Dangerous Spirits (19 page)

Something burst in a shower of sparks, plunging the world
into darkness, save for the beam from Henry’s headlamp. Vincent groped in the
direction he’d last seen the small earthenware jar.

Sylvester shouted for him to stop, but Vincent reached the
jar first. His hands closed around the cool surface—

Power trembled on his tongue, buzzed beneath his skin, like
a thousand angry hornets. He sensed the spirits of the dead like never before,
scattered throughout Devil’s Walk, or else watching through the veil from the
otherworld. Each individual flavor, with a hundred nuances that somehow
communicated far more to him than simple taste should.

But he wanted only a single spirit, and his awareness of her
burned as if he’d swallowed a live coal.

“I summon you, spirit of Rosanna!” he shouted, lifting the
jar high.

She burst into being, between him and Sylvester. And with
all the strength left in his arms, he brought the jar binding her down onto the
bricks.

The pottery exploded into fragments, releasing iron nails
and dust, red hair and a scrap of cloth, and something which looked
suspiciously like a tiny piece of leather, long desiccated.

“You’re free,” he said aloud. “You’re all free.”

“No!” shouted Sylvester. “You fool! What…no. Stay back!”

The last was directed at Rosanna. Her raw, bare feet paced
across the brick, her dress trailing fire. Her mouth split into a horrible
grin, revealing fire-blackened teeth and the charred stump of a tongue.

“I command you,” Sylvester began.

He never finished. Between one second and the next, she was
on him.

Vincent didn’t look—the screams were bad enough.
Instead, he ran across the roof, to where Henry still hung from the guy wire.
“I’m here,” he said, dropping to his knees.

Henry’s eyes were wide with terror. “I can’t—” Henry
said.

His left hand slipped free.

Vincent seized the straps of the pack holding the batteries,
hooking his fingers beneath them. “I’ve got you,” he gasped, even though the
muscles in his shoulders and back screamed. “Pull yourself up, if you can.”

He flung all his weight backward. Henry’s right hand still
gripped the guy wire, and he let out a whimper as he used it to haul himself
onto the roof. A few seconds later, Vincent toppled back onto the brick, Henry
tumbling onto him after.

“Oh God.” Henry shook, whether from fear or pain or both,
Vincent didn’t know. He pulled the headlamp from Henry’s forehead and set it
aside, then wrapped his arms tight around his lover.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ve
got you, and I’m not letting go. Not ever.”

Flames flickered on the other side of the tower, but they
had already died into nothingness around the contorted, blackened thing, which
was all that remained of Sylvester. Of Rosanna there was no trace.

“It worked,” Henry said. “Did you see, Vincent? My idea
worked.”

Vincent laughed, despite everything. “I saw.” He cupped
Henry’s face in his hands. “My clever, clever love.”

There came the sound of footsteps echoing from below.
“Vincent? Henry?” Lizzie called. “The ghosts are gone. Are you still alive up
there?”

Vincent sighed and let go of Henry reluctantly. “Come on,”
he said. “Before Mr. Emberey puts in an appearance and finds us in a
compromising position. After all this, I’d hate not to get paid.”

“Are you sure it was smart to wait until sundown to do
this?” Henry asked.

He and Vincent stood in the midst of the small clearing
where they’d found Norris’s body only a few days earlier. Whether it had any
special meaning to Rosanna, neither of them knew, but at least it was some
distance from the construction. Hopefully what they meant to bury there would
remain undisturbed.

“I’m sure,” Vincent said. He leaned on a shovel and wiped
the sweat from his brow. Henry had started to dig the hole, but his left
shoulder remained a mass of dull pain. After watching Henry’s awkward attempts
with the shovel, Vincent took it from him and ordered him to stand aside. “I
think this is deep enough.”

