Dangerous Spirits (14 page)

He stood still, chest heaving, teeth clenched. Henry stared
at him for a long moment…then lowered his gaze. Leaving the cufflinks where
they lay, he let himself out the door and shut it behind him.

Vincent closed his eyes, fighting for control. He wanted to
keep throwing things—to break the mirror, to hurl the night candle
against the wall. To rip the silver amulet from around his neck and scream a
challenge to any ghost to come and take him if they could.

But he couldn’t. Lizzie depended on him. Sylvester depended
on him. And if Henry had shown himself false, all the more reason for Vincent
to do his duty. Even if the only thing he really wanted to do was cry.

~ * ~

They made their way through the hot and uncomfortable woods,
any stray breezes unable to penetrate the thick branches and choking
undergrowth. The setting sun threw long shadows, which clustered beneath the
trees, adding to the sense of oppression. Eyes seemed to stare from every
hollow trunk, every patch of deep shade, but the taste of ashes had yet to
manifest on Vincent’s tongue.

He trudged along the rail line behind Sylvester and Lizzie,
his heart slowing his steps as much as the unaccustomed exertion. The argument
with Henry had left him even more drained and dispirited than before. He
couldn’t stop thinking about it, or about that moment when he’d realized it was
true, that Henry had lied to him. Lied to them all.

And for what? Some sort of bizarre attempt at
self-aggrandizement? Surely he must have realized Vincent would inevitably find
out. Why do such a thing?

It didn’t matter. Sylvester’s words returned to haunt him: “
And
what is your role in Mr. Strauss’s life? What is it really?”

Not that of confidante, obviously. Or of equal business
partner. Whatever role Vincent had thought he played, he’d been wrong.

The memory of Henry’s tenderness last night teased him. How
gentle Henry had seemed, how open. His first concern had been for Vincent. Was
it all just a trick of some sort? But to what possible end?

Lizzie let out an audible sigh and dropped back to walk
beside him. “Would it help to talk about it?”

Bad enough he looked like a fool in front of her and
Sylvester, without having salt rubbed in the wound. “No.”

“Henry…is sometimes an idiot,” she said, ignoring his
answer. “Heaven knows, I’ll be the first to say so. He has a brilliant mind,
but he does things without thinking them all the way through. Especially when
it comes to interacting with other people.”

“I’m not certain what part of ‘no’ I was unclear on,”
Vincent replied. Was he not allowed to keep even a shred of whatever dignity
remained to him?

“I’m only suggesting we hear him out before we dissolve our
business and part ways,” Lizzie said. “It’s a disappointment the Psychical
Society won’t come through with any backers, but we’re no worse off financially
than we were before.”

“Do what you want, Lizzie. I’m finished.”

“Vincent—”

“Vincent is right,” Sylvester said, looking back at them
over his shoulder. Wonderful. Now Vincent got to hear his love life—his
stupidity—discussed by them both. So much for his dignity. “Elizabeth,
this lie might seem like a small thing to you, but is it? The man asked you to
rely on his devices, when he himself knew they were unreliable. At the very
least he has no concern for your safety.”

“Henry’s devices work, Sylvester.” Lizzie’s step quickened,
carrying her closer to Sylvester and leaving Vincent blessedly alone. “We’ve
seen them in operation. The Psychical Society’s opinion hardly changes the
evidence of my own eyes.”

Sylvester shook his head. The last light glinted on his
brown hair, picking out the strands of gray. “Liars don’t restrict themselves
to a single falsehood. Even if you are right, what else has he lied about?”

And that was the heart of it. What other falsehoods had
Henry spun for them? “Sylvester is right,” he said. “Henry is a liar.
Worse—he’s a hypocrite. Remember how he reacted when he discovered
neither of us went by the name we were born with?”

“I could hardly forget,” Lizzie said with a scowl. “But
don’t you be a hypocrite either, Vincent Night. You didn’t think Henry ought to
be angry because you lied about your past, claiming yourself the child of a
white man and an ‘Indian princess’ for God’s sake.”

“That was different,” he objected. “I tell the story to make
myself palatable to our employers, as you very well know. Henry lied to
us.”

Sylvester cast him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, Vincent.
I did my best to warn you.”

“I know.” He should have listened to Sylvester from the
start, just as he would have listened to Dunne. “I’m sorry I ignored you.”

