Dangerous Spirits (17 page)

Vincent nodded. “I will.”

She vanished. For a long moment, all was silent save for the
crackling of the burning house behind them. Then Sylvester spoke.

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to keep your promise,
Vincent,” he said, and held up the earthenware jar.

~ * ~

Vincent was painfully aware of his heart beating in his
ears. The world seemed to slow, just as it had at the receiving vault.
Sylvester stared back at him, blood dripping slowly from his nose and onto the
jar. He didn’t even seem to notice.

“Damn it,” Sylvester said. “I told you two I’d explain
everything. Why didn’t you wait?” His gaze slid from Vincent to Henry, and his
expression shifted to one of contempt. “Of course. Mr. Strauss convinced you to
come and try to stop me.”

“You locked us in!” Lizzie exclaimed.

“For your own good!” Sylvester met Vincent’s gaze. “Vincent,
my boy. You said you fear the ghost that killed James might return to possess
you again.” He lifted the jar slightly. “I can stop it. Send it back to
whatever hell it crawled out of, and free you from a lifetime of looking back
over your shoulder.”

Vincent swallowed convulsively. “Even if it does
return—even if it kills me—how can you justify this? You clearly
meant to wait until after Fitzwilliam murdered Emberey before taking the jar
from him.”

“You’re fired, Ortensi,” Emberey barked. He was covered in
mud from his fall, and still dreadfully pale, but clearly his encounter had
left him no worse for wear. “I don’t know what this jar is, but hand it over,
and I might not have you thrown in jail.”

Sylvester’s lip curled. “Look at him, Vincent. A
small-minded penny pincher, who would gladly see men die if it saves the
company a bit of money.” He glanced at Henry again. “And your Mr.
Strauss—a man with a soul of wheels and gears, an arrogant liar.” His
gaze returned to Vincent. “Your life is worth both of theirs put together. Do
you really think this is what Dunne wanted for you?”

Above them, the clock tower’s bell began to ring. Twelve
strokes. Midnight.

“To hell with this,” Emberey snarled, and started for
Sylvester.

“No,” Vincent said, but it was too late.

Sylvester closed his eyes and laid his hand on the jar. The
air turned to ice, and Vincent’s ears popped painfully. Strange flavors
assaulted his tongue, one atop the next atop the next: apples and candy,
whiskey and gunpowder, blood and bile and bitter wormwood.

A man like Fitzwilliam, with no real mediumistic talent of
his own, could summon only a spirit already connected to the jar. Rosanna, who
had made it, and whose blood ran in the heart of her son.

But a true medium like Sylvester? The reach it gave him was
far, far greater.

Ectoplasm rolled like mist in the air as ghosts struggled to
manifest. Dear God, how many had Sylvester summoned?

Emberey shrank back, his eyes wide with terror as the figure
of an old man flickered into being between him and Sylvester. Vincent didn’t
think, just ran forward and seized Emberey’s arm, dragging him back. “Leave
this place and trouble us no more!” he ordered, putting all the power he could
into the command.

The ghost shivered and vanished—and reappeared as
Sylvester dragged it back from the otherworld.

“Stop this foolish defiance!” Sylvester shouted at him.
“Leave them, come with me, and let me explain things to you!”

“Nothing can explain this!” Vincent said. Sylvester had
raised the ghosts of Devil’s Walk, dragged the spirits of those who died here
back into this world without their consent.

Grief twisted Sylvester’s face. “I’m sorry it came to this.”

Unseen hands snatched at Vincent, shoving and hitting. He
staggered, and Emberey cried out in pain.

Lizzie grabbed his arm. “Run!” she shouted, and dragged him
after her.

He ran blindly, hauling Emberey along with him. Henry and Jo
fled in front of them, and behind, the ghosts swirled into being. His boots
slipped on the frost gathering on the stones and mud of the square, but he kept
his feet.

The clock tower loomed above them. Henry flung open the
door, and Jo ran in, followed by the rest. The tower sat atop a large, square
room. To one side, metal stairs led up into the clock tower proper. To the
other was a boiler and some machinery whose purpose Vincent couldn’t guess. Arc
lamps hung from the ceiling, no doubt intended to illuminate the interior, but
they were cold and dark.

“Salt!” Henry shouted, and slammed the door as soon as
Vincent and Emberey ran through. Henry dropped his pack and pulled a salt bag
from it, dumping the contents in a hasty line across the doorway. Jo did the
same with the windowsills, using a bag from her satchel. Lizzie joined them,
and within a few moments everything was sealed.

Emberey backed slowly away from the door, his expression
frozen in a mask of horror. “W-Will it keep them back?”

“Yes. As long as the salt isn’t disturbed.” Vincent
cautiously peered out the window.

