Dangerous Spirits (11 page)

“But—”

“Our charge is the living as well as the dead.” Sylvester
reached across the table and touched the back of Vincent’s hand with his
fingers. “Rosanna has already murdered one man. If we hadn’t weakened her last
night, we might have become her next victims. And what about tonight? And the
night after? She is being drawn into a town filled with innocent people. If
moving Zadock’s bones will confine her to the forest and keep the living of
Devil’s Walk safe from her depredations, then that is what we must do. Once
she’s safely ensconced back in the woods, we can consider our next move with a
bit more leisure.”

Vincent willed his hands to relax beneath Sylvester’s light
touch. Sylvester was correct on all points, and yet it still seemed wrong
somehow. “You’re right,” he said at last. “I won’t pretend to like it, but I
have no rational argument against it. Lives are in the balance.”

“Lizzie?” Sylvester asked.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Finally she gave
a single, sharp nod. “Agreed.”

“So we mean to do it?” Henry said.

“Yes.” Sylvester pushed his chair back from the table. “I’ll
get permission from Mr. Emberey and the mayor, to prevent any
misunderstandings.”

“A good idea,” Henry stood as well. “Come along, Jo.
Let’s…let’s see if we can repair the damage to the phantom fence.”

They left. Lizzie turned to Vincent. “What’s wrong with
Henry?”

“He blames himself for letting Rosanna escape,” Vincent
said.

She finished her coffee in a single gulp. “That’s foolish. And
Henry has been acting a bit strange since we arrived. Even for him.”

So he wasn’t the only one to have noticed. A part of him had
hoped it was his own paranoia, his fear the Psychical Society might have given
Henry cause to rethink their association. “I tried to speak with him this
morning, but he dismissed me.”

“Try harder.” Lizzie rose to her feet. “This situation is
too uncertain. We all need to be focused on the job.”

She left. Vincent drank the rest of his coffee in silence,
then went to find Henry.

~ * ~

Henry was in the midst of repairing the damaged equipment
when he became aware of Vincent standing in the door. Blinking owlishly, he peered
up from where he sat on the floor of his tiny room. Vincent leaned against the
doorframe, his dark eyes uncharacteristically serious. Had he changed his mind
and come to condemn Henry’s plan?

“Jo,” Vincent said quietly, “would you be so good as to get
some coffee for Henry and me?”

“Jo is helping me work,” Henry said, even though the request
was clearly one for privacy rather than coffee. After his failure last night,
he wasn’t certain he had the energy to keep up a pretense in front of Vincent.

“It’s no trouble.” Jo, the traitor, slid off the edge of the
bed, where she’d been splicing the wires of the phantom fence back together.
“It might take a while, if the kitchen doesn’t have any ready.”

She left in a whisper of skirts. Henry returned his
attention to the ghost grounder. The copper rod sagged sadly in his hand, its
shape distorted out of true by the heat Rosanna had summoned.

“I’m not used to seeing your rod this wilted,” Vincent
remarked, stepping into the room.

“Very funny.” At least the ghost grounder should still work,
bent or not. Henry set it aside and took a deep breath. “I know you disagree
with my suggestion.”

“No.” Vincent shook his head, then winced at the movement.
“I’m uneasy, yes. But Sylvester thinks the idea a good one, given our options.”

It shouldn’t have hurt, that Vincent would take Ortensi’s
opinion as more valid than Henry’s. Why wouldn’t he, given how wrong things had
gone last night? “I’m glad the Great Ortensi thought an idea of mine might actually
have some merit.”

Vincent’s thick brows snapped together. “You aren’t being
fair. Sylvester has been a medium for a long time. He’s seen it all. So, yes, I
do trust his experience in this matter. I trust it over my own.” His expression
softened, grew more concerned than angry. “Henry…”

“Jo will be back soon.”

Vincent’s mouth pressed into a narrower line, but he nodded.
“Of course.” Stepping closer, he crouched down beside Henry. His warm hand
rested on Henry’s shoulder, the soft brush of his fingertips against the bare
skin at the nape of Henry’s neck equal parts comforting and arousing. “Just
know if something troubles you, anything at all, you can speak of it to me.”
His grip tightened. “Whatever it might be.”

If only it were true. But Vincent wouldn’t understand, no
matter what he thought. Henry had spent half his life railing against frauds,
and now he was one himself. Vincent would be furious, and rightly so. It would
be the end of everything between them. No more comforting touches or gentle smiles.
No more waking in the night to feel Vincent’s lean arms around him. No more
sleepy kisses when he rose for the day, leaving Vincent to snore away the hours
until noon.

