Dangerous Spirits (6 page)

Outvoted, Henry could only nod. As they rose from the table,
Ortensi said, “Vincent? Elizabeth? If you’d care to catch up…?”

“I will bid you good night,” Lizzie replied, with a fond
smile for Ortensi. “We’ll have plenty of time later.”

“Of course. Vincent? A drink in the saloon, perhaps?”

“I’d love to,” Vincent said.

Henry paused by the door, waiting for an invitation from
Vincent to join them. It wasn’t forthcoming, and Ortensi didn’t even glance at
him when they passed by.

Did Ortensi really want to talk to Vincent and Lizzie about
old times, or had he some other purpose behind excluding Henry? Did he intend
the mediums should make their plans tonight, without Henry present?

“Henry, are you coming?” Jo called.

Henry took a deep breath. He was being paranoid, surely.
Ortensi had no reason to exclude him from anything.

And if he tried, he’d find Henry not so easily dissuaded.

~ * ~

“To James Dunne,” Sylvester said, when the barkeep set the
whiskeys in front of them.

Vincent clinked glasses with Sylvester, then downed the
shot. Maybe its warmth would chase the cold from his belly.

“I can’t believe it’s almost been a year,” Vincent said,
motioning for the barkeep to refill his glass. A year of wearing the silver
amulet, save for when he channeled during a séance. A year of salting his doors
and windows every night before bed.

A year of feeling as though the thick, oily substance of the
dark spirit that possessed him still stained the inside of his skin. Of fearing
the taste of rot and slime, of blood and wet bone, would bloom again on his
tongue.

“James was a good man,” Sylvester agreed. “The world is
lesser without him in it.”

“The best,” Vincent agreed. “He saw something worthwhile in
everyone he ever met.” Even Vincent.

“Yes.” Sylvester tugged at the bandage on one finger,
revealing the bright pink of scalded skin. “We could use more men like him. We
had such plans…it grieves me he won’t be here to see them come to fruition.”

“Plans?” Vincent leaned forward curiously. “He never mentioned
any such things to us.”

“I think he wanted to wait until everything was in place,
before mentioning it to you and Lizzie.” Sylvester swirled the whiskey in his
glass. “Let’s just say some of my trips to more obscure corners of the world
held a purpose beyond simple curiosity.”

“Oh.” Vincent sat back, unsure how to feel about this
revelation. He’d believed Dunne shared everything with them. This sounded
important, like something Dunne and Sylvester had worked on together for years.

And yet Dunne never mentioned it to Vincent, even once.

“As soon as we’re done here in Devil’s Walk, I’ll explain
everything fully, to you and Lizzie both,” Sylvester went on. “I hope you’ll
agree to help me. I could certainly use your assistance, now that James is gone.”

“Of course,” Vincent said immediately.

Sylvester smiled. “Don’t you want to hear what you’re
agreeing to first?”

“I don’t need to. If it was something Dunne thought
important, that’s enough.”

“I’m glad to hear it, my boy.” Sylvester took a sip from his
whiskey. “And I’m glad to have you here. Although your friend Henry…”

Vincent took another sip of whiskey. Henry had been in
rather a mood over dinner, although Vincent wasn’t entirely sure why. Perhaps
his distrust of mediums colored his perceptions of Sylvester.

“Henry can be a bit of a challenge,” Vincent said wryly.
“But I assure you, he has only the best of intentions. His methods are
unconventional, but there is merit to them.”

“I see.” Sylvester turned his tumbler in a circle, as if
studying the light reflecting in the depths of the whiskey. “If you say he is
trustworthy, of course I’ll accept your judgment.”

“I’d trust him with my life. Have, in fact.” He hesitated,
but it needed to be said. “Henry doesn’t have as much practical experience as
the rest of us when it comes to actually dealing with the spirit world, however.”

Sylvester’s look sharpened. “How much?”

“Our work at Reyhome Castle and a few séances after,”
Vincent admitted.

Sylvester’s mouth tightened. “Vincent, this is a dangerous
affair. It’s no place for an amateur.”

“Henry is learning,” Vincent insisted. “And he’s no fool. He
has a level head and keeps his wits about him when things go badly. I saw it
for myself at Reyhome.”

“I’m sure you did.” Sylvester sighed. “Truthfully, though, I
hoped to speak with you and Elizabeth, not only to catch up, but in order to
plan for tomorrow.”

Vincent frowned. “I don’t understand. Henry is our business
partner. We want him included.”

“I know. I only wish you’d spoken to me before your move to
Baltimore.” Sylvester tilted his glass, watching the golden liquid within shift.
“The truth is, I’m no longer young. My face has become a familiar sight on tour
posters, and the public always wants something new. It’s hard to compete with
fresh-faced young ladies, even if they have little talent as either true
mediums or as fakes.”

