Dangerous Spirits Read online

  The path behind him had vanished.

  ~ * ~

  “Any luck?” Lizzie asked by way of greeting, when Vincent and Sylvester returned to the hotel. She sat in the parlor, sipping lemonade and reading the newspaper. A worn Bible sat on the table in front of her.

  “Perhaps.” Sylvester told her of their finding at the church. When he finished, she nodded her head slowly.

  “It sounds plausible,” she agreed.

  Vincent had slipped into the chair beside her. Now he leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. “And you? Did your psychometry tell you anything?”

  “Nothing we didn’t already know. The ghost is angry. Furious.” She pursed her lips. “But while you two were sullying hallowed grounds with your presence, I paid a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Norris, the parents of the missing surveyor.”

  Sylvester sat at the head of the table. “Why?”

  “I told them I might be able to find out what happened to their son, if they could give me anything of his to use my abilities on.” She rested her fingers on the book. “They gave me his Bible—apparently he read from it every evening, so there should be a strong connection.”

  “Brilliant.” Sylvester smiled.

  Vincent let the front legs of his chair meet the floor with a thump. “Only if he’s already dead. Psychometry won’t let you contact the spirit of a living man.”

  “Yes, well, I didn’t tell them that.” Lizzie shrugged. “If I can’t summon him, I’ll return the Bible and say my only impression is that he yet lives. And if I can…at least they’ll know the truth.”

  She had a point. “We can’t do anything until Henry returns anyway. Let’s see if we can make contact,” Vincent agreed.

  Unlike a true séance, Lizzie’s psychometry didn’t summon the spirit to manifest, so a darkened room wasn’t necessary. Vincent fetched paper and pen, then settled at the table across from Lizzie while Sylvester looked on.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” he said, pen poised to take note of any impressions she might receive.

  Lizzie rested her hands on Norris’s Bible. She glanced at Vincent, then took a deep breath and shut her eyes. The distant sounds of the hotel staff filtered through the closed door. A horse whinnied somewhere out on the street, and there came a muffled shout. The summer air hung close and still, and a drop of sweat made its way down Vincent’s spine.

  Lizzie’s lips drew back in a grimace, tight against her teeth. “Trees,” she said. “Trees all around. Where am I?”

  Sylvester let out a soft sigh. Curse it all—Norris was dead, then, and not just missing.

  “Trees,” Lizzie repeated. “I—he—can’t find his way out. There’s something behind him. Pain—fire—”

  She jerked back with a gasp, eyes flying open. Sylvester reached for her. “Lizzie? Lizzie, are you all right?”

  She swallowed convulsively. “I…I think so.” Vincent pushed her lemonade closer to her, and she took it gratefully. “Thank you, Vincent.”

  “What happened?” Sylvester leaned closer. “What did you see? Was Norris alone?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “That is—he was at first. In the forest. He lost his way.”

  “Not much of a recommendation for his skills as a surveyor,” Vincent said.

  Lizzie shook her head, a golden curl slipping over her shoulder. “It was brief, but I had the impression something was wrong. He shouldn’t have been lost.”

  “The ghost’s influence?” Sylvester asked.

  “I think so. It wasn’t sundown yet, but he couldn’t find the way out. Then the sun set.” She drained the rest of the lemonade from the glass. “And after that…fire.”

  “Oh hell.” Vincent shoved his chair back, his heart suddenly knocking against his ribs. “Henry and Jo. They’re in the woods, alone.”

  ~ * ~

  Henry blinked. He must have mistaken things. The deer trail was still there, it simply appeared different from this angle. Some of the branches he’d pushed through must have sprung back together.

  He tried to find a break in the laurel. The bushes’ twisted branches seemed suddenly sinister, contorted as though in a pose of silent agony, like the forest of suicides in Dante’s hell. They clutched at one another, refusing to let him through.

  He took a deep breath and ordered his heartbeat to slow. It was just some quirk of how the foliage grew. He’d find his way through in a moment.

  “Henry,” called a faint voice from deeper in the forest.

  “Jo?” he yelled back. “Jo, is that you?”