The dead pressed against the glass. Ectoplasm began to form,
a swirl of sickly light. Cold eyes glowed like a hundred tiny candles, their
flames a horrid shade of greenish yellow.

“What do we do?” Emberey asked anxiously. “Do we wait for
dawn?”

A flame kindled behind the rows of dead, coalescing into the
shape of a woman. “Damn it,” Vincent said. “He’s called back Rosanna.”

“She can break glass,” Emberey said, backing up even
farther.

“It isn’t the glass holding them back,” Lizzie replied. Her
face was drawn and tense as she joined Vincent at the window. “But without it,
a strong enough wind could disrupt the salt. Or rain dissolve it, should we be
truly unlucky.”

Vincent stared at the flaming ghost as she slowly stalked
closer. He’d thought Sylvester wouldn’t kill them, not really. Not the man who
brought them presents from his travels, who sent them postcards and letters. Who
sat with them so many nights by the fire, telling stories of the wonders he’d
seen, while Dunne sat beside him, nodding and laughing.

Had Dunne and Sylvester done the same, for whoever owned
those trunks of clothes?

“I have an idea,” Henry said.

Henry swallowed convulsively as all eyes turned to him. For
a moment, he regretted even speaking. Of all his ideas since coming here, the
Franklin bells was the only one to really work as he’d hoped.

Vincent met his gaze steadily. “Go on, Henry.”

“It might not work.” Henry realized he was twisting his
hands together and forced them to still. “Seeing the equipment here made me
think of it, but—”

“Get to the point, man!” Emberey exclaimed.

“Er, yes.” Henry straightened. “Ghosts are weakened by
sunlight, for reasons we don’t entirely understand. Candles and gas don’t seem
to affect them, at least not all that much, nor does the reflected light of the
sun from the face of the moon.”

“We don’t have time for a lecture, Henry,” Lizzie warned.

“When we were in the cemetery, I thought I noticed Jo’s head
lamp drive Rosanna back a step. But Ortensi threw salt on her at the same time,
and I assumed I’d been wrong.” He gestured to the steam engine and dynamo. “But
what if I wasn’t? The arc lamp works on a different principle than a candle or
gas lamp. If it affects the ghosts, even for a brief period, it might give us
the opportunity to wrest the jar from Ortensi.”

Emberey blinked. “Do you mean to say, if the moon tower had
been repaired…”

“You might have had a great deal less trouble from Rosanna,
yes. Er, possibly.” Henry winced. “I don’t know for sure. It might not work. Or
I might not even be able to repair it.”

“Anything is better than waiting for the ghosts to break in
and kill us all,” Vincent said. “Do it.”

Henry swallowed again. “All right. Mr. Emberey, do you know
what precisely broke on the moon tower?”

Emberey’s brows knit together. “I believe the fellow said
something about a feeder?”

“The automatic feeder?” Oh no.

“Yes, that was it.”

“Blast.”

“What is it?” Vincent asked, looking alarmed. “You can’t fix
it?”

“I won’t know until I see it.” Henry lifted his gaze to the
shadowy interior of the tower. “The automatic feeder is a part of the lamp
itself. To do any kind of repair, I’ll have to go to the roof, then climb up
onto the moon tower as well.”

“Here,” said Jo, digging into the satchel. “Take the headlamp
so you can climb with both your hands free.”

“Good idea, Jo.” Henry took it from her. While she dumped
tools and wire into the satchel, he struggled into the heavy pack holding the
batteries. Vincent helped him with it, stepping back a pace when Henry pulled
on the headband. The arc lamp, small as it was, sat heavily on his brow, and
the strap of the weighty pack bit into his aching left shoulder. He’d exercised
the limb far too much in the last few days, and once again he cursed Bamforth
for shooting him at Reyhome.

“All right,” he said. “Jo—”

“Look out!” shouted Lizzie from her station near the window.

Rosanna’s shriek cut through the air. Every window facing
the square exploded inward, glass showering the floor and mingling with the
salt on the sills. The air instantly went frigid, and the light of their
lanterns shaded to blue.

Henry rose from where he’d dropped to the floor. “Jo! Get the
boiler going. As soon as the steam builds to a head, switch on the dynamo.”

Worry creased her face. “But the wires will be live—if
you’re not done, you’ll be electrocuted!”

“We don’t have any more time.” He glanced overhead, where
the interior arc lamps lay dark. “If this works, you’ll know in an instant.
Even if I don’t get the moon tower repaired in time, this will at least weaken
any ghosts inside the building.”