The weariness in his voice drew a sympathetic wince from
Vincent. “I’m sorry, Sylvester. I didn’t know.”

“I thought about asking you to join me, after James died. The
three of us together might offer something new…but Lizzie has good reason to
stay out of the limelight I thrive in, and I knew you’d never leave her. Or the
shop.”

Vincent shook his head. “I wouldn’t have been any use to
you. I stopped channeling for a while. As for the shop…we lost it anyway, but
you’re right. I wasn’t ready to let go of it yet.”

“Still, if you’d only come to me after Reyhome…”

Would Vincent have said yes, if Sylvester approached him
then? The tender words he and Henry had spoken to one another at Reyhome seemed
tenuous in Henry’s absence. And after weeks of silence, Vincent had concluded
their brief affair at Reyhome had merely been a bit of passing fun.

Then Henry showed up on his doorstep, and Vincent’s heart took
wing just at the sight of him.

“You’ll understand more when you see Henry’s instruments in
action,” Vincent replied. “He’s a brilliant man, truly.”

“An unusual one, at least. I was surprised to hear his
cousin introduced as such.” Sylvester hesitated.
“Is
she his cousin?”

“Of course!” Vincent scowled, and Sylvester held up his
hands quickly. “And just as brilliant in her own way. Henry’s white family have
ostracized him for acknowledging the relationship, but he said Jo needed him
more than he needed them.”

“You seem very fond of him,” Sylvester observed.

Vincent glanced down at his whiskey. “Dunne would have loved
him.”

“I’m sure he would have.” Sylvester drained the last of his
whiskey and put down the glass. “But enough. If you have such faith in Mr.
Strauss, I will give him a chance as well.”

Rather than retire to his bed, Henry opened one of the
crates the porters had stacked in his room. Ortensi might dismiss Henry’s
devices out of hand, but it would be harder to do so if the medium actually saw
one of them in operation.

He removed a set of Franklin bells and the glass dome meant
to protect them from wind, thankfully still intact after the long train ride.
Carrying them in his arms, he sought out the hotelkeeper.

 Peterson stood near the front door, talking quietly
with the clerk and one of the porters. “…the damned ghost,” Henry heard, before
the clerk nodded in his direction. The hotelkeeper turned to him with a hasty
smile.

“Is everything in order, sir?” he asked, peering at the set
of bells in Henry’s arms.

“Quite,” Henry replied. “But I thought I might be able to
offer you—and any guests—reassurances the ghost hasn’t approached
the hotel. Or at least, a warning if she does.”

“Can you do that, sir?” the porter wondered.

“This device will ring if the ghost is nearby. Or a
thunderstorm,” he added honestly. The Franklin bells reacted to changes in the
electromagnetic field. Unfortunately, he had yet to find a way to get them to
differentiate between changes caused by ghosts and those caused by lightning.
“I’ll need to place it outside, attached to one of your lightning rods.”

“Please, sir,” the night clerk said to Peterson. “It’d put
my mind at ease, having to stand here all night, wondering if the ghost is
coming back.”

“Of course,” Peterson said. “Come, Mr. Strauss. I’ll show
you where the nearest lightning rod is.”

Installing the Franklin bells was but the work of a few
moments. After making certain the glass dome was secure, Henry went back
inside, to the profuse thanks of the night clerk.

Vincent’s voice drifted out as he passed the saloon. No
telling how long he’d be up, reminiscing with Ortensi. Returning to his room, Henry
changed into his nightshirt and threw the coverlets back.

He ought to lie down and try to sleep. Not sit up and wait
for the sound of Vincent’s door, conveniently located next to his. There was no
reason for him to feel on edge. Vincent was just having a drink with an old
friend.

An old friend with an expensive suit, fancy pocket watch,
and a history of performing before the crowned heads of Europe.

“Do you think that will be us, someday?”

Ortensi had it all today.

Henry took a deep breath and calmed his racing heart. He’d
gotten himself into this mess. He’d get himself out of it, by proving his worth
to Vincent and Lizzie.

And Jo. When she found out Henry had lied…

His imagination supplied a look of betrayal, which soured his
heart. God, anything but that.

Footsteps sounded in the hall outside, and a moment later,
there came the soft click of the key in the lock of the neighboring room. Henry
rose hastily and eased open his own door. Vincent paused, the gaslight at the
end of the hall gilding his dark hair. There was no sign of Ortensi; perhaps
his room lay on a different floor.

Henry gave him a questioning look he hoped conveyed his
meaning. A slow smile crossed Vincent’s full mouth, and he nodded.