  “Henry,” the voice said again, even fainter this time.

  Why had Jo come into the woods? Did something frighten her in the old town, badly enough for her to seek him out?

  Blast it. “Jo!” he shouted. “Where are you?”

  No answer. He listened intently. There was no sound other than his own breath. No birds. No squirrels. Not even the groan of trees in the wind.

  Now deeply worried, he started in the direction the call came from. “Jo? Jo! Answer me!”

  The trees seemed to crowd in closer the farther he went. Branches scraped at his hands, and damp leaves clung to his face. The faint smell of burning stained the air.

  Some trick of the wind must have carried the smoke of a hearth here. Someone in Devil’s Walk still employed a wood stove for cooking rather than a coal or gas one. That must be it.

  A clearing opened up before him, almost unnaturally circular in shape. The trees leaned in around the empty space, like silent spectators. Henry stepped into it, his heart beating at the base of his throat.

  A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he spun. “Jo?”

  “Henry,” said the voice, but no longer distant. This time he heard the crackle of burning wood, the snap of bones bursting from the heat.

  This time, it came from right over his shoulder.

  ~ * ~

  Vincent stumbled to a halt at the edge of the site of the new mill, gasping for breath. He’d run as fast as he could from the town—although given how seldom he ran anywhere, it hadn’t been nearly as fast as he would have liked.

  “Henry?” he shouted. “Jo?”

  The roar of the waterfall swallowed his words. He cast about, but saw only the stumps of walls, the flat cars laden with supplies, and the detritus left behind by the workers.

  “Henry!” His throat ached with the force of his shout. “Jo! Where are you?”

  “Vincent?” Jo’s voice, thank God. A moment later, she raced into view from the older ruins, her skirts hiked up to let her run. “Vincent!”

  Oh hell. He caught her by the arms when she ran up to him. “Where’s Henry?”

  Her eyes were wide with fear. “He went into the woods to…” she gestured vaguely.

  Piss, she no doubt meant. “And?”

  “He hasn’t come back.” She gripped Vincent’s arm in turn, fingers digging in through his coat. “I called for him and he hasn’t answered!”

  Vincent bit back an oath, even as fear choked his veins with ice. “Do you know where he entered the woods?”

  “Not exactly.” She glanced down. “I didn’t watch him leave.”

  “The general area, then?”

  She gestured to the southeastern edge of forest. It looked rather formidably dense, and he didn’t bother to hold back his curse this time.

  “He’s in trouble, isn’t he?” Her voice shook with terror.

  “I don’t know.” He tried to project calm for her sake, although it was probably too late for that. “This is Henry we’re talking about. He probably just got…got interested in something scientific. A rock, maybe.”

  “You can find him, can’t you?” Her fingers tightened on his forearm, hard enough to leave bruises. “You’re an Indian—can’t you track him?”

  “Jo. I spent my entire life in Manhattan before moving to Baltimore.” Vincent stared at the forbidding edge of the forest, which would have been worrisome even if there wasn’t an angry ghost in the mix. “The sum
total of my knowledge is that woods are filled with bugs, snakes, trees, and probably bears, and that I don’t want to have anything to do with them.” He released his hold on her. “But as Henry’s seen fit to get himself lost, it would seem I have no choice.”

  Because Henry was just lost, that was all. The sun was still high in the sky. Henry had just gotten himself turned around, and he wasn’t going to end up like Norris, dead and rotting God only knew where amidst the trees.

  “I’ll come with you,” Jo offered.

  “No.” Vincent pulled free from her grasp. “Stay here. Don’t leave this spot, no matter what, not even if you hear Henry and I both calling to you. It won’t be us, I promise. Now, do you have a watch? Good. If we’re not back within two hours, return to Devil’s Walk and tell Sylvester.”

  She bit her lip. “But…”

  “No.” He gripped her shoulder briefly with one hand. “With any luck, Henry just got turned around, and we’ll be back in a few minutes. But if there are otherworldly forces at work here, letting Sylvester and Lizzie know as soon as possible will make all the difference. Do you understand?”