“As for dissolving your business,” Sylvester glanced at
Lizzie, then back to Vincent. “My offer still stands. Come with me, once this
is all over. I know you’ll find Europe far more accommodating.”

And it would put an ocean between himself and Henry.
“Agreed.”

Lizzie made a disgusted noise. Sylvester arched a brow at
her. “You object?”

“Only to making rash decisions in the heat of the moment.
I’d rather talk to Henry and give him the opportunity to explain. If Vincent
still feels betrayed afterward—”

“And what else would I feel?” he demanded, fists curling.
“Henry—”

“Calm down, both of you,” Sylvester said, his authoritative
voice cutting through the air like a blade. “We’ve no need to give Rosanna even
more energy than she already has.”

Knowing the older man was right, Vincent forced himself to
take a few deep breaths. He needed to put Henry out of his mind for now, at
least until after the séance. High emotion in a situation like this made things
much more dangerous. If Lizzie got hurt because of his broken heart…

They emerged into the cleared space where the old town had
stood. The fall roared like a sleepy lion, its sparkling waters reflecting the
sunset. Crimson clouds covered the western sky, mingled with gold and the
occasional splotch of dark blue. It would have been beautiful, if the
bitterness inside Vincent hadn’t poisoned it for him.

“Where shall we hold the séance?” he asked.

Lizzie paused and surveyed the scene. “As the sun isn’t down
yet—and hopefully we’ll finish before it does set—we need somewhere
dark.”

“I know just the place,” Sylvester said. “If I recall from
my earlier exploration of the site, the church’s receiving vault is still
intact.”

Vincent nodded. “I saw it when we returned Zadock’s bones.”
Which of course had been Henry’s idea.

Not all of Henry’s ideas were bad, though. If he’d only
told
Vincent the night in the saloon with Christopher, they would have commiserated
instead of celebrated. Everything would have been fine.

Wouldn’t it? If he only knew why Henry did such a stupid
thing…

It didn’t matter. Forcing his mind back to the task at hand,
Vincent followed Sylvester across the ragged, torn earth until they reached the
vault.

Unlike modern stone receiving vaults, this one was built
into the hillside, with earth heaped above it to form a low dome. A stone
archway still stood strong, as did the solid iron of the old door. Heavy flakes
of rust lay beneath the hinges, where the workers had forced it open, looking
for any lingering bodies to take to the Devil’s Walk cemetery. A key stood in
the lock, appearing in much better condition than it should have.

“This surely wasn’t exposed to a century of weather,”
Vincent said, touching it.

“No. I suspect it ended up in the church, along with the
parish records,” Sylvester said. “Leave it be for now.”

The door opened almost quietly, thanks to a heavy
application of oil and grease from the modern-day workers. The interior of the
vault was simple, nothing more than a single, low-roofed room with thick stone
walls. The weight of the earth had bowed them in slightly, but they seemed in
no danger of collapse. There were no shelves to store coffins; either the
deceased awaiting burial had been stacked, or the village had been too small to
need much space for its dead.

Vincent lit a candle, while Lizzie and Sylvester arranged
themselves on the slate-tiled floor. Ordinarily the séance would be performed
in darkness, but since their purpose amounted to an interrogation of the spirit,
they needed light to read the ghost’s responses.

Given Rosanna’s strength, Vincent doubted a single candle
would do much to deter her anyway. He pulled the door to, shutting out the last
lingering light of day and leaving behind only the candle’s pale illumination.

“Please join hands,” Lizzie instructed as he settled beside
her.

Vincent and Sylvester both took hold of Lizzie’s right hand,
leaving her left free to write. Their other hands they clasped together. Lizzie
set her pencil to the notepad, doodling in slow loops and whirls without
meaning. “Spirit of Rosanna,” Lizzie said in a clear, commanding voice. “My
hand is prepared to write your words. Draw from the energy of this circle and
direct my pencil as you will. I stand ready to receive you.”

Vincent’s skin prickled. Sylvester’s hand was warm in his,
as was Lizzie’s. He found himself straining for any taste of ashes. Lizzie’s
breathing slowed as she slipped into trance, the scratch of her pencil against
the paper almost monotonous.

Would it work? Would Rosanna even answer the summons?

