Dangerous Spirits (10 page)

“And what is your role in Mr. Strauss’s life?” Sylvester
cast him a look that held a trace of pity. “What is it
really?
He has
ambitions, Vincent. I can tell. And ambitious men will leave others behind when
they’re of no more use.”

“Henry would never do such a thing,” Vincent insisted.

Sylvester didn’t argue. “Perhaps we should return to the
graveyard and see if our assistance is required.”

“Yes,” Vincent agreed.

Sylvester didn’t know Henry, that was all. Yes, Henry had
ambitions, but it didn’t mean he’d leave Vincent behind.

The Psychical Society had already turned Vincent away thanks
to his Indian blood. Vincent had assumed Henry would clash with the society if
he found out…but what if that wasn’t the case? What if he already knew? If the
president mentioned it the other night, perhaps after Henry’s lecture?

Henry dreamed of the sort of life Sylvester
lived—world tours, his name in fifty-point type in the newspapers, the
adulation of the masses. But he’d gone into business with an Indian and a woman
who couldn’t risk seeking out the limelight, as Sylvester put it.

Had he realized his mistake? Even if no one at the society
brought up Vincent’s rejected application, Henry was no fool. He could see the
posters and newspaper articles as well as anyone. Famous mediums were always
white, and often female. After the heady first days of their relationship, had
he begun to view Vincent as a liability?

No. No, this was foolish. Sylvester was wrong. Vincent knew
Henry, and Sylvester didn’t. Yes, Sylvester had excellent instincts under
ordinary circumstances. But Henry’s unorthodox approach to the spirit world put
him off, and it colored his normally good judgment.

That was all. And if not…Vincent would deal with it when it
came.

~ * ~

Henry stood in the growing darkness amidst the graveyard,
trying to keep his hands from shaking.

This would work. It must work. He’d capture Rosanna, drain
her energy, and let the mediums step in to send her to the other side once and
for all.

They’d go back to the hotel, have a celebratory dinner. He’d
admit the Psychical Society rejected him. Lizzie would deride the society as
fools, and Vincent forgive Henry for his harmless deception. Tomorrow they’d
all go back to Baltimore, and he and Vincent would fall asleep in each other’s
arms until dawn. Ortensi would leave for Europe, and everything would be fine.

Absolutely fine.

“You set up Franklin bells at the cemetery entrance, I
noticed,” Lizzie remarked. She wore a dark blue dress and hat, a veil drawn
across her features.

Henry nodded. “There’s another, further along the street as
well. I thought they might give us warning.”

The cemetery gates stood wide, breaking the line of iron
laid protectively around the graves inside. Thank heavens the local pastor was
at one of his other parishes this week. Henry wouldn’t have liked explaining their
actions to a man of the cloth, who might be less than sanguine about them
setting up their equipment on top of Zadock’s grave. The Wimshurst machine sat on
a folding table, as did the piezoelectric dispeller. A pile of salt covered the
battery waiting to be hooked up to the dispeller, to prevent Rosanna from
draining its energy. The copper wires of the phantom fence formed a loose
circle around the grave. A small gap would let Henry pass in and out of the
fence.

Ortensi stared at the arrangement rather skeptically, but
said nothing. Henry’s spine stiffened beneath his judging gaze. It didn’t
matter what the man thought. Soon enough, he’d see Henry’s true mettle.

A beam of light cut through the darkness, where Jo waited among
the graves, a short distance away from the phantom fence. Jo had asked to try out
her new headlamp. Wires connected the arc lamp on the front of the headband to
the heavy batteries inside a pack strapped to her back. Salt encased the
batteries to keep them safe.

“How is the headlamp?” he called.

“Hot,” came her reply. “But it works!”

“So I see.”

“Are you ready?” Vincent asked.

Henry drew a deep breath. The warm summer air lay damp
against his skin, and not even a breeze stirred.

“I’m ready,” he said, and stepped into the circle of the
phantom fence.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?” Jo asked. “I can
turn the crank and leave you free to use the ghost grounder.”

“No.” Henry picked up a heavy rubber glove and placed it on
his left hand. Normally he’d hold the ghost grounder in his right, but the
injury to his left shoulder would never let him turn the crank on the Wimshurst
machine with his off hand. The ghost grounder itself—a simple copper rod,
connected to a wire grounded to an iron rod he’d driven into the earth just
outside the fence—lay waiting beside the dispeller. “This will be
dangerous enough with only one of us inside the fence.”

“Henry,” Vincent started, then stopped.

The concern embodied in the single word warmed Henry’s
heart. “I’ll be fine,” he told Vincent. “Now, let’s begin.”