  He hated the fear creeping back into her eyes, eclipsing the momentary hope his presence gave her. “I-I do. Be careful.”

  “I will.” He let go of her and turned to the woods.

  The trees became no more welcoming the closer he approached. He scanned the ground—perhaps some latent ability to track, hidden deep in his blood, would appear?

  It didn’t, of course. He stopped at the edge of the forest, breathing deeply. The air smelled of raw earth and the sap of massacred trees. No animals stirred, although perhaps that was ordinary for this time of day? He hadn’t the slightest idea.

  Neither did Henry, most likely. Henry, who had vanished just like Norris.

  Blast Henry. What if Vincent couldn’t find him? What if the minutes turned into hours, then into days, just as they had for Norris’s family? What if it was Henry’s belongings Lizzie went through next, his last moments she reported?

  Vincent clenched his jaw. It wouldn’t happen. He couldn’t bear it.

  “Henry!” he called. “I’m coming for you!” And plunged into the woods.

  Chapter 9

  Henry ran.

  Terror lent him speed. He didn’t dare look over his shoulder, too afraid of what he might see. Branches whipped across his face, nearly tearing his spectacles free. His shoe caught on a root, and he almost pitched forward, barely catching himself on the tree it belonged to.

  Leaves crunched beneath his feet. His breath scraped in his throat, too loud for him to hear whether anything gave pursuit. Any moment, he expected to feel a skeletal hand grab the back of his coat, or a blast of cold against his neck. His lungs burned and his sides ached, but he didn’t dare stop.

  The trees fell abruptly away—thank heavens, he’d made it back to the construction site.

  Except there was no large expanse of raw earth and half-built walls. Just trees, outlining a clearing in an eerily perfect circle.

  Damn it. He’d gotten turned around and ended up where he began. If only he hadn’t left the compass with Jo, but he’d hardly imagined he’d need it. Barely breaking stride, he raced back into the trees. He’d make certain he went in a straight line this time. Eventually it would take him back to the work site, or the railroad tracks. Anywhere these accursed trees didn’t hem him in.

  He ducked, dodged beneath branches, jumped a small gully, and—

  Found himself back in the clearing again.

  “No,” he said aloud. It wasn’t possible. He knew he’d gone, if not in a straight line, at least not in a circle.

  The ghost wanted him here and didn’t intend to let him leave.

  “Henry!”

  A shriek escaped Henry, and he spun, hands up to fight off whatever horror had come upon him.

  Vincent caught his wrists. “Henry, stop, it’s me!”

  Relief weakened Henry’s legs. “Dear lord, don’t do that again!” he gasped. “You nearly gave me apoplexy.”

  Vincent pulled him close. “Thank God you’re all right.”

  “I…yes. I’m fine.” But he must have sounded as shaky as he felt, because Vincent tightened his arms convulsively.

  “I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Vincent whispered against his sweaty hair. “Tell me what happened.”

  When Henry finished, Vincent caught his chin and tipped his head back. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, and kissed Henry tenderly.

  Henry knew he must reek of sweat after his frantic run, but if Vincent didn’t care, neither did he. Just the taste of Vincent’s mouth, cinnamon cachous and faded coffee, calmed his racing heart.

  “Thank you,” he managed, when the kiss ended. “Not to sound ungrateful, but what are you doing here?”

  “Lizzie convinced Norris’s parents to lend her one of his possessions.” Vincent sighed and ran his hands lightly up and down Henry’s arms. “He’s dead. He died here in the woods, disoriented, attacked by the ghost. And I…I panicked.”

  Not good news. Even so, Henry said, “Vincent Night, panic?”

  Vincent’s dark eyes remained sober. “Yes. I was terrified the same fate might have befallen you and Jo. When Jo said you’d gone into the woods and not returned…” He took a deep breath, and the faintest hint of his usual smile touched his lips. “At first I thought I’d have no hope of finding you amidst the trees, but fortunately I heard you crashing about like an elephant in a glassworks.”

  Of course Vincent would have worried for them…and yet hearing it out loud sent a foolish warmth through Henry’s chest. “I’m glad you came along when you did,” he admitted. “If you hadn’t…”

  “I don’t think Rosanna could have done you any real harm, not during the day,” Vincent replied. “Just play nasty little tricks to frighten you and keep you disoriented.”

