Dangerous Spirits (16 page)

“Because you thought I was worth something!” Henry shouted. He
turned his head to the side, as if he couldn’t bear to look at Vincent.
“Because I
lied
.
You sacrificed so much to move, to go into
business with me, and I couldn’t even hold your attention in the bedroom.” A tear
sparked in the candlelight. “I just wanted you to love me.”

All the air seemed sucked out of the vault. Vincent took a
step forward, then stopped, feeling as though both of them might shatter at the
slightest touch.

“Of course I love you,” he said.

Henry lifted his head, eyes wide. “You do?” he asked,
although it was more a sob than words.

Vincent didn’t remember crossing the space between them. “Oh,
Henry.” He wrapped his arms tight around his lover. “Of course I do. Why else
do you think I was so angry with you?”

Henry’s hands gripped his coat, crushing the velvet, but
Vincent couldn’t bring himself to care. “But you…but I…we never…and
Christopher…”

“Then let me say it now. I haven’t been with anyone else
since we met—and I hope never to be again.” And oh God, it was
terrifying, to leave himself exposed like this, the most tender parts of his
heart laid bare.

“I never slept with Christopher—never so much as
kissed him,” Vincent went on. “And—and I feared you’d grown tired of me,
or found out the society refused my application.”

“They did what?” And of course, of all the things to get
Henry’s attention, that would be the one.

Vincent sighed. “I…wasn’t entirely honest with you, either.
I did apply, but they rejected me. I didn’t say anything because I knew their
support might still be valuable.”

Henry tried to pull free, but Vincent refused to allow it.
Henry settled for glowering at him. “And why did they refuse you?”

Vincent barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes.
“You-um guess-um, chief.”

Henry released a blistering stream of invective. “Mother
fucking sons of whores,” he finished. “If I’d known, I’d have told them to
shove my presentation up their asses!”

“A lady is present!” Lizzie yelled from outside. “And what
are you two doing? We have to get to the town! Sylvester and Rosanna are likely
both there now.”

Damn it. Vincent pulled Henry roughly against him. “I’m
sorry,” he said. “I never meant you to feel as though I was anything less than
yours. And if you can forgive my lie of omission, I’ll forgive your outright
one.”

“Hmph,” Henry snorted into his shoulder. “We’ll have to
revisit your standards of honesty, Vincent Night. But…yes. God, yes.” He tipped
his head back, his eyes vulnerable behind the glass shield of his spectacles.
“I love you, Vincent.”

Vincent kissed him tenderly. “I love you, too,” he
whispered, and the words sent a thrill through him, to be spoken aloud. “And I
can’t wait to show you how much. But right now, we have a town to save.”

They left the receiving vault and headed for the rail line.
Vincent and Lizzie started to turn south, back toward Devil’s Walk, but Henry
called, “No! There’s a faster way!”

They halted. Vincent’s black hair fell into his eyes, and
for some reason the sight did strange things to Henry’s heart.

Vincent loved him. Loved
him,
despite all the stupid
things he’d said and done. It seemed almost like a dream, except presumably a
dream would have included less agonizing betrayal and fewer articles of
clothing.

“What do you mean?” Vincent asked, when Henry didn’t
continue.

Henry told himself to focus and gestured to the end of the
rail spur. A group of flat cars sat there, some of them still loaded with brick
and iron beams. “We ride the rails, of course.”

Vincent arched a brow. God, even dirty and exhausted, he
looked handsome in his crimson coat and tailored trousers. “The one flaw in
your plan would be the lack of an engine to pull them.”

“It’s downhill until we reach Devil’s Walk,” Henry replied,
making for the cars. “We’ll uncouple the first one and ride it down.”

Lizzie laughed. “Brilliant, Henry. Perhaps we’ll get lucky
and run down Sylvester on the way.”

She climbed onto the first flat car, which had been unloaded
before the workers deserted the site. Henry handed his pack up to her, then uncoupled
the car from the one behind it. “All right, Vincent. Remove the chocks. We
might have to give it a shove to get it started.”