He went to the Wimshurst machine and began to turn the
crank. The brushes ticked past one another, and a loud crack sounded as they
discharged. Ortensi jumped at the sound, and it was all Henry could do to
suppress a smile.

Hoping the charge was adequate, Henry said, “Now, Vincent.”

Vincent’s voice rang authoritatively through the graveyard.
“We wish to make contact with the spirit of Rosanna,” he said. “Spirit of
Rosanna, use the energy provided by this machine and reveal yourself to us!”

The first set of Franklin bells began to ring.

Henry’s heart beat faster, but he continued to turn the
crank.

The second set, just within the cemetery gates, clanged to
life.

“She’s here,” Vincent said, and the flame of the lantern in
his hand went from bright orange to sickly blue.

The air around Henry grew colder and colder. The
galvanometer went mad, registering a spike of electromagnetic energy, and
another—then the hand remained pressed to the maximum side of the dial.

His breath caught in his lungs. She must be right on top of
him.

Something flickered beside the table. A hint of flame. The
edge of a dress.

Then she was there, just inches away. Her cooked-egg eyes
stared into his, and the roasted meat of her face cracked as she lunged for
him.

“Henry!” Vincent shouted.

Henry leapt back, the ghost grounder already in his left
hand. He thrust it out like a fencer, skewering Rosanna where her heart would
have been. She jerked to a halt, and a shriek like the breaking of a thousand
windows split the night.

“The dispeller!” Henry cried.

Curse it—Henry couldn’t reach the dispeller and hold
off Rosanna at the same time. Ignoring Sylvester’s warning shout, Vincent slid
through the gap in the phantom fence and dove for the table. The icy cold air
made his fingers clumsy as he attached the wires, but at least the water inside
hadn’t frozen.

A moment later, a fine mist rose into the air from the
dispeller. “That’s it!” Henry shouted. Rosanna shrieked again, but the sound
lacked the same violence. “Now go!”

Vincent went, Henry directly behind him. As soon as Vincent
was out, Henry halted in the gap in the fence. “Jo—the fence!”

She connected the battery. Now trapped inside the fence, the
ghost writhed, the flames of her hair and dress seeming to fade.

“Rosanna,” Vincent said. The amulet would prevent any ghost
from possessing him, but it didn’t sever his connection with the otherworld. It
wasn’t the same as channeling, but he might be able to force her to listen to
him. “Leave this place. Those who wronged you are long dead. They can’t hurt
you any more. They have found peace, a peace you deserve as well.”

“We’re trying to help you, as you wanted,” Henry added.
“Leave this place and find your rest, just as Zadock has found his.”

She howled in rage, like the roar from a furnace door,
suddenly opened. The flames enshrouding her blazed, as she directed all her
remaining energy into them. A wall of heat struck Vincent, as if he stood
inches from a roaring bonfire. The copper rod flared red hot, and the stench of
burning rubber filled the air.

Henry let out a cry of pain, and the grounder fell from his
hand. He staggered back, stripping off the smoking rubber glove and flinging it
away.

Sylvester appeared on the other side of the phantom fence,
his face lit by fire. “Begone, spirit!” he boomed, the force of his command
like a strong wind against Vincent’s skin. “Leave this place, and trouble those
here no more!”

Lizzie appeared at Vincent’s elbow, her face pale but calm.
“Begone, spirit,” she said with Sylvester, as he began again. Vincent hastily
added his voice to hers, turning all of his will on the spirit trapped within
the fence.

The mist from the dispeller ceased, its battery dead or its
water boiled away by the heat of the ghost’s rage. A horrible look of triumph
twisted her charred features, and fear slicked Vincent’s spine. With all the
malevolent will of the dangerous dead, she reached out and deliberately grasped
the copper wire of the fence with her hands.

It took only an instant. The copper glowed hot, but this was
no sturdy rod, but merely a thin strand. It sagged, melted…and broke.

Before Vincent could react, she exploded outward, shrieking
her fury. The temperature went from furnace hot to winter cold in a second as
the ghost sucked every particle of available energy from the air around her.

The hem of Lizzie’s dress burst into flame.

“Lizzie!” Vincent shouted, and ran to her with a wild idea
of smothering the flames with his coat. But before he took another step,
Rosanna’s heat-shriveled hand struck his chest.

All the air burst from his lungs, and for a moment his feet left
the ground. Then his back and skull collided with something hard and
unyielding. The flames and frantic screams grew farther and farther away, until
they vanished in darkness.

~ * ~

Vincent crumpled to the base of one of the oaks, like a thrown
rag doll. Henry waited for him to twitch, to get up, to do anything but lie
there motionless. The seconds ticked by, each one stretching into an eternity,
and no, Vincent couldn’t be dead, because that would mean the whole universe
would go dark forever.