Ashes in his mouth answered his speculation, accompanied
with the rancid flavor of overdone pork. The light of the single candle turned
blue, losing whatever warmth it had possessed. A chill passed over his skin,
the air of the receiving tomb going from cool to icy.

The sound of the pencil against the paper changed, jagged
and sharp, as the spirit seized control of Lizzie’s hand. The fingers he held
tensed, turned into iron claws, the nails pressed hard against his skin. The
idle loops became words, scratched furiously into the notebook.

I am here
.

Henry sat in his hotel room, hands folded between his knees
and his head bent. He’d meant to start packing for the trip back to Baltimore,
but the sight of his clothes hanging alone in the clothespress sent him reeling
to the bed. He’d gotten used to having Vincent’s shirts beside his in the wardrobe
above the shop. But all he would ever see again would be what he beheld in this
moment: his own dull suits, unenlivened by Vincent’s presence. Just like every
other part of his life now.

There came a soft knock on the door. “Henry?” Jo called.

Jo. God. He owed her an explanation. He’d betrayed her trust
just as much as anyone’s. “Come in,” he said, even though a part of him would
have preferred to hide beneath the bed and pretend he wasn’t there.

She entered, but he kept his gaze fixed on his hands. It was
easier than seeing the condemnation in her eyes.

She stopped a few feet away, the hem of her yellow dress
just at the edge of his vision. “I don’t understand,” she said uncertainly.
“You always say to tell the truth. To be honest. So why did you lie to us about
the Psychical Society?”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He owed her
honesty, but it didn’t make speaking the words any easier. “Fear,” he said at
last.

“Fear?” She sounded puzzled.

Henry took off his glasses and rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “After
so many years, I thought…but they wouldn’t accept Reyhome Castle as proof of
anything but a failure. Without my interference, Vincent and Lizzie would have
cleared the place easily enough, and Mr. Gladfield survived.”

“That isn’t true!” The heat in her voice caused him to look
up. Her tawny face was fixed in an angry frown, and her fists clenched, as if
she wished to pummel the society with her bare hands. “I was there, Henry. I
saw what happened. As did Vincent and Lizzie. They wouldn’t have gone into
business with you if they shared Dr. Kelly’s opinion.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “I don’t know any more.”

“Well I do.” She crossed her arms. “What were you afraid
of?”

“Everything.” He shook his head. “Failure. Letting you down,
letting Lizzie down. Proving myself unworthy to…everyone.”

“Everyone meaning Vincent in this case,” she guessed.

He put his spectacles back on and glared at her. “That isn’t
any of your business, young lady.”

Jo arched a skeptical brow at him. “I’m not blind or stupid,
Henry.”

“No, you’re a sixteen year old girl who knows nothing about
these things.”

“I know love when I see it,” she shot back.

The air felt sucked out of the room, his lungs hollow. “I…”

Jo stared at him as though wondering how he could be so thick.
“Mama and Daddy loved each other. You could tell, just from the way they looked
at one another. The way they’d laugh or smile at some joke only they shared. I
thought it was embarrassing.” She shrugged. “Once they were gone, I’d have
given anything to watch Daddy tickle Mama until she all but cried, or see the
silly way he’d grin when she played their special song on the piano.”

It hurt, to think Henry might have shared in those memories,
had the family not turned their backs on his uncle for marrying a black woman.
“I’m sorry, Jo. I wish I’d known them.”

A wistful smile touched her mouth. “So do I. But that’s not
why I’m saying this.” She sat down on the bed beside him, the mattress dipping
under her slight weight. “I see the same thing between you and Vincent.”

Jo had to be mistaken. It wasn’t the same. He and Vincent
had made no promises to one another.

But he would have, if Vincent had asked. Would have promised
anything.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, and found himself blinking
back foolish tears. “I thought this haunting would give me the chance to prove
myself. But as you can see, I managed to botch that as well.”

Jo heaved a sigh. “Then go after him! Help Vincent and
Lizzie confront the ghost in the woods.”

Henry shook his head. If only things were as simple as she
seemed to believe. “I think they made it very clear they don’t want my help.”

She let out a disgusted snort. “And you’re going to let that
stop you?”

“It isn’t that easy,” he snapped. “What do you expect me to
do?”

“To prove yourself!” she shot back. “Not to Vincent, or
Lizzie. You never needed to prove anything to them here. You already did it at
Reyhome, and in the shop. The only person you need to prove anything to is
you.”

