Dangerous Spirits (12 page)

As he turned to the door, the scent of smoke drifting
through the open window caught his attention. Who on earth would have a fire
going at this time of night, in this heat?

The Franklin bells began to ring.

Vincent’s dark eyes shot open, and a gasp escaped him.
“Rosanna. She’s here.”

 “She can’t be,” Henry protested. “We gave her what she
wanted. There’s nothing left to tie her to the town.”

Vincent rolled out of bed, yanking his drawers up over
narrow hips. “Something must have gone wrong. She’s nearby. Damn it!”

Fear iced Henry’s veins. “The fire. You don’t think…?”

“I think we’d better hurry,” Vincent replied grimly.
Trousers in place, his slender fingers flew over the buttons of his shirt.
Abandoning vest and coat alike, he pushed past Henry. “Come on!”

They ran through the hall and down the stairs. “Fire!”
Vincent shouted. “In the town!”

Muffled cries of alarm and inquiry followed them, but they
didn’t slow. Outside, the smell of burning grew even stronger, and a column of
smoke rose against the sky, blotting out the stars. Shouts rang through the
night, some calling for a bucket brigade. Others though…cries of “devil” and
“witchery” and “the ghost has come for us” sent sparks of panic into the air.

The burning building stood one row back from the main
street. As they rounded the corner, Henry let out a shocked oath. Despite the tightly
packed houses, at the moment only a single structure burned, the fire confined
to its blackening beams.

As for the flames themselves…they burned not with a
wholesome red and yellow, but rather the sickly blue of the grave.

Three children stood in the street in front of the house,
screaming and clinging to each other in panic. “Is there anyone still inside?”
Henry called.

“Mama! Da!” shrieked the youngest.

Oh God. Henry turned to the conflagration with a sinking
heart. Holding up one arm as if to shield himself, he started forward. A wave
of heat struck him, so intense it seemed to suck the moisture from his very
lungs. Smoke billowed from the burning house, turning the night even darker.
There came the crack and groan of weakening beams…

“Henry, no!” Vincent’s hand seized his left shoulder. A
sharp point of pain flared through the old wound. “No one could survive in
there!”

The wails of the children dinned in Henry’s ears, almost
drowned beneath the hungry roar of the flames. “The ghost did this!” he shouted,
trying to pull free from Vincent’s grasp. “We were supposed to get rid of her,
and she came back, and she did this! This is our fault!”

No. It was Henry’s fault. He’d suggested reburying the bones.
The idea had failed, just as his trap in the cemetery failed.

And now people were dead. Because of him.

Ortensi let out a pained cry behind them. “Sylvester!”
Vincent cried, letting go of Henry. The other medium crouched in the road, not
far from the huddled children, his hands pressed to his temples.

“She’s furious,” Ortensi groaned. “God! Stop, please!”

Vincent caught Ortensi by the elbows. “Focus, Sylvester.
Deep breaths. Center yourself. You aren’t her; her pain isn’t yours.”

“What can we do?” Henry demanded. He’d run out here with
nothing—no ghost grounder, not even a handful of salt. A sense of
helplessness seized him, and he turned again to the roaring flames.

Their eerie blue light seemed to have frightened away any
hope of a bucket brigade. Even as he watched, there came another groan, followed
by a roar as the roof and upper floor collapsed. Sparks flew madly into the
air—but they didn’t spread to the houses around them. As if some force
held them in check still.

Something moved in the flames.

For a mad instant, he thought it might be one of the missing
parents, even though nothing living could possibly have survived such heat. The
flames coalesced into hair, flushing orange-red amidst the blue. The blank
white eyes of the ghost stared at him, into him, as if mining the very depths
of his soul.

“Vincent,” he whispered. “R-run.” But his own feet stuck to
the earth as she advanced on him.

“Bring him back,”
she snarled in a voice like dry
leaves catching fire.
“Bring him back;
bring
him back
; BRING HIM BACK!”

“Henry!” Vincent seized him, dragging Henry to the ground. A
burst of heat rolled over them, and terrified screams filled the night.

“She’s gone,” Vincent said a moment later. He sat back on
his heels. Henry raised his head. The other townsfolk who came to help either huddled
in terror, or else fled, all hope of a bucket brigade abandoned. At the moment,
he couldn’t blame them.

“Vincent,” he whispered, and pointed at the house across the
way. “Look.”