Henry slipped from his room and into Vincent’s, just as
Vincent pulled the curtains tight across the window, to prevent anyone from
glimpsing them together. The rooms were tiny, no more than a narrow bed, washstand,
and clothespress. While Henry threw the bolt, Vincent removed his coat, shook
it out, and hung it up carefully.
Clothes make the man,
he once told
Henry. Especially if the man had skin of a darker shade. A shabbily dressed
Indian would be sneered at, or—for all Henry knew—might even face
being dragged off to a reservation somewhere. Impeccable fashion formed the key
Vincent used to open doors that would otherwise be closed to him.

Henry sat on the edge of the bed and watched while Vincent
undressed. Cuffs, collar, vest, bracers, shirt, and trousers all followed the
coat. His ochre skin glowed in the soft light of the night candle, contrasting
with his cotton drawers. The sight made Henry’s chest tighten and his breath
hitch, and not just from lust.

For years, his only contact with men who shared his inclinations
came in the form of a hasty tug in some back alley, both of them going their
own way as quickly as possible after. No kisses or kind words. No caresses. No
watching while the other man undressed for bed, his movements calculated to
tease.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner,” he said.

Vincent shrugged. “I wasn’t hungry.”

“I thought seeing Mr. Ortensi again might have brought back
memories of your mentor.” Dark memories of the man’s death.

Surprise flickered across Vincent’s face, before vanishing
behind a smile. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Of course I do,” Henry said simply. “I care about you.”

Vincent’s lips parted, eyes widening slightly, as though the
words caught him off-guard. Surely he understood Henry’s regard for him? Then
Vincent’s expression melted into a warm smile. “Thank you for the concern. But
we have much more interesting things to talk about tonight. For example, you
could tell me if you like what you’re seeing?”

Henry swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “I do
like. Very much.”

Vincent shed his drawers; his cock stood half at attention.
“Surely you don’t mean to deprive me of the same pleasure?”

Henry hurriedly slipped off his nightshirt. Vincent sat on
the bed by him, pulling him in for a kiss. Vincent tasted of whiskey and
cinnamon, his lips soft against Henry’s. Desire fired through his blood,
washing away the lingering bitterness of jealousy. Whatever the future might
hold, tonight Vincent was his. And he would take full advantage of the fact.

Vincent pulled back, his breathing rough and uneven. “Who’s
in the next room?” he whispered. “Do you know?”

Henry nodded. “Lizzie, thank heavens. We’ll still have to be
discreet, but…”

“But not worry too much about the occasional moan or creak of
the bed,” Vincent agreed with a sly grin. “And I mean to make you moan, Mr.
Strauss.”

“Do you, Mr. Night?” Henry challenged, although in truth he
had no doubt Vincent would do exactly that.

Vincent cupped the back of his head, dragging him in for a
rough kiss, before shoving him back onto the bed. Henry tumbled onto the
surprisingly soft mattress, and Vincent wasted no time straddling him.

Just the sight of him made Henry’s mouth water. How he’d
attracted the attention of someone like Vincent Night, he still didn’t know.
Vincent’s body was lithe and muscled like a dancer’s, all lean, hard muscle clinging
close to the bone. His long hair framed the strong bones of his face, and thick
lashes accented the dark heat of his eyes. The sheen of sweat from the warm
room made Vincent’s skin look dusted in gold.

“You’re beautiful,” Henry said as Vincent bent over him. The
silver amulet hung between them, spinning slowly in the light.

Vincent’s hands splayed over Henry’s chest, shaping the fan
of his ribs, pausing to tweak one nipple, then the other. Henry whimpered, hips
jerking in response, but Vincent’s weight kept him pinned to the bed. “So are
you,” Vincent said.

Henry’s cheeks warmed. He was all too aware of his own lack
of any particular charms. Still, something about him had caught Vincent’s eye
during those hectic days in Reyhome Castle. What, he couldn’t imagine.

Vincent’s grin widened. “How I love to see you blush.” He
traced Henry’s lower lip with his thumb. “The way you bite your lip when you’re
busy thinking.”

He did? Henry hadn’t even been aware of it. He sucked
Vincent’s thumb into his mouth and was rewarded with a low growl of desire.

Vincent pulled his thumb away and kissed Henry, hard. Henry
moaned into his mouth, then sucked on Vincent’s tongue when it slid past his
lips. Vincent’s hips jerked in response, and a rush of pleasure and pride went
through Henry, to make this man want him so.

Vincent pulled away, bracing his hands on Henry’s shoulders.
Their cocks rubbed together, slickness from their slits trailing along Henry’s
stomach. “Wrap your hand around us,” Vincent urged, and Henry obeyed.

Vincent began to move against him, a slow slide of hips. The
friction of their pricks against one another wrung a soft gasp from Henry. He
drowned in sensation, Vincent’s length rutting against his. Henry caught
slickness from the tip of Vincent’s cock, using his thumb to smear it over the
head. Vincent gasped and picked up the pace. The bed creaked beneath them,
faster and faster. Vincent looked utterly wild, his hair disheveled, his eyes
hot with lust.