He started to argue, but caught himself. If something
terrible happened to Vincent while he sat here wallowing in self pity, he’d
never forgive himself.

It wouldn’t win back Vincent’s heart, he didn’t delude
himself of that. He’d already thrown away whatever fragile claim he might lay
to Vincent’s affections. But anything would be better than just sitting here, desperately
hoping nothing bad happened to them.

“You’re right.” Henry rose to his feet. “Help me fit
whatever we can into my pack.”

“And what about me?” she asked.

“You’re staying here.” When she opened her mouth to protest,
he gave her a quelling look. “Jo, no. I want you in your room, with salt on all
the windows and the door. Keep a sharp lookout, but don’t leave the room unless
the building is on fire.”

She stood up to face him. Even though the top of her head
barely came to his chin, she glared up at him defiantly. “But you need my
help!”

Henry put his hands on her shoulders. “Your safety is my
responsibility. I’ve already encountered Rosanna in the woods during the day,
and it was a terrifying experience. I won’t take you to face her there at
night.”

The look on his face must have convinced her. “Fine. You can
take my headlamp, if you want.”

He considered it, but… “I can’t carry the batteries and my
pack on my back at the same time.”

They put everything that might be useful into the pack:
compass, ghost grounder, portable galvanometer, and a bag of salt. Henry took
up a lantern. Jo walked with him to the hotel door, where he paused.

“Thank you,” he said. “And stay safe. I love you, Jo.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know, Henry. Now get moving. The
ghost isn’t going to wait all night.”

~ * ~

Vincent’s throat went dry, sticking as he swallowed against
the taste of charcoal and fire. Across from him, Sylvester let out a little
hiss of alarm. “She’s angry,” he murmured. “But…not at us?” He cleared his
throat. “Spirit of Rosanna, we have questions to ask of you. Do you wish us to
return the remains of your son?”

The pencil scratched wildly against the paper. Lizzie’s eyes
rolled back into her head, showing only white. Her teeth clenched.

Yes
.

“We want to give you peace,” Sylvester said. “But you must
tell us where he is buried.”

In the jar
.

What the devil? Vincent glanced across at Sylvester, who
frowned slightly. “What do you mean? What jar?”

I put things in the
jar. Nails. Hair. His heart.

Vincent gasped. “She…she put her baby’s heart in a jar?”

Rather than a look of horror, elation spread across
Sylvester’s face. “Not just a jar. A necromantic talisman. You used the bond
between your baby and his father to summon a spirit to kill Zadock.”

Lizzie’s nails pierced Vincent’s skin, and he gasped in pain
but didn’t try to draw away. He couldn’t break the circle, not now when they
were so close to unraveling this mess.

Yes
.

Sylvester…smiled. “Rosanna, I command you to tell me where
this jar is.”

His grief is the same
as mine. He took the jar. Awoke me. Turned my son’s heart against me.

What did any of it mean? “Turned her son’s heart against
her? But the child must be in the otherworld.”

Sylvester’s eyes widened. “She must mean literally. Someone
found the jar, realized its use, and used it to summon and bind Rosanna. Even
someone not a medium could do it—she was on this side of the veil and had
a direct connection to the talisman. That’s why she’s attacking Devil’s Walk. Not
out of her own will, but because she’s under the command of one of the living
inhabitants.” Admiration showed in his gaze. “My God, she must have had talent,
to have created an object so powerful.”

“His grief is the same as mine,” Vincent repeated.
“Heartbroken, left for another…no. Not jealousy. Henry was right. This is about
grief for a dead child. A dead son.” He met Sylvester’s eyes. The blue flame of
the candle reflected eerily in their depths. “Fitzwilliam. His son died in a
wall collapse. Emberey said the ground shift caused it—Fitzwilliam must
have blamed Norris for approving the site fit for building. And Brooks must
have been the foreman on the work crew Fitzwilliam’s son was in.”

“And then we showed up, trying to stop Rosanna,” Sylvester said.
“Fitzwilliam tried to warn Mr. Strauss away. When that didn’t work, he ordered
her to attack us in the graveyard.”

Yes. All must die.

It ends tonight.

“Someone else,” Vincent said. “She’s after someone else. But
who?”

“Surveyor, foreman…overseer?” Sylvester suggested. “Is that
right, Rosanna? Are you being sent against Mr. Emberey tonight?”