  “And my fear gave her energy to continue.” Henry had stupidly lost his head—he should have stayed and confronted the spirit. Instead he’d panicked. What must Vincent think of him?

  “It is odd she kept directing you back here.” Vincent let go of Henry and stepped back. “The clearing doesn’t seem entirely natural, does it? Too free of undergrowth in just this area. And—what’s that?”

  Henry turned. Burned into the bark of the nearest trunk was the letter H.

  “The devil?” Curse it, if only he had his instruments with him. He bent over to inspect it more closely and spotted another letter on the trunk behind it.

  “There’s more,” he said.

  Vincent started forward, but Henry held up his hand. “Wait.” He stepped back again, shifting for a better angle.

  In the right line of sight, the letters spilled across the trunks. “H-E-L-P-M-E,” he read. “Help me?”

  Vincent met his gaze, looking equally puzzled. “So it would seem. But what could it mean? It doesn’t make any—”

  There came a loud creak from the branches above them. Startled, Henry looked up in time to see something plummeting toward them.

  He leapt back with a cry, dragging Vincent with him. The object smashed into the ground barely a foot away, releasing a stench of burned pork and rotting flesh so powerful Henry choked on the bile rushing into his throat.

  A man’s body lay there, twisted and broken from its fall. Blackened skin covered the charred features, arms drawn up in a pugilist’s pose, mouth gaping in a silent scream.

  Vincent gripped Henry’s arm, but his eyes remained fixed on the body. He swallowed convulsively, and his voice grated when he said, “I think we’ve found Mr. Norris.”

  ~ * ~

  Some hours later, they sat around the table of the private parlor once again. Henry sipped a cup of weak tea, hoping to settle his nerves. The sight of the surveyor’s charred body seemed inscribed on the inside of his eyelids, and the memory of the stench clogged his nose.

  “A group of men have gone to retrieve the body,” Ortensi said gravely. “Norris’s father among them, to se
e if he can recognize the clothing, or whatever is left of it. But after Lizzie’s earlier contact with Norris’s spirit, there seems little doubt as to the victim’s identity.”

  “Or how he died,” Vincent said. He took his flask from his pocket and added a generous dollop to his coffee.

  “I’ve already had a note from Mr. Emberey.” Ortensi sat back in his chair, lacing his hands in front of him. “He wants results. Now. Otherwise, he fears there will be a panic.”

  “I can’t say I disagree with his assessment,” Lizzie said.

  Ortensi nodded. “What of your expedition into the woods, Mr. Strauss? Before discovering the body, I mean. Did your instruments detect anything useful?”

  “No,” Henry muttered. So much for returning in triumph. Instead, he’d returned thoroughly shaken.

  “I see.” Ortensi didn’t smile, but Henry thought he detected smugness in the man’s tone. “Fortunately Vincent and I had a productive morning.”

  After the grisly discovery, Henry hadn’t even thought to ask. “Oh?”

  “The bodies from the old cemetery were moved, and Zadock—Rosanna’s lover—is buried here,” Vincent said, but his brow furrowed as he spoke. “We speculate she referred to Zadock’s bones when she wrote ‘bring him back.’ But with this new message, I’m no longer certain.”

  “‘Help me,’” Lizzie murmured, frowning at her coffee.

  Jo looked from one to the next of them. “Why would a ghost need help? Is she trapped here somehow? On this side of the veil, I mean?”

  “It is a quandary,” Ortensi said. “Perhaps she wished Mr. Strauss’s help in returning Zadock’s bones?”

  “You’re fitting the evidence to your preconceptions,” Henry said, peeved despite himself.

  Ortensi arched a brow. “Do you have a better theory? Please, share it with us.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t Rosanna this time,” Jo suggested. “Could the message have been from Mr. Norris? Maybe she’s holding his ghost to this world, like in Reyhome Castle?”

  Lizzie shook her head. “I sensed nothing of the sort.”

  “Oh.” Jo deflated.