Each thought was like a tiny razor embedded on the inside of
Henry’s ribs, slicing into his heart with every beat. How had he been so stupid
as to get himself into this mess? If only he’d told the truth the night at the saloon.

If only he hadn’t lost his heart so thoroughly in the first
place, none of it would have mattered. Not Vincent’s opinion of him, or
Christopher Maillard’s knowing smirks, or any of it. How did he ever imagine he
might hold onto someone like Vincent Night, who could have any man he wanted?
Cleverness was the only thing Henry had to recommend him; not looks, or an exciting
personality, or any of the other things a lover would want.

It had been doomed from the start.

“Vincent?” Ortensi’s voice drifted from the end of the hall.
“Mr. Strauss? I’ve secured permission for us to proceed.”

“We should go,” Henry said. He rose and offered Vincent a
hand up.

“Thank you,” Vincent said, with another wince. “You should
see my back. The bruises make a lovely pattern. I’m thinking about having them
copied to wallpaper.” He offered Henry a tentative smile. “Perhaps you can help
me put salve on them later?”

It might be his last chance for such intimate contact. “I’d
love to.” His hand lingered on Vincent’s, their fingers curling together. “But
for now, we should probably go dig up poor Zadock.”

Vincent watched Henry climb out of the hole and wipe the
sweat from his brow. Bending over and resting his hands on his knees, Henry
gasped, “I think we can remove the coffin now.”

Rather than conscript any of the workmen lounging in front
of the saloon, they’d decided to undertake the task themselves. It didn’t seem
likely Rosanna—or, heaven forbid, Zadock—would be able to exert
much influence during the daylight hours. Still, Rosanna stalked both Henry and
Norris in Devil’s Walk Woods during the day. Better safe than sorry.

The old trees cast soothing shadows over the graves,
blocking out most of the hot July sun. Emberey, Lizzie, and Jo all stood in the
shade, watching while Vincent, Sylvester, and Henry took turns digging.
Vincent’s shoulders were soon afire, adding to the ache of the bruises
discoloring his back. He tried to avoid physical labor whenever
possible—and with good reason, given the blisters now decorating his
hands and the dirt on his clothing.

Thankfully, the mass reinterment meant the workers buried
the coffins just far enough below ground to ensure protection from scavenger or
flood. If they’d had to dig through six feet of dirt, Vincent didn’t think they
would have uncovered the coffin before nightfall. Tomorrow.

Henry sat on the edge of the hole and removed his spectacles.
Taking out a handkerchief, he set about cleaning the glass lenses. “I take it
none of you have sensed anything untoward?”

Vincent shook his head. With every shovelful of earth, he’d
waited for some foreign flavor to invade his mouth. Dirt or blood, rot or dank
water. Ashes and overdone pork. But he tasted nothing but fading coffee and the
cinnamon cachous he ate out of habit more than anything else.

“Not a tingle,” Sylvester said. “But I would like to make
certain.”

Henry frowned. “Make certain?”

“Let’s get the coffin up first.”

Henry and Vincent had already slid ropes around it; now, along
with Sylvester, they hauled it free of its very temporary resting place. The moldering
wood groaned and creaked, but didn’t break. As no doubt befit his position as
one of the leading citizens in the old town, Zadock’s coffin had been
constructed of sturdy materials.

Once it lay to the side of the hole, Sylvester pressed a
hand to the small of his back. “Well. Almost done. All we need is a pry bar.”

Henry, Jo, and Emberey all looked alarmed. “A pry bar?”
Emberey asked.

“We have enough troubles with Rosanna,” Sylvester said
tiredly. “I’ve no wish to have Zadock haunting us as well. So, yes, a pry bar.”

A cart waited outside the graveyard, ready to transport the
coffin back to its original resting place in the old town. A quick word to the
man driving it produced a pry bar in short order.

“If the rest of you would step outside the churchyard and
close the iron gate, I’d be grateful,” Sylvester said.

Henry frowned. “Why?”

“I mean to open the coffin and disturb the remains,”
Sylvester replied. “We’ve received no hint Zadock’s spirit yet lingers in this
world, or cares at all about his earthly body. But I don’t intend to leave this
to chance. Handling his bones should tell us definitively one way or the
other.”

“I’ll stay and help,” Vincent said.

Sylvester offered him a tired smile. “I appreciate the
offer, but I only sent everyone else away as a precaution. I don’t truly think
there will be any danger.”

“Please, Sylvester, let one of us stay,” Lizzie said. “Just
in case.”

For a long moment, Sylvester gazed at them both. Concern
showed in his hazel eyes, reminding Vincent irresistibly of Dunne, who always
worried for the apprentices in his care.

But Dunne was dead, and Vincent no longer an apprentice.
“You know we’re right.”