Before departing, Rosanna had left a final message. Burned
into the wooden siding of the house was a single word.

Tomorrow
.

“You will give me a full accounting of this disaster,”
Emberey said the next morning. A mixture of sleeplessness and anger shadowed
his eyes, and he glowered at them over the breakfast table. “You said the ghost
would be pacified by moving Zadock’s body. You assured me her activities would
be confined to the woods. You claimed she’d be weakened without the fear of the
townsfolk to draw upon! And instead, one of my foremen is dead and the entire
town is in a panic!”

Henry stared at the untouched eggs on his plate, slowly
turning rubbery as they cooled. He had no appetite, couldn’t even imagine ever
being hungry again. At least only the one house had burned—so far.

“Was it a warning?” he wondered aloud. “Will she return tonight
and burn the rest of us?”

Vincent’s hand found his beneath the shield of the tablecloth.
“Let Sylvester speak,” he said quietly.

“I understand you’re upset, Mr. Emberey,” Ortensi said. His
voice sounded hoarse, from either lack of sleep or from breathing in too much
smoke. Perhaps both. “I can only say we truly believed Rosanna to be searching
for the bones of her lover. That by returning him, we would curtail the worst
aspects of the haunting and buy ourselves the chance to act.”

“Well clearly you were wrong,” Emberey snapped. “I’m paying
you a great deal of money to remove this ghost, and what have you accomplished?
Nothing! Norris is dead, and now Mr. and Mrs. Brooks have perished as well. My
workers are fleeing the town—those who can’t afford train tickets are
setting off on foot, with nothing save the clothes on their backs. I cannot build
a mill under these conditions, Mr. Ortensi!”

“No, sir,” Ortensi agreed. His mouth pressed into a flat
line, and Henry thought resentment flickered in his eyes, there and gone again.
“I can only say the supernatural isn’t always straightforward. We have done
everything in our power to end this, and will continue to do so.”

Henry closed his eyes, then opened them again. Nausea turned
his stomach, his eyes aching from lack of sleep. “She only burned one house.”
He focused on the memory, the heat and flames, the sparks so oddly confined.
“Why? And why that one?”

Lizzie stirred for the first time. She and Jo had arrived at
the blaze too late to do anything but help Ortensi back to the hotel and find a
cool cloth to ease his subsequent headache. “Who lived in the house?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Walter Brooks,” Emberey said. “And their three
children.”

“Brooks.” Vincent sat back and looked at Ortensi. “We…well,
not met him, exactly. He was the foreman Mr. Emberey demoted.”

Ortensi’s eyes widened slightly. “You’re right.”

“Yes, yes.” Emberey waved an impatient hand. “What does it
matter?”

“Norris. Brooks. Rosanna killed them both.” Ortensi frowned.
“There must be a connection!”

“It seems likely,” Henry offered. “And their children were
staying elsewhere?” Their sobs and cries still seemed to ring in his ears.

To his surprise, Jo shook her head. “No. After we got there,
while Lizzie helped Mr. Ortensi, I asked the girls what I could do. They told
me what happened.”

Henry straightened. “What did they say?”

She glanced between him and Emberey. “They said they slept
in the downstairs room, just like always. Their mother and father were upstairs
in the bedroom. They woke up to find a lady standing over them. She yelled at
them to get out.” Jo bit her lip. “As soon as they set foot outside, the whole
house caught on fire. As if it was just waiting for them to leave.”

“The legend says the ghost spared the children when the
original Whispering Falls burned,” Ortensi murmured. “Apparently she’s still
repeating the pattern.”

“Which gets us precisely nowhere.” Emberey scowled. “What
does it matter if the ghost has a woman’s soft heart for children, if she burns
down the town and kills the rest of us?”

Henry bit back a protest. He could only hope Emberey didn’t
have any offspring of his own. “We should speak to them,” he said instead. “I…I
know I’ve no right to make any suggestions, but perhaps they can shed some
light as to why the ghost took their parents?”

“A good point,” Ortensi said, rather unexpectedly. “Perhaps
you and I can question them, Mr. Strauss.”

Why this sudden apparent peace offering, Henry had no idea.
“Of course.”

 “And while you’re engaged,” Lizzie said, “I’ll pursue
another avenue of inquiry.”

A frown creased Vincent’s handsome face. “Lizzie?”