Vincent pulled the chocks free, and Henry pushed as hard as
he could. To his surprise, it took little effort to get the flat car rolling.
Vincent scrambled onto it, then reached down. “Run, Henry!”

Henry jumped for the car. Vincent grabbed his arm and the
back of his coat, hauling him onto the scarred wood platform. They fell back in
a tangle of limbs.

“Got you,” Vincent said with a grin.

“That you do.”

Vincent’s grin softened, and he swept a kiss across Henry’s
lips, before shoving at his chest. “We should probably sit up.”

As the incline grew steeper, the car began to go faster,
rushing down rails gleaming silver in the moonlight. The wind tore at Henry’s
hair, his hat long gone. Lizzie perched near the front of the car, peering
forward, as if she could make Ortensi appear before them. Vincent stayed at the
rear with Henry, their thighs pressed together. Henry took his hand, felt
Vincent’s fingers curl in his.

“Tell me what happened,” he said over the wind. “What did
you find out? And why did Ortensi lock you and Lizzie in the receiving vault?”

It wasn’t easy to hear over the wind, so Vincent leaned
against him, speaking almost into his ear. Under ordinary circumstances, Henry
would have enjoyed sitting there so close, with Vincent’s head resting against
his shoulder. Now, though, he had the urge to throttle Ortensi with the man’s
own silk necktie.

“He was lying,” he said, when Vincent finished. “You knew
Dunne far better than he. There was no—no plan, or whatever absurdity the
man claims.”

Vincent’s black eyes gleamed, suspiciously bright in the
moonlight. “I hope you’re right. I still can’t believe Sylvester would stoop to
necromancy, no matter the cause.”

Henry had no trouble believing it…but he wasn’t precisely
unbiased, either. “What do you intend to do?”

“Keep him away from the accursed jar. Destroy the thing.
After, I’m not sure.” Vincent pressed closer, as if for comfort. “It isn’t as
if he’s committed some crime.”

“What’s to stop him from finding another artifact, or
learning to make one himself?”

“Nothing,” Vincent said, not bothering to hide his
bitterness. “But right now, we have to worry about what Sylvester might do tonight,
not some unspecified future. Look—there’s the town. I hope you gave some
thought to stopping the flat car?”

“We should lose momentum—the track levels out well
before the depot.” Henry peered toward the town. “I don’t see any smoke, at
least. Fitzwilliam must not have made his move just yet.”

The flat car began to slow, gradually at first, then more
noticeably. Eventually it glided to nearly a stop. Henry jumped off, followed
by Vincent. Lizzie tossed Henry his pack, then hopped down into Vincent’s arms.

Only a few lights showed in the village. “Where is
Fitzwilliam’s house?” Lizzie asked, brushing off her skirts.

“I’ve no idea.” Henry glanced at Vincent, got a shake of the
head in return. “Curse it.”

“Emberey will know,” Lizzie said. “He’s the target of the
ghost—someone needs to protect him while the rest deal of us with
Fitzwilliam. And…and Sylvester.”

“Henry!” Jo shouted.

He spun—what was she doing out here? She ran toward
them, a lantern in one hand and a satchel in the other. Its yellow light revealed
a look of fear on her face.

“Are you all right?” she cried. “I thought something
terrible had happened!”

Startled, he caught her in his arms. “I’m all right, Jo. Why
did you think something went wrong?”

“Mr. Ortensi came back alone. I spotted him through the
hotel window. I ran out and asked where you were. He said he hadn’t seen you. I
thought you didn’t make it through the forest.” She hefted the satchel. “I was
coming to save you.”

Henry hugged her tightly. “I appreciate the rescue. Ortensi
is a traitor. He imprisoned Vincent and Lizzie.”

“And if he knows Henry went into the woods after us,
Sylvester must realize there’s a chance Henry let us out,” Vincent said. His
expression was flat, but his fist clenched. “He’s probably run straight to
Fitzwilliam’s house, assuming he knows where it is.”