“Of course.” Sylvester’s concern eased into a wry smile.
“You’re absolutely correct. Vincent, stay with me.”

“Perhaps I should remain as well?” Henry offered.

Sylvester’s smile slipped away. “Thank you for the offer,
Mr. Strauss. But this is a case where your instruments aren’t called for. I’m
at a loss to think what you might do should I prove wrong and danger come upon
us.”

Henry’s shoulders slumped, and to Vincent’s surprise, he
didn’t argue. “I…yes. Of course.”

Soon Vincent and Sylvester were alone with the unearthed
coffin. “Allow me,” Vincent said, reaching for the pry bar. He might be sore
and bruised, but Sylvester had a good three decades on him.

Thankfully, the nails pulled free of the aged wood with
ease. Vincent dragged the lid aside and stared down at the pitiful remains
within.

Whatever Zadock’s appearance in life, death had left him
nothing more than a jumble of rag and bone. The previous disinterment had
jolted the remains: the skull had rolled free, vertebrae mingled with finger
bones, and ribs with toes. The ivory arch of the pelvis showed through rotting
cloth, whatever color it might have been dyed black by the decaying body it
covered.

The stench of death had long dissipated, leaving behind only
the scent of rich earth. Vincent swished his tongue against his teeth, then
opened his mouth and took a deep breath.

“Nothing,” he reported.

Sylvester nodded. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

Sylvester crouched beside the coffin and began to handle the
bones—the skull, a femur. He brushed aside cloth, inspecting a wedding
ring, the rusted lump of a belt buckle, and a series of brass buttons.

Still nothing.

Sylvester investigated the remains thoroughly. At length, he
sat back on his heels. A pensive look crossed his face.

“Is something wrong?” Vincent asked. “Did you feel some
trace of his spirit?”

“What? No.” Sylvester shook his head, as if coming back to
himself. Flexing his fingers, he said, “I felt nothing, in terms of emotion or
physical sensation. Let’s get him to the forest, before the sun can go down.”

“What a charming way to spend an afternoon,” Vincent said,
shoving the coffin lid back into place. “I should have thought to bring a
picnic.”

~ * ~

Vincent sat on the edge of his bed and wondered tiredly if
he could remove his clothing without too much pain and effort, of if he should
just collapse onto the blankets and fall asleep fully dressed.

His head ached, and his back and arms ached even worse. He’d
washed the worst of the dust and dirt from his face and hands, but the prospect
of struggling out of his coat, let alone bending over to untie his shoes,
seemed far too daunting to face.

The sun went down just as they left the woods behind.
There’d been no incidents on the way to the old town, nor back from it. Nothing
but a sense of watchfulness as they reburied Zadock’s coffin in one of the
empty holes beside the church. No taste of ashes on his tongue; no tingle in
Sylvester’s fingertips.

At least tonight the townsfolk would sleep peacefully, for
the first time in days. The ghost still needed to be dealt with, of course, so
the steel mill could be built without spectral interference. But for now she’d
remain in the woods, content with her lover’s bones.

There came a soft knock on the door. “Come in,” he said
automatically.

Henry stuck his head inside, the dark honey of his hair damp
from washing. The summer sun had tinged his forehead and cheeks pink, and
brought out a spray of freckles across his nose. Unlike their first night here,
when they’d had adjacent rooms, he remained fully dressed. “May I come in?”

“Please.” Vincent started to make a welcoming gesture, but
was brought up short when his back spasmed.

Henry noticed, of course. “How are you feeling?” he asked as
he shut the door behind him.

“As though a ghost threw me into a tree, before I spent the
day doing unfamiliar physical labor in the hot sun.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Henry said dryly, before casting a
nervous glance at the wall, having forgotten to keep his voice down.

Vincent took his meaning. “Don’t worry. Thanks to the ghost,
the hotel is rather empty, other than our group. There’s no one to either side
of me. I wouldn’t suggest you spend the entire night, but we can converse
freely.”

Henry crossed the room. “In that case, tell me what I can do
for you.”

Vincent wagged a suggestive brow. Henry snorted. “What
else
I can do for you.”

“Honestly, I’m so tired I’ve just been sitting here trying
to work up the energy to get out of my clothes,” Vincent confessed.

“Then allow me to help.”

Henry gently peeled off Vincent’s coat, batting away his
hands when Vincent reached for the buttons on his vest. Henry undid each button
and those of the shirt beneath, then knelt and removed Vincent’s shoes.

Soon Vincent’s skin was exposed to the relatively cool night
air wafting through the open window. “Lie on your stomach,” Henry instructed,
going to the washstand.

Henry let out a sympathetic hiss when he saw Vincent’s back.
“My poor Vincent. You must be in pain.”