She folded her hands on the table in front of her. “Our
attempts at guessing what the ghost wants have come to nothing. Therefore, I
intend to ask her directly.”

“An automatic writing session?” Henry asked. At the same
moment, Vincent exclaimed, “You can’t be serious!”

“Yes, and I’m very serious.” Her expression remained smooth,
unruffled. Admitting no doubt.

“No.” Ortensi leaned across the table and fixed Lizzie with
his gaze. “I forbid it.”

“Sylvester—”

“No,” he repeated. “At least, not yet. Let Mr. Strauss and I
discover what we can in a less hazardous fashion. If we fail, we’ll discuss
other options. But I won’t have you risk this unless there is no other choice.”

Lizzie’s mouth tightened. “I know you’re concerned,
Sylvester, but you saw what the ghost wrote. ‘Tomorrow.’ We don’t know exactly
what she meant, but finding out will likely result in more deaths.”

He reached over the table and took her hand. “Trust me,
Lizzie. Please.”

For a moment, Henry thought she’d argue. Then she let out a
long sigh. “Very well, Sylvester. If you insist.”

Emberey rose to his feet. “If you’ve settled on your work,
get to it,” he ordered. “This has gone on long enough. You will remove this
ghost, or I’ll find someone who can.”

~ * ~

The streets of Devil’s Walk were busier than Henry had yet
seen. Several families piled furniture, clothing, and other belongings into
carts. Groups of men hurried in the direction of the train station, while a few
others pushed handcarts along the road heading out of town.

Many of them glared at Henry and Ortensi. “You were supposed
to keep us safe!” a woman shouted. Henry flinched, but Ortensi kept walking,
his head up and his back straight, until they reached the site of last night’s fire.

The scent of wood smoke still lingered in the air while a
group of men worked to clear away the burned wreckage. Whatever didn’t seem of
use was piled into a cart, while other items appeared to be set aside for
sorting. Given the intensity of the flames, little of the last category
remained.

They stopped work when Henry and Ortensi approached. The man
in charge seemed to recognize them; his eyes narrowed into a scowl. “What do
you want?” he asked Ortensi. “Haven’t you already done enough?”

“Not by half,” one of the others muttered. “They ain’t
stopped the ghost. Maybe they’ve made her angrier.”

An ugly sound of agreement rumbled through the group at the
final suggestion. Henry’s heartbeat quickened as he glanced from unfriendly
face to unfriendly face. These men were rough, work-hardened, with dirt beneath
their fingernails and skin weathered from the sun. He was suddenly, painfully
aware of the picture he must present to them, with his clean-but-shabby suit
and skin gone pale from long hours in his shop. Certainly he lacked their
musculature. If they decided he and Ortensi were easy prey, just soft outsiders
whose failure made them ideal scapegoats, things might turn ugly.

Ortensi seemed undisturbed, however. His gold rings flashed
as he spread his hands apart. “It’s true—we believed we had defeated the
enemy.” His voice boomed like an orator’s, conveying a mixture of grief and
determination. “But she has proved far more resilient than expected, and has
taken her revenge against a good man. We will bring her to justice,
gentlemen—this I swear. But we must discover why she made Mr. Brooks her
target.”

There came a shuffling and muttering. “What, you think she
was after Walt for some reason?” someone asked.

Henry gestured to the ruins. “The fire claimed only this
house, when it could have—
should
have, by the laws of
nature—spread to those beside it.”

“Does anyone know why the ghost might have focused on Mr.
Brooks?” Ortensi asked. “Did he do anything odd at the work site in the woods,
perhaps? Take anything from it?”

There came a general shaking of heads. “You can ask his
daughters, though,” one said, and pointed down the street. “They’re staying
with their uncle and aunt. Third to last house on the left.”

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Ortensi gave a little bow, then
turned and started in the direction indicated. Henry hurried after him.

“Well done,” Henry said, once they were out of earshot. “For
a moment, I feared they intended to give us a beating instead of information.”

“I’ve long experience working crowds,” Ortensi said with a
wave of his hand. His expression sharpened slightly, and he glanced at Henry.
“May I speak frankly, Mr. Strauss?”

The words put Henry on edge. This must be why Ortensi chose
him instead of Vincent for this task. “Of course.”

“You seem somewhat fond of Vincent.”