Vincent’s eyelids fluttered. 

The world snapped back into focus, even as relief stole the
strength from Henry’s knees. Heat brushed his skin, and he turned from Vincent
to see Rosanna advancing on Jo and Lizzie. Jo’s hands were full of loose dirt
from one of the newly dug graves, and she heaped it atop Lizzie’s skirts to
smother the flames.

“Jo!” Henry shouted a warning.

She looked up, the bright beam of her headlamp cutting the
darkness. Rosanna seemed to flicker and pale. Then Ortensi appeared in the
light and flung a handful of salt straight into Rosanna’s face.

“Be gone, spirit, and trouble us no more!” he thundered.

She flickered again, the beam of light showing through her
as she grew less substantial. Henry’s ears popped, and she vanished.

“Elizabeth!” Ortensi exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thanks to Jo’s quick thinking.” She held out her
hand and let Ortensi help her to her feet, graveyard dirt sloughing from her
skirts as she rose.

Henry ran to Vincent’s side. Vincent struggled to sit up,
but still looked dazed from his impact with the old oak. Henry dropped to his
knees, his hands trembling. “Vincent? Are you all right?”

Vincent winced and put his hand to the back of his head.
“What happened?”

“The ghost struck you.”

He started to shake his head, then stopped. “I don’t
remember.”

“We should get him to the doctor,” Ortensi said, joining
them.

“Agreed.” Ignoring Vincent’s protests, Henry hauled an arm
over his shoulders, while Ortensi took the other.

“Should we come?” Lizzie asked anxiously.

“I don’t think it will be necessary,” Ortensi replied. “You
should probably retire to the hotel. Miss Strauss, can you clean up this…mess?”

Henry surveyed the graveyard. The wires on the phantom fence
sagged. The dispeller sat inert. His ghost grounder lay where he’d flung it,
its copper rod bent and the rubber glove singed.

His idea turned out to be a disaster, and Vincent had paid
the price.

Heart heavy, he wrapped his arm around Vincent’s waist for
support. “Come,” he said. “Let’s get you to the doctor.”

~ * ~

“I’m fine, Henry,” Vincent said with an air of patient
exasperation. “And thanks to Jo, Lizzie is entirely unscathed. Stop moping.”

Vincent lay propped up in his bed at the hotel, a white
bandage stark against the sienna skin of his forehead. The early light of dawn
trickled through the cracks in the shutters and added to the illumination of
the gas light on the wall. Henry knew he should have shut off the valve and lit
a night candle instead, but after the scene at the cemetery, he found himself
wanting as much light as possible.

“If you’re fine, it’s no thanks to me,” he said miserably.
The moment when the ghost struck Vincent replayed itself over and over again in
his mind. The moment he’d thought Vincent dead, and every possibility of light
and happiness drained out of the world.

“It almost worked,” Henry added, unable to keep the
bitterness from his voice. “We had her weakened. But she was too smart for us.”

“That’s the problem with intelligent hauntings,” Vincent
replied. “They’re, well, intelligent. Rosanna no doubt received little
education as a simple village girl, but she must have been formidably clever.
Although not clever enough to avoid falling in love with the wrong man.”

“Yes, well, intelligence has nothing to do with love,” Henry
said.

Was it his imagination, or did Vincent flinch? He lifted his
head, but Vincent’s expression seemed serene. Imagination, then.

With Ortensi’s help, Henry had managed to get Vincent to the
doctor, who opened the door rather fearfully at their knock. Fortunately, the
man probed Vincent’s head carefully, proclaimed his skull in one piece, and
recommended rest, so long as someone watched over him. Henry had spent the
night at Vincent’s bedside, waking him periodically to make certain his
condition hadn’t worsened. Mostly he sat and thought about how close he’d come
to losing Vincent. About how badly he wanted to keep Vincent safe and happy.

About how much Vincent meant to him, with his ridiculous
innuendos, and colorful coats, and tender smiles.

“You did your best,” Vincent said, reaching out to grasp
Henry’s hand. “You couldn’t have known she’d be able to heat the grounder. Or
the wire of the fence.” He started to shake his head, then stopped with a grunt
of pain. “I certainly didn’t think of it. The power she has, to do such a
thing…she’s very angry. Angry enough to defy three mediums in order to cling to
this world. I’m not certain how we’re to stop her.”

Should he say it? “I have an idea. Not to say my last
suggestion was any good.”

“You said yourself it almost worked.” Vincent frowned
uncertainly. “Henry…is everything all right? You seem sad.”