“Curse it.” Henry released Jo. “Stay close. We’re going to
Mr. Emberey’s house.”

The square lay silent, save for the chime of the clock
tower. Most of the houses showed no light. Given their relatively impressive
facades, it seemed likely the owners possessed wealth enough to leave town
until the danger was past.

It made the lone sliver of light spilling out from one even
more noticeable. Had someone left a door ajar?

“Isn’t that Emberey’s house?” Lizzie asked sharply.

Vincent let out a hiss. “She’s here. Rosanna is here!”

~ * ~

Vincent ran for the open door, his mouth full of ashes and
rancid flesh. There was no time for subtlety; he kicked the door hard, sending
it crashing back against the wall. “Emberey!” he shouted. “Em—”

He stumbled to a halt. Emberey stood at the bottom of the
stairs leading to the second floor. Before him, shabby coat and dirty shoes
looking out of place in the large foyer, stood Fitzwilliam.

And at Fitzwilliam’s side burned Rosanna.

Fitzwilliam clutched a small earthenware jar in his hands. His
face twisted in a look of fury, his eyes wild and staring. “Stay back!” he
shouted. His voice turned to steam in the icy air. Rosanna turned her head,
ghostly tendons and vertebrae snapping loudly, until her ruined eyes stared at
them.

“Help!” shouted Emberey. His ivory skin went paper white
with fear. “Stop him! He’s mad!”

“I’m the sanest person in this damned town!” Fitzwilliam growled.
“You and your kind let our sons die to build your mills and factories, but does
anyone stand up to you the way they should? No! Your filthy money bought their
souls.”

A manic smile touched his face, terrible to see. Vincent
shuddered. “When my boy brought me the jar he’d found in the diggings, I knew
it must be God’s will. My ancestor was only a girl when Whispering Falls
burned, but she remembered seeing the witch whispering to the jar, one day when
she played in the woods. She wrote about it in her diary, many years later. And
as soon as I touched it, I knew this was the same jar.”

Did the man have some mediumistic talent, too small to
channel spirits, but enough to sense such a powerful artifact? Perhaps it ran
in their line, and had prompted his son to pick up the accursed thing in the
first place.

“At the time I didn’t know it was put in my hands to do
God’s work,” Fitzwilliam went on. “To cleanse this modern-day Gomorrah,
starting with the three devils who let my boy die. You’re going to pay for your
sins, Emberey. I’m here to watch you burn.”

Rosanna’s gaze returned to the fore. In eerie silence, she
began to drift toward Emberey.

In the seconds it took to wrest the jar from Fitzwilliam,
Emberey might die. Vincent darted forward, past Fitzwilliam. “Get the jar!” he
shouted over his shoulder. Pulling the bag of salt from inside his coat, he
wrenched it open.

Emberey screamed in terror, scrambling madly up the stairs.
Rosanna’s flames burned stronger, and she let out her piercing shriek. Emberey
screamed again, clutching his ears.

“I’m sorry, Rosanna!” Vincent said, and hurled the contents
of the salt bag onto her.

She vanished in a swirl of ectoplasm. “You did it!” Emberey
exclaimed.

“It won’t last more than a few seconds.” Vincent grabbed the
man’s arm. “Run for the door—we don’t want her burning the house down
around us. I—”

Rosanna materialized inches from Vincent.

Her blow sent him skidding down the stairs and onto the
floor. Emberey’s boots thudded past a second later, making for the door.

“No!” shouted Fitzwilliam, and Henry let out a cry of pain.

Vincent rolled to his elbow and looked up the stairs.
Rosanna drifted down toward him, her fiery hair and dress streaming behind her.

The flames spread, racing over the floor and up the walls.
They burned blue in her presence, the spectral light at odds with the heat pouring
forth. Vincent stumbled to his feet, beginning to cough as smoke billowed from
the burning wallpaper. He turned his back on her and made for the door.

Henry lay on the floor, blood trickling down the side of his
face. Jo crouched beside him, wiping at it with her handkerchief.

“Henry!” Vincent stumbled to them.