Somewhat
fond? What the devil did Ortensi mean? Did
he guess their relationship, or did he merely think them business partners? “I
am,” he said guardedly. “I believe we work rather well together.”

“A point on which I’m afraid I don’t agree.”

Henry came to a shocked halt. “Pardon me?”

Ortensi stopped as well, a look of sympathy on his face.
“Forgive my bluntness, Mr. Strauss. I’m certain your inventions have
merit—Vincent spoke to me of your recent triumph before the Psychical
Society.”

All the moisture seemed to have evaporated from Henry’s
mouth. “D-Did he?”

“But Vincent is a medium, not a tinkerer such as yourself,”
Ortensi went on. “And I fear, due to your differences, you can’t truly
appreciate the extent of his gifts. He can do better than a tiny shop in
Baltimore.”

Henry’s heart sank. “I…I’m sure he could.”

“I’m glad you agree. You’ll understand, then, when I say I
mean to ask him to accompany me to Europe.”

A cry of objection half-escaped Henry, before he closed his
throat around it. The idea of Vincent leaving, of sailing off to another
continent, forever out of Henry’s reach, felt like a live animal clawing its
way out of his chest.

Losing Vincent was inevitable. He had no choice but to
accept the idea. But he hadn’t expected the reality to come like this. Not
yet. 

“I…” he said, but no other words would come.

Ortensi gave him a look tinged with pity. “You see it’s for
the best, don’t you? Vincent is a great medium, one of the best I’ve had the
privilege of meeting, but his talents are wasted here. In Europe, his heritage
will be an advantage. Crowds will flock to see the genuine Indian medicine man,
come all the way from the Americas.”

“Vincent isn’t a—a sideshow attraction,” Henry
snapped.

“Nor do I mean for him to be one. But his skin will open
doors to him that would remain closed here.” Ortensi shook his head. “If you
are his friend, you must know I speak truly.”

“I see.” The clawing thing in his chest had escaped, leaving
him hollow. A part of Henry wanted to argue, to point out Vincent might not
agree to leave with Ortensi.

And Henry would have…if only he had something to offer
Vincent in return. Something more than an empty promise that someday, somehow,
they might find themselves performing before the noble families of Europe.

Ortensi could offer such fame now. Henry had nothing but a
handful of lies and a workshop filled with devices proved largely worthless.

“I’m glad you understand.” Ortensi’s hand came to rest on
Henry’s shoulder, a heavy weight he didn’t want to bear. “I worried Vincent
might refuse me out of loyalty, which is why I chose to speak to you now.”

“Yes, I…yes.” Words chased each other through Henry’s mind,
but they were all meaningless. “Vincent is free to accompany you. I have no…no
claim on him.”

Ortensi’s fingers tightened, then he removed his hand.
“Good. But for now, let’s see to our work.”

~ * ~

The man who opened the door at Ortensi’s knock greeted them
with a glower. His scowl remained fixed while Ortensi explained why they’d
come. When the medium finished, the man spat, barely missing Henry’s shoes.

“You were supposed to get rid of the ghost,” he growled.
“Instead, I’ve got a dead brother and three more mouths to feed. What about my
own children, huh? What about them? Are they supposed to go hungry so I can
feed Walter’s brats?”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Brooks,” Ortensi replied.
“But if we’re to have any hope of stopping the ghost, we have to find out why
she targeted your brother.”

Brooks’s scowl turned into a look of fear. “Targeted Walt?
You mean she was after him?”

“It would seem so.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “And she’ll come after us
next, as we took in the girls?”

“No!” Henry exclaimed. As soon as the words left his mouth,
he knew he couldn’t make such a statement for certain. But from the look on
Brooks’s face, the man meant to turn the children out if he thought there
existed the slightest chance of danger.

“May we speak to you about your brother?” Ortensi asked.
“About the work he did on the mill site?”

Brooks took a step back, as if he might shut the door in
their faces. “I don’t know nothing about it. Walt put on airs, him being a
foreman and all. Too high and mighty for the likes of me. Now he’s gone and
gotten himself killed by a ghost.”

Wonderful. “His daughters, perhaps?” Henry tried. “I don’t
wish to deepen their grief, but if we might speak to them?”

Brooks shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

They followed him into the small home. The three girls worked
in the kitchen, alongside another girl and a woman who must be Mrs. Brooks. “These
men need to talk to you about your daddy,” Brooks said.