung open Vincent’s door and ducked outside. A moment later, there came the sound of his door opening. “Is everyone all right?” he called. “Jo? Lizzie?”

  Vincent pulled on his oriental robe and tied it about his waist as he stepped into the corridor. “I’m fine, thanks so much for asking,” he drawled, as if they hadn’t clung together just moments ago.

  But it was a necessary pretense. A night porter appeared almost immediately. Although barely old enough to be called a man, and paler than the linens, the porter said, “Is everyone all right?”

  “What happened?” Jo asked as she came into the hall. “That scream…”

  “I heard the bells. I take it our ghost has paid us a visit,” Lizzie said from her doorway. She was bundled in a thick dressing gown, and her hair spread loose over her shoulders.

  “Indeed.” Vincent turned to the porter. “I’m afraid I’ll require another room. The ghost shattered the window in mine.”

  “Oh! Dear heavens, sir, are you hurt?” the porter asked, paling even further.

  “I’m fine. I—Henry, where are you going?”

  Henry dashed past him, wrapped in his dressing gown and holding a night candle in one hand and the satchel with his instruments in the other. “To take measurements, of course!” he shouted over his shoulder. “We must move quickly, before any phenomena have time to fade. Come along, Jo!”

  “Of course, what was I thinking?” Vincent muttered. He and Jo hastened after Henry, down the hall and out into the street.

  Lights showed through the cracks in a few shutters, but if the scream had awakened the townsfolk, they remained barricaded in their houses. Vincent stepped in what he hoped was mud, and cursed Henry for rushing out without sparing enough time even to dress.