Henry blinked. “Fitzwilliam—he hit me in the head with
the jar.”

“He ran after Mr. Emberey,” Jo said. Something caught her
attention over Vincent’s shoulder, and her eyes went wide. “Vincent! Duck!”

He flung himself to the floor. A blast of hot air roared
over them, and he glimpsed Rosanna flash past, like a spark on the wind. For a
moment he thought the house would come down on their heads. Then the flames
turned hot orange—she’d left, in pursuit of Emberey.

“Where is Lizzie?” he asked. Smoke stung his eyes, and he
blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear them.

“She went after Fitzwilliam,” Jo said. “We have to get out
of here!”

“Go!” Vincent ordered. He hauled Henry to his feet. Smoke
billowed around them, and Henry began to cough. Vincent dragged Henry out the
door and into the clean night air.

Lizzie leaned against the side of the house, her free hand
on her ribs. “Sylvester,” she said, before Vincent could ask. “The bastard lay
in wait outside. He knocked me into the wall.”

“Look!” Jo exclaimed, pointing.

The light of the flames washed over Devil’s Walk,
illuminating the square. Rosanna burned like a second fire, advancing once
again on Emberey. The overseer fell to the ground, either from injury or
terror.

Not fifteen feet away, Fitzwilliam and Sylvester struggled
over the jar.

Both clutched its earthenware body, each striving to wrench
it from the other’s grasp. Fitzwilliam’s lips drew back from his teeth, his
expression utterly deranged. “Emberey must pay! Must atone for his sins!” he
howled.

Sylvester kicked him in the shin. Fitzwilliam staggered, and
Sylvester almost succeeded in yanking the jar free. With an incoherent snarl,
Fitzwilliam snapped his head forward, smashing his forehead into Sylvester’s
face.

Sylvester let go and staggered away, blood running freely
from his nose.

“Henry, Lizzie—take your salt and use it on Rosanna,”
Vincent said, and made for Fitzwilliam.

Fitzwilliam started to turn at the sound of Vincent’s
footsteps—but not fast enough. Praying his companions held Rosanna off
Emberey for just a few more minutes, he launched himself at Fitzwilliam.

There was no finesse to it. They both went down in the mud. The
sleeve of Vincent’s coat gave at the seam. Fitzwilliam’s elbow cracked audibly
against a stone embedded in the muck.

And the jar went flying.

The air pressure changed instantly, Vincent’s ears popping.
Fitzwilliam made it to his knees, so Vincent kicked the jar, sending it
skidding away from Fitzwilliam’s grasp. Then he rolled away, even as heat
bloomed behind him.

Henry grabbed Vincent and pulled him up. “Emberey—”
Vincent gasped.

“She’s not after him anymore,” Henry said, his eyes wide
with horror.

Vincent followed his gaze. Fitzwilliam managed to get to his
feet, but the jar had vanished into the shadows somewhere. Rosanna stood before
the man who had bound her, even as she bound some other unfortunate spirit all
those years ago.

“St-stay away!” he shouted, backing up.

She screamed. Every window facing the square shattered, and the
sound buzzed in Vincent’s teeth as much as in his ears. Fitzwilliam cringed
away, arms flung up, as if he could somehow ward her off.

She stretched her hand out and grabbed his arm. Flames
poured out from her. His clothing caught, hair igniting, and now he was the one
screaming.

“Don’t watch, Jo,” Henry said. She hid her face in his
chest, hands pressed over her ears.

Vincent froze to the spot, transfixed by horror.
Fitzwilliam’s cries died away, and he collapsed to the ground. His body twitched
once or twice, and then remained still. The stench of burning cloth and hair,
of charring flesh, washed over them, joining the taste in Vincent’s mouth until
he nearly gagged. Beside him, Lizzie turned and vomited.

Rosanna turned away from the smoldering pile that was all which
remained of Fitzwilliam. Her boiled-egg eyes seemed to seek out Vincent. “Bring
him back,” she said in a voice of flame and wind.