It is time.

The candle flame suddenly roared to life, stretching up
toward the ceiling like a blue streamer. Lizzie’s nails tore into Vincent’s
hand, and he jerked back instinctively from the pain.

The circle broke.

Lizzie pitched forward, gasping great lungfuls of air. The
flame died to a more ordinary size and reverted to a soft, orange glow. The
freezing room began to warm once again. Swearing softly, Vincent wrapped his
handkerchief around his bloody hand. “Lizzie? Are you all right?”

Sylvester leaned over and put a supportive hand to her arm.
She pressed her fingers to her forehead and nodded. “Yes. I…did we get our
answers?”

“Rosanna made a necromantic charm using the heart of her
stillborn baby,” Vincent said. He stood up and pushed open the door to let in
some fresh air. The sun had set, probably at the very moment Rosanna ended the séance.
“Someone—probably Fitzwilliam’s son—found the jar she used and took
it home. Now Fitzwilliam is using it to order Rosanna to murder everyone he
blames for the death of his own son.”

“Emberey?” she guessed.

“Maybe. Or maybe the whole damned town.” God, Henry and Jo
were there. “We have to return to Devil’s Walk immediately!”

“Let’s not panic,” Sylvester said, holding up his hand. “I
agree, we must return to the town and confront Mr. Fitzwilliam. We’ll take the
jar from him. It’s what we do afterward which I want to speak to you about
first.”

“What do you mean?” Why did Sylvester want to have a
discussion while Henry might be in danger?

And God, despite everything, despite all the lies and the
pain, he still cared about Henry. If Henry died, it would break him, grind all
the little pieces left of his heart into dust.

Vincent swallowed, trying not to imagine it. Henry would be
fine, so long as they acted quickly enough. “We smash the jar to bits, rebury
anything left of the baby here in the woods, and lay Rosanna to rest.”

“That is one possibility,” Sylvester said carefully. “I
would prefer to make a different suggestion.”

The look Sylvester had worn on his face during the séance…the
one of elation. “You knew it was true all along,” Vincent said. The world
seemed to slip sideways. “The legend of her summoning a spirit. You expected to
find some kind of necromantic talisman.”

“Hoped, more like.” Sylvester smiled wryly. “I didn’t
know
anything. But if the stories were true, then yes, there would be some sort of
object to bind the spirit. I’ve been searching for evidence all along. When we
dug up Zadock’s grave, I’d thought perhaps Rosanna had secreted it on his
person, or in his coffin.”

“Which is why you insisted on examining his remains
yourself,” Vincent guessed.

“Of course. I never imagined it was in the hands of the living,
compelling Rosanna to attack.”

“But why were you looking for it?” Lizzie rose to her feet,
her face pale. “Sylvester, this thing is an abomination! Surely you don’t mean
to use it!”

“Oh,” he said. “But I do.”

Sylvester might as well have punched Vincent in the gut.
“You can’t.”

“Dunne would never have agreed to this,” Lizzie said.
“Never.”

“Oh my poor child,” Sylvester said with a sad chuckle. “Of
course he would have. He suggested it in the first place.”

No air remained in the little room. No air remained in the
world. “Dunne is dead,” Vincent said. “He’s been gone for a year. Don’t you
dare blame him for this.”

“And don’t you dare play the fool, Vincent Night.”
Sylvester’s hazel eyes narrowed angrily. “I told you we had plans. A
vision—a dream for a better world. I left New York to find everything
we’d need, all the bits of knowledge scattered across the globe just waiting to
be fitted together. But to do so, I needed access. Access to the libraries of
the ancient houses, of the church. The funds to venture to the far corners of
the earth, where men in grass huts hold secrets that would shake the
foundations of the civilized world.

“For twenty years, it worked. I became the Great Ortensi.
But now? Now there’s gray in my hair.” His lip curled. “Clairsentience is too
tame a talent, especially when combined with the aging body of a man. The new
darlings of the spiritualist world are girls, nubile and soft. Not to mention
willing to perform partially unclothed, to ‘prove they have nothing hidden on
their persons’ or whatever excuse they come up with. I cannot compete. My last
European tour was canceled halfway through due to lack of interest.”

Lizzie eyed him warily. “I’m sorry, Sylvester, but it
doesn’t excuse the use of necromancy. None of this has anything to do with
Dunne.”