Dangerous Spirits (9 page)

He tried to find a break in the laurel. The bushes’ twisted
branches seemed suddenly sinister, contorted as though in a pose of silent
agony, like the forest of suicides in Dante’s hell. They clutched at one
another, refusing to let him through.

He took a deep breath and ordered his heartbeat to slow. It
was just some quirk of how the foliage grew. He’d find his way through in a
moment.

“Henry,” called a faint voice from deeper in the forest.

“Jo?” he yelled back. “Jo, is that you?”

“Henry,” the voice said again, even fainter this time.

Why had Jo come into the woods? Did something frighten her
in the old town, badly enough for her to seek him out?

Blast it. “Jo!” he shouted. “Where are you?”

No answer. He listened intently. There was no sound other
than his own breath. No birds. No squirrels. Not even the groan of trees in the
wind.

Now deeply worried, he started in the direction the call came
from. “Jo? Jo! Answer me!”

The trees seemed to crowd in closer the farther he went.
Branches scraped at his hands, and damp leaves clung to his face. The faint
smell of burning stained the air.

Some trick of the wind must have carried the smoke of a
hearth here. Someone in Devil’s Walk still employed a wood stove for cooking
rather than a coal or gas one. That must be it.

A clearing opened up before him, almost unnaturally circular
in shape. The trees leaned in around the empty space, like silent spectators.
Henry stepped into it, his heart beating at the base of his throat.

A flicker of movement caught his eye, and he spun. “Jo?”

“Henry,” said the voice, but no longer distant. This time he
heard the crackle of burning wood, the snap of bones bursting from the heat.

This time, it came from right over his shoulder.

~ * ~

Vincent stumbled to a halt at the edge of the site of the
new mill, gasping for breath. He’d run as fast as he could from the
town—although given how seldom he ran anywhere, it hadn’t been nearly as
fast as he would have liked.

“Henry?” he shouted. “Jo?”

The roar of the waterfall swallowed his words. He cast
about, but saw only the stumps of walls, the flat cars laden with supplies, and
the detritus left behind by the workers.

“Henry!” His throat ached with the force of his shout. “Jo!
Where are you?”

“Vincent?” Jo’s voice, thank God. A moment later, she raced
into view from the older ruins, her skirts hiked up to let her run. “Vincent!”

Oh hell. He caught her by the arms when she ran up to him. “Where’s
Henry?”

Her eyes were wide with fear. “He went into the woods to…”
she gestured vaguely.

Piss, she no doubt meant. “And?”

“He hasn’t come back.” She gripped Vincent’s arm in turn,
fingers digging in through his coat. “I called for him and he hasn’t answered!”

Vincent bit back an oath, even as fear choked his veins with
ice. “Do you know where he entered the woods?”

“Not exactly.” She glanced down. “I didn’t watch him leave.”

“The general area, then?”

She gestured to the southeastern edge of forest. It looked
rather formidably dense, and he didn’t bother to hold back his curse this time.

“He’s in trouble, isn’t he?” Her voice shook with terror.

“I don’t know.” He tried to project calm for her sake,
although it was probably too late for that. “This is Henry we’re talking about.
He probably just got…got interested in something scientific. A rock, maybe.”

“You can find him, can’t you?” Her fingers tightened on his
forearm, hard enough to leave bruises. “You’re an Indian—can’t you track
him?”

“Jo. I spent my entire life in Manhattan before moving to
Baltimore.” Vincent stared at the forbidding edge of the forest, which would
have been worrisome even if there wasn’t an angry ghost in the mix. “The sum total
of my knowledge is that woods are filled with bugs, snakes, trees, and probably
bears, and that I don’t want to have anything to do with them.” He released his
hold on her. “But as Henry’s seen fit to get himself lost, it would seem I have
no choice.”

Because Henry was just lost, that was all. The sun was still
high in the sky. Henry had just gotten himself turned around, and he wasn’t
going to end up like Norris, dead and rotting God only knew where amidst the
trees.

“I’ll come with you,” Jo offered.

“No.” Vincent pulled free from her grasp. “Stay here.
Don’t
leave this spot, no matter what, not even if you hear Henry and I both calling
to you. It won’t be us, I promise. Now, do you have a watch? Good. If we’re not
back within two hours, return to Devil’s Walk and tell Sylvester.”

She bit her lip. “But…”

“No.” He gripped her shoulder briefly with one hand. “With
any luck, Henry just got turned around, and we’ll be back in a few minutes. But
if there are otherworldly forces at work here, letting Sylvester and Lizzie
know as soon as possible will make all the difference. Do you understand?”

He hated the fear creeping back into her eyes, eclipsing the
momentary hope his presence gave her. “I-I do. Be careful.”

“I will.” He let go of her and turned to the woods.

The trees became no more welcoming the closer he approached.
He scanned the ground—perhaps some latent ability to track, hidden deep
in his blood, would appear?

It didn’t, of course. He stopped at the edge of the forest,
breathing deeply. The air