He turned to the stairs, as Jo opened the coal bin beside
the furnace. Vincent seized his arm, halting him. Their eyes met, longing and
fear in Vincent’s gaze. No doubt it was reflected in his own. Had Emberey not
been there, he would have flung his arms around Vincent and kissed him hard.
But he couldn’t, so he only said, “I’ll be back soon.”

Vincent’s fingers tightened. “Don’t get yourself
electrocuted, Henry.”

“I’ll do my best,” he replied. Then he pulled free and ran
for the stairs.

~ * ~

Vincent turned away, the sound of Henry’s shoes on the metal
grate of the stairs ringing from above. He desperately wanted to go with Henry,
as though his presence might afford his love some protection against all the
things that might go wrong. The image of Henry plummeting from the moon tower
presented itself, followed by Henry being electrocuted, or—

No. Henry counted on him to keep watch down here and make
certain the ghosts remained on their side of the barrier. He strode back to the
center of the room. “Mr. Emberey, start shoveling coal,” he ordered.

Emberey drew himself up. “Shovel coal? The girl—”

“The girl
is going to make sure this—” Vincent
gestured at the steam engine and—what had Henry called it? A dynamo?
“—works. Unless you have the knowledge to do the same, or have suddenly
developed mediumistic talents, the best thing you can do is shovel coal and
tend the furnace.”

Orange light grew brighter in the window nearest the door,
spilling inside as Rosanna drew closer. She hovered on the other side of the
salt line, her flaming hair surrounding her burnt face like a corona.

Emberey’s eyes went round. “I…yes,” he said, and all but
sprinted for the shovel.

“Bring him back,”
Rosanna said, her voice like drops
of water boiling off a hot griddle.

“We’re trying,” Vincent snapped.

The ghost began to pace, making her way along the row of
broken windows. Seeking entrance. The wooden edges of the window frames
scorched black beneath her heat, and the scent of burning wood mingled with the
foul taste on his tongue.

“What is she doing?” he asked Lizzie.

“More importantly, what is Sylvester doing?” she replied.

His heart thumped in his throat. A quick look into the
square outside showed it to be empty.

“That’s not good,” he said.

“Maybe he left.” Lizzie’s eyes tracked Rosanna’s progress.
“He realized he couldn’t really go through with it.”

The hope in her voice echoed Vincent’s own. What if she was
right, and Sylvester’s conscience had awoken once again? What if Sylvester had
found he could never really hurt them after all?

Rosanna screamed.

The windows on the side of the building burst inward. Jo let
out a startled cry, and everyone ducked automatically, even though the glass
didn’t reach them.

There came the sound of splashing water.

Confused, Vincent raised his head. Sylvester stood framed in
the window by the doorway, an empty bucket in his hands. Water pooled on the
sill and ran down the inside of the wall, washing away the line of salt.

“No,” Vincent whispered.

Sylvester stepped back. And the ghosts came pouring in.

~ * ~

The iron stairs and catwalk rang beneath Henry’s shoes as he
raced up the interior of the tower. He’d switched on the headlamp, and it
burned like a miniature sun, sending rivulets of sweat down his face. The
curved reflector directed its beam in front of him, sweeping across gears and
counterweights, giving him brief glimpses of the clock’s interior workings. The
great pendulum swung past, and gears creaked. One of the hands lurched forward
with a loud “tock.”

The satchel of tools banged against his hip, clanking
loudly, and the heavy batteries strapped to his back weighed him down. Before
long, his legs ached and his lungs felt starved. He paused to catch his breath,
straining to hear any sound that might tell him how the others fared below.
Only silence greeted him; either he was too far away, or the salt lines yet
held.

But for how long? Gritting his teeth, he jogged up the next
flight of stairs.

At the top of the metal stairs lay a short ladder and a trap
door. He flung open the trap door and emerged onto the small roof of the clock
tower, gasping for breath. The metal scaffold of the moon tower rose another
twenty feet into the air, the darkened arc lamp at the top.

A groan escaped him, and he rubbed his aching thighs. How
long did he have until the pressure built up high enough to operate the steam
engine?

Rosanna’s scream echoed from below, and even at a distance
every hair on his arms stood up. The sound of shattering glass accompanied the unearthly
shriek, and his heart lurched. What was happening below? Was Jo safe? Vincent?
Lizzie? Had Rosanna found a way inside?

They all depended on him, on this mad idea he’d proposed.
What if it didn’t work? What if he was as wrong about this as he’d been about
everything else?

Shoving aside all his doubts, he reached for the first cross
bar of the iron scaffolding comprising the moon tower. The ache of his left
shoulder turned to stabbing pain as he hauled himself up. Henry gritted his
teeth and silently prayed the shoulder didn’t give out altogether. He had to
reach the top and the arc lamp itself, no matter what.