Henry took a small wooden box from his coat pocket. Within
lay what resembled a scrap of dried leather—all that remained of a tiny
heart. “I don’t know whether to feel sorry for Rosanna or not,” he confessed.
“She suffered at the hands of her community, first when they rejected her baby,
and again when they burned her alive. But she murdered Zadock and enslaved a
spirit to do her bidding, just as she herself was later enslaved.”

“I know.” Vincent’s mouth quirked into a slight frown. “But
it doesn’t really matter what we feel. We have a job to do.”

“Yes. You’re quite right.” Henry knelt and placed the box in
the hole. When he was done, Vincent shoveled earth on top of it.

“There.” Vincent patted the last of the loose dirt into
place. Handing the shovel to Henry, he tipped his head back and addressed the
woods. “We’ve done as you asked. We’ve brought your son back to you.”

The sensation of being watched crept over Henry’s skin. “Is
she here?” he murmured.

Vincent nodded, but didn’t look at Henry. Instead he kept
his eyes fixed on some indeterminate point amidst the trees. “Spirit of
Rosanna, your child is at rest. The necromantic jar you created is shattered.
Your time in this world ended long ago.”

A light appeared among the trees. Henry let out a gasp.
“Vincent, be careful!”

The light drew closer and closer, until Rosanna stood before
them. Fire wreathed her face, and her blank eyes fixed on them. Henry locked
his knees against the urge to grab Vincent and flee.

Vincent, on the other hand, didn’t seem afraid at all.
“Rosanna,” he said, and his voice was gentle even though it still rang with
authority. “It’s time for you to rest. To join your child’s spirit in the
otherworld.”

The flames faded, leaving behind only a young woman, not
much older than Jo. Her red hair fell around her shoulders, and her green eyes
shone with an inner light, set in a pale face whose skin was untouched by
flame.

“Go,” Vincent said.

She reached out to him with pale fingers. But as her hand
drew closer to him, it became less and less substantial, until her entire being
dissolved into nothingness.

For a long moment, the woods around them remained silent.
Then a cricket let out a tentative chirp. Soon others of its kind followed
suit, until the forest seemed alive in a way it hadn’t before.

“Well, that’s it,” Vincent said with a weary smile.

They made their way back to the rail spur, hands linked.
Within a few days, the area would again be a hive of activity, as soon as
Emberey’s replacement workers arrived from Pittsburgh. But for now it was
peaceful, the woods still in the silver moonlight.

“I can’t wait to get back to Baltimore,” Vincent said as
they walked. “I’ve come to the conclusion that all of this country air is
terrible for one’s health.”

Henry snorted. “I imagine country air doesn’t ordinarily
come laden with murderous spirits.”

“Perhaps, but best not to risk it.”

It got a short laugh out of Henry. The sound echoed,
startling the crickets into silence for a few seconds. Uncertain whether he
should bring up the subject or not, Henry said, “I’m sorry about Ortensi.”

Vincent kept his eyes focused on the railroad tracks
unspooling before them. “So am I.”

“The things he said to you about Dunne…I’m sure he lied,”
Henry offered. “He meant to convince you to join him in the only way he knew.”

“Perhaps.” Vincent shook his head. “I let the past blind me
to the present. I should never have listened to the things he said about you,
about my place in your life. Instead, I blindly followed his lead, just as I
would have Dunne’s.”

“I certainly didn’t help things,” Henry said, squeezing
Vincent’s fingers. “I know you’ve forgiven me, but I still feel stupid for
lying to you. I was a fool.”

“No argument there.”

“Beast.” Henry swatted at him.

Vincent jumped away with a laugh. But after a moment, his
grin wavered. “Will you be honest with me?”

“I’ll never lie to you again.” What oath would be weighty
enough to convince Vincent of his sincerity? “I swear it on my father’s grave.”

Vincent bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Without
your ghost grounder, we would have died a dozen times over last night. Even
then, I couldn’t have held the summoned spirits off forever. Your idea to use
the arc lamps against the ghosts saved all our lives, and kept Sylvester from
escaping with the jar.”