Vincent smiled against the pillow.
My poor Vincent. My
Vincent.
Maybe not forever, but for now…for tonight…Henry wanted him.

The soft touch of a damp cloth swiped across his shoulder.
“Let me know if I hurt you,” Henry said.

“I will,” Vincent lied. But there was no pain in this. Just
tenderness. The gentle kiss of the washcloth, cleaning away sweat and grime.
And Henry’s kisses, dotted one on each shoulder, in the center of Vincent’s
spine, right at the cleft of his buttocks. Little kisses, sweet rather than
passionate.

“Turn over.”

Vincent’s cock bobbed lazily, semi-erect from his lover’s
touch. Henry had shed his own coat and vest, and rolled up his sleeves. “You
must be sore yourself,” Vincent said. “You’re no more used to digging holes
than I. And you took two turns while uncovering Zadock, and I only one.”

“True, but I’m not the one with a cracked head and a bruised
back.”

“My head isn’t cracked,” Vincent mumbled. “The doctor said
so.”

The cloth traced patterns across Vincent’s chest. “That’s
because he’d never met you.”

Vincent pretended shock. “I’m wounded, sir! Wounded to
the—oh!”

Henry’s mouth closed around his prick. His thoughts
scattered as it seemed all the blood in his body rushed to bring his cock to
full attention. “Henry…”

A soft whimper escaped him when Henry let his cock slip free.
“Shh,” Henry said. “Let me tend to you. Unless you wish me to stop?”

“No, of course not. I’ll return the favor, naturally.”

Henry’s hand rested on Vincent’s hip. “You’re exhausted, and
I won’t ask it of you. Just let me do this for you, Vincent. Please.”

Vincent could count on one hand the number of people who’d
cared enough about him to do anything for him without wanting something in
return. The girl—sister? mother?—who featured in his earliest
memories. Dunne. Lizzie. Sylvester.

Men in alleys wanted pleasure in exchange for money. Or for
nothing, if they were cruel enough with their fists. Lovers gave pleasure in
return for pleasure of their own. A transaction, where everyone involved knew
where they stood.

Being with Henry was like walking on quicksand. Henry did
things for other people without always thinking of himself. There was no
transaction, no checking of the balance sheets to see who owed what.

A moan escaped Vincent. Henry’s mouth was warm and wet, his tongue
playing along the underside of his shaft, the lightest nip of teeth at the very
tip of Vincent’s cock, before plunging back down again. And oh God, Vincent
wanted
this—not just the sex, not even mainly the sex, but the kindness, and the
laughter, and Henry’s oh-so-clever mind. His enthusiasm and his confidence, both
of which had been so strangely lacking over the last few days.

“Henry,” he whispered—no, pleaded, desperate.
I’m
yours; I want to be yours,
but he locked the words behind his teeth,
because he had no right to demand such things. Not now, not when Henry stood
right on the cusp of fame…

His next cry was wordless, a rush of ecstasy, thought
obliterated in a moment where he could do nothing but cling to the bed sheets
while Henry moaned around his cock.

With a sigh, Henry drew back, licking his lips. “I take it
you were satisfied with my performance?”

Vincent flung out an arm, feeling nearly boneless. “More
than. Are you certain…?”

Henry pressed a kiss against eyelids that had somehow slipped
closed. “You’re drifting off in front of me. Just scoot over. I want to hold
you for a while, before I have to leave.”

Vincent obeyed. “Can’t wait until we get back to Baltimore,”
he mumbled against the pillow.

The mattress gave as Henry crawled in beside Vincent. He’d
stripped, and tucked his erection between his thighs, presumably to avoid
poking Vincent unduly. “Why?”

“So I can wake up beside you.”

Henry was silent, and for an awful moment Vincent began to
think he’d said something wrong. Then Henry’s lips pressed against the back of
his shoulder. “Agreed.”

~ * ~

Henry lingered for more hours than prudence dictated, and it
neared midnight when he pulled on his trousers and buttoned his vest. Vincent
lay sleeping in the bed, the soft glow of the night candle burnishing his skin.
Henry’s heart ached at the sight, as if some ghostly hand slipped inside his
chest and squeezed hard.

They’d half finished their duty here. With Rosanna back in
the woods with her lover’s bones, bereft of the energy of the townsfolk’s
fears, a medium like Ortensi would surely be able to send her to the
otherworld. Then they’d go home to Baltimore. And Henry would no longer be able
to put off his confession.

Tonight might have been their last night together. If not,
certainly it must number one of the last.

Ignoring the burning behind his eyelids, Henry bent to
retrieve his shoes. He’d put them on once in the hall, to keep from waking
Vincent. His own sore muscles gave a twinge when he stood up again.