There came a cry from somewhere far below. He glanced down
automatically—and instantly wished he hadn’t. The roofs of Devil’s Walk
stretched out below him, and moonlight frosted the forest. It was all a very,
very long way down.

His hands froze on the iron beams, and his breath hitched.
The world seemed to swim around him. He’d never had difficulty with heights
before—but he’d never been up this far. It would take a long time to hit
the ground if he fell from this distance.

“Move, Henry,” he muttered to himself between clenched
teeth. “You promised Vincent you wouldn’t get electrocuted.”

Forcing his fingers to unbend, he reached for the next iron
beam.

~ * ~

The dead of Devil’s Walk poured in through the broken window
like floodwaters through a breached dam. Instantly the air went to ice, and even
the hot glow of the furnace took on a sickly blue hue. Emberey cried out in
terror and froze, his shovel lifted as though he meant to beat off the ghosts
with it.

“Keep stoking!” Vincent shouted. God, they had to do
something to protect Jo and Emberey long enough for them to get the steam
engine running. The arc lights overhead would weaken the ghosts—assuming
Henry’s theory was correct—but they had to get electricity to them first.

Lizzie hurled handfuls of salt from one of the half-empty
bags. It tore smoking holes through streaming ectoplasm, and the dead fell
back, swirling in pain and confusion.

“Leave this place! Return to the otherworld!” she shouted.

Some of them vanished…but as experience had already shown,
it would take nothing for Sylvester to bring them forth again.

Vincent cast about wildly—there had to be some way to
hold them off. Henry’s backpack lay abandoned where he’d left it, the tip of a
copper rod protruding from the half open flap.

Vincent yanked it free; the rubber glove flopped out as
well, caught amidst the tangle of wires. He’d used the ghost grounder once
before, and knew the principles well enough. He just needed something to attach
the wires too, something grounded. The bolts anchoring the dynamo to the floor
caught his eye, and they were in a good position to let him protect Jo and
Emberey.

“Vincent!” Lizzie shouted. “I’m almost out of salt!”

Curse it. He ran to the dynamo, ignoring Emberey’s fearful
yelp. Securing the wire to one of the bolts, he offered up a brief prayer this would
indeed work.

A ghost darted past Lizzie and made for Emberey. Its eyes
gleamed, sickly yellow corpse candles in the midst of roiling ectoplasm.
Emberey screamed and cowered, dropping the shovel to the floor with a clatter.
Vincent stabbed the tip of the ghost grounder deep into where the ghost’s heart
would have been, were it still alive.

There came a crackle, and it dissolved into nothingness.

“We’re almost there!” called Jo. “Mr. Emberey, keep
stoking!”

“We’ve got you,” Vincent said. “Let Lizzie and I handle the
ghosts. We won’t allow them to get through.”

They took up point, each facing a different direction.
Vincent slashed and stabbed, sometimes dispelling the ghosts on contact, more
often simply draining them bit by bit. At his back, Lizzie ordered the ghosts
to return to the otherworld in a ringing voice, scattering salt as she did so.

It worked. The crowd of spirits around them thinned. The
temperature crept back up to something, if not warm, at least not arctic. The
ghosts Sylvester sent against them were no spirits of rage like Rosanna. These
were ordinary people, who had passed peacefully and made only shadows when
called back to this world.

So where had Rosanna gone?

“Vincent,” Lizzie said in a low, urgent voice. “The door.”

He glanced over his shoulder, and his heart sank as his
question was answered.

The door lock glowed, first a sullen red, then brighter,
edging into blinding yellow. “Rosanna’s burning through the door,” he said.
“Jo! Is it ready?”

“Almost!”

“Almost isn’t good enough!”

The lock and knob fell free in a molten glob onto the floor.
The door hurled open, scattering salt everywhere.

Sylvester stood there, silhouetted against the burning
houses on the other side of the square. His hazel eyes were hard, his hair in
disarray. He spared a look for Vincent—and ran for the stairs.

No—he must have spotted Henry on top of the tower.
Vincent shouted a denial and started to drop the ghost grounder.

“Don’t.” Lizzie grabbed his arm. “If you go after Sylvester,
the ghosts will get past, and we’ll all be lost.”

He wanted to deny it. Wanted to leave anyway. To run to
Henry’s rescue, to scream at the top of his lungs that Sylvester was coming
with murder in his eyes.

Instead, he firmed his grip on the ghost grounder and
stabbed the nearest spirit through its glowing eye.

~ * ~

By the time Henry reached the top of the moon tower, he felt
as though his head were baking and his left shoulder actively afire. The great
arc lamp jutted up from the center of the scaffolding, cold and dark in the
beam of his headlamp. The wind tore at his hair and clothing, like phantom
hands trying to pull him from the tower.