Henry flushed, although in truth the words pleased him. “It
was nothing.”

“It was everything.” Vincent stopped, forcing Henry to as
well. “You’re a great thinker, Henry. An innovator. You have so much to offer
the world. Tell me truthfully…even if the answer isn’t what I want to hear…do
you regret going into business with Lizzie and me? I know a small shop with
modest clientele was never your dream. I know you can do better. If you feel
we’re holding you back—”

Henry pulled Vincent to him, and silenced him with a kiss.
“There is your answer,” Henry said, when he could speak again. “But if it isn’t
clear enough, allow me to say…I love you, Vincent Night. You and Jo are the
most important things in the world to me. No amount of acclaim would mean
anything without you to share in it.”

Vincent’s smile was brighter than the moon, more blinding
than the arc lamp. “I love you, too, Henry. More than I can say.”

Henry’s heart felt too big for words, so he hugged Vincent
close. They rested against one another, arms loose around each other’s waists.
Henry took a deep breath, the familiar citrus and musk of Vincent’s cologne
like a balm to nerves fractured from the last few days.

He would have been content to stay like that forever. But of
course it wasn’t possible. Vincent stole another kiss, then reluctantly pulled
free. “We should return to the hotel before anyone comes looking for us. I
expect Lizzie and Jo are even now convincing themselves something went horribly
wrong with Rosanna. They’ll set out to rescue us if we linger any more.”

“You’re probably right.” Henry picked up the shovel and
rested it against his right shoulder. The left still hurt, and he hoped he
hadn’t managed to injure it even further somehow. As they started to walk
again, he said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Always a perilous undertaking.”

“Oh, ha ha. With such a wit, you should be the one touring
the world.”

Vincent bumped him lightly with his hip. “I’ve always
thought my true talents were wasted.”

“If
I may continue,” Henry said with a scowl. “There
is a space above my workshop in the back that could be converted into a small
apartment. No one would think anything about it if one of the owners of our
business moved into it. And no, before you make some clever remark, I’m not
talking about Lizzie.”

Vincent’s dark eyes widened. “What are you saying?”

Henry shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable. “I’m saying I want
to be with you. On a daily basis. I’d still have my room above the store
itself, of course, but I think we could make the workshop into a comfortable
little home. It would give us a bit more privacy, and, well…” he trailed off.
“Of course you’ll need time to think about it, and if you say no, I
completely—”

“Yes.”

Henry stopped walking. “You will?”

Vincent grinned down at him. “Yes. It’s a brilliant idea. I
want to go to sleep with you every night, and wake up with you every morning.”

Henry felt as though gravity had stopped working, and he
might fly off above the trees at any second. “It will take some effort to get
it ready.”

Vincent leaned down and kissed him. “I know. But you’re
worth it.”

He laced his fingers together with Henry’s. Hand in hand,
they walked down the tracks out of the forest and into the clear light of the
moon.

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Hainted

Whyborne & Griffin:

Widdershins

Threshold

Stormhaven

Necropolis

Bloodline

Hoarfrost

SPECTR

Series 1:

Hunter of Demons

Master of Ghouls

Reaper of Souls

Eater of Lives

Destroyer of Worlds

Summoner of Storms

Series 2:

Mocker of Ravens

Short stories:

Heart of the Dragon

After the Fall
(in the
Allegories of the Tarot
anthology)

Eidolon
(A Whyborne & Griffin short story)

Remnant
, written with KJ Charles (A Whyborne &
Griffin / Secret Casebook of Simon Feximal story)

Carousel
(A Whyborne & Griffin short story)

Jordan L. Hawk grew up in North Carolina and forgot to ever
leave. Childhood tales of mountain ghosts and mysterious creatures gave her a
life-long love of things that go bump in the night. When she isn’t writing, she
brews her own beer and tries to keep her cats from destroying the house. Her
best-selling Whyborne & Griffin series (beginning with 
Widdershins
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