Henry couldn’t meet Vincent’s dark eyes. Vincent had been
injured, and Lizzie nearly so. The ghost might have killed them both, under
slightly different circumstances. He owed Vincent—owed them all—the
truth. He was a failure. The Psychical Society had been right, and he was more
than a failure. He was a menace, a danger to them all.

But what if he told the truth now, and Vincent dismissed his
idea out of hand?

“I’m only tired,” he said. “Just know I appreciate your
friendship. The trust you’ve shown in me. Even if I haven’t deserved it.”

Vincent’s look became even more puzzled. “You do deserve it,
Henry,” he said. He wrapped his fingers in Henry’s, tugging him toward the bed.
“Of course I believe in you. You’re a brilliant inventor.”

Henry pulled free and rose from his chair. “I imagine the
others are awake, assuming they slept at all. I should shave. We’ll talk more
over breakfast, if you’re up to it.”

He shut the door before Vincent could call him back.
Hastening to his own room, he went to the washstand and splashed tepid water on
his face. The mirror showed him a haggard face, the line of his jaw darkened
with stubble.

He shaved, then changed his cuffs and collar. Anything else
felt beyond him at the moment. By the time he arrived back downstairs, everyone
else, including Vincent, already awaited him.

“How are you feeling this morning, Lizzie?” Henry enquired
as he took his seat.

She held her coffee cup as though it were a lifeline. “The
dress is a loss, but I’m quite unharmed, thanks to Jo.”

Jo ducked her head. “It wasn’t anything,” she mumbled at the
floor. “I’m glad you and Vincent are all right.”

Vincent had removed the doctor’s bandage, but his movements
were stiff as he reached for the sugar. No doubt the impact with the tree had
bruised his entire back. “I told the others you have a suggestion for us,
Henry.”

Henry took a deep breath. He didn’t dare look at Ortensi, at
the skepticism he knew he’d—rightfully—see on the medium’s face.
Rather, he kept his gaze fixed on Vincent.

“I have a way of getting rid of Rosanna,” he said. “Or at
least, of keeping her from haunting the town any more.”

“Another one?” Ortensi asked. “Really, Mr. Strauss, I think
we’ve seen the value of your equipment.”

“That isn’t fair,” Jo protested. At the same time, Vincent
said, “We almost succeeded, Sylvester.”

Henry huddled deeper into himself. Ortensi was right. “This
has nothing to do with my machines,” he said quietly. “I propose we give her
what she wants.”

Lizzie frowned at him. “Give her what she wants?”

“Zadock’s bones.”

~ * ~

“You want to what?” Vincent asked.

Henry didn’t meet his eyes, only stared miserably at his
hands. Had the setback of last night truly crushed his spirit so? “I propose we
dig up Zadock’s remains and reinter them in the old graveyard. Where they
originally lay.”

“You must be joking!” Vincent stared at Henry. “Rosanna
murdered the man in a jealous rage!”

“As Mr. Strauss pointed out when I first told you the legend,
we don’t know for certain,” Sylvester said.

Henry looked up in surprise. “You agree with me?”

“Just because the townspeople believed her a witch doesn’t
mean she really was one.” Sylvester spread his hands apart. “If she was indeed
behind the haunting, she would have had to command a very powerful spirit.”

“Which would take a necromantic talisman, correct?” Henry
asked.

Vincent gripped his coffee cup tightly. The one thing Dunne
drilled into them both, again and again, was that their talents were meant to help,
not to hurt. Compassion for the dead and the living must be their watchword,
always. In light of that, necromancy was surely an abomination, a twisting of
their gift into something corrupt and foul.

“If  Rosanna killed him using necromancy…the spirit probably
possessed Mary.” Vincent’s gorge rose, and he was glad he hadn’t eaten any
breakfast. Did Mary awake to find her hands locked around her husband’s throat?
Or had the spirit been merciful enough to take her while she slept, and she
never knew what she had done?

He could still remember the crack as something delicate gave
way in Dunne’s neck.

“Rosanna was either an innocent or an abomination.” Invisible
hands seemed locked around his own throat, but Vincent forced out the words.
“If the latter, we
can’t
give Zadock’s bones to his murderer. It would
be foul.”

“There’s nothing to suggest his spirit is anywhere save for
the otherworld,” Sylvester pointed out gently.

“That’s my biggest concern,” Henry said. He still seemed
taken aback at Sylvester’s agreement. “Is his spirit still, ah, attached to his
remains? Would he care, after all this time, where his bones lay?”

Vincent’s forced his grip to relax before he shattered the
coffee cup in his hand. “Does it matter?”

“Vincent.” Sylvester’s voice was understanding, and grief
showed in his hazel eyes. “I know this is difficult for you, but you must think
rationally. If Zadock is truly at rest, nothing we do with his bones will
change it.”