“Vincent,” Henry whispered, although in truth he wanted to
scream it at the top of his lungs.

Vincent seemed to understand; his kiss-swollen lips twisted
into a feral grin. “Yes, Henry,” he crooned. “You’re going to come for me,
aren’t you? Come for me!”

Henry’s lips parted, and he barely bit back a cry as his
balls tightened. Pleasure shot through him, hard and fast as a lightning
strike. Vincent thrust against him, until the sensation became too acute. Henry
shifted his grip, letting his softening prick fall against his stomach, forming
a tunnel for Vincent’s length with his spend-slicked hands.

Vincent’s jaw clenched, and his eyes squeezed shut. A
shudder went through him, and with a low groan, he shot into Henry’s grip.

The tension left his arms, and he half-collapsed against
Henry. “Mmm,” he mumbled, and turned his head for a tender kiss.

“Good?” Henry asked against his lips, once the kiss ended.

“The best.” Vincent snuck another kiss. “Stay a little
while? I know you have to leave before morning, but surely…?”

The longing in his voice tightened a band around Henry’s
throat. “Of course. Here—let’s put down the salt, before we drift off. I
set up Franklin bells outside the hotel, by the way, against the wall. We should
get a warning if anything approaches, but I’ll still wake you when I get up.
You can lay the salt down again behind me.”

A sad little smile touched Vincent’s mouth. “Thank you,
Henry. You take such good care of me.”

He wanted to. God, more than anything. He wanted to be the
man Vincent thought him. The one to make all of Vincent’s dreams come true.

“Don’t be silly,” he admonished weakly. “Now come—the
sooner we get the salt in place, the sooner we can sleep.”

~ * ~

Vincent woke from a deep sleep, the sound of the Franklin
bells ringing madly in his ears.

He jerked upright, hand going to the amulet about his neck
before he even fully awoke. The silver burned cold in his hand, and the air of
the room went from summer to winter. The night candle guttered sullenly, its
flame sickly blue.

The taste of ashes and overdone pork flooded his mouth, courtesy
of his clairgustance, and he barely kept from gagging.

Henry stirred beside him. “Vincent? Do I hear the bells?”

“Yes,” Vincent whispered. His breath turned to steam. “The
ghost is close. I can sense her presence.”

Henry went still. “Where? She can’t have gotten past the
lines of salt on the windows.”

It had been foolish to fall asleep together and risk being
caught, but at the moment Vincent could only feel grateful for Henry’s solid
presence. He slid out of bed and snatched up his nightshirt, before tossing
Henry’s to him. The boards felt like ice against his feet, and the taste of ash
and burned flesh turned his stomach.

“Where is it?” Henry repeated. “How close does a ghost have
to be for you to sense it?”

It was such a Henry question to ask, Vincent would have
laughed if not for the searing cold. “I can’t say I’ve ever measured it.”

Was the spirit inside the hotel? Curse it, he should have
warned the hotelkeeper to put down lines of salt at all the doors and windows.
The ghost hadn’t entered any buildings yet, as far as he knew, but the
precaution should still have been made.

Henry pulled on his nightshirt and spectacles. Vincent
motioned for Henry to remain still, and turned all his attention to listening. Only
the ordinary creak of settling beams came from inside the hotel. No screams or
startled cries sounded. Just the wild ringing of the Franklin bells outside.

There came a low scrape, like a fingernail against glass.

Henry started beside him, and Vincent grabbed his hand
automatically. The sound came again, its pitch grating on Vincent’s nerves.

“The window,” Henry whispered, his breath puffing in the icy
air. He stared fixedly at the tightly drawn curtains. One bare foot slid across
the floor, edging closer to the aperture.

Nothing. Just the bells, ringing their frantic alarm.

Henry glanced at Vincent, then back to the window. His hand
trembled visibly as he reached out and brushed the fabric back just an inch.

A white eye, without iris or pupil, stared in at them.

Henry sprang back with a startled oath. The curtain tangled
in his fingers, wrenching it aside and revealing the horror in full. A woman
pressed against the glass, her red hair streaming flames. The skin of her face
bubbled from heat, and her eyes were nothing but pallid, cooked orbs that still
conveyed a terrible malevolence.

“Oh God!” Henry staggered back. Vincent caught him, pulling
him close.

“She can’t cross the salt line on the window sill,” Vincent
said, grateful his voice remained steady.

Henry nodded. “Y-Yes. Of course.”

The ghost opened her mouth. Her lips split wider and wider,
gaping far larger than a human mouth should.

She
screamed.

The sound pierced Vincent’s ears like knitting needles. He
dropped to his knees, dragging Henry down with him, as the glass in the window
exploded. They grappled for a wild moment, each trying to shield the other from
the flying shards. The stench of burning pork filled the room, accompanied by a
blast of hot air contrasting painfully with the icy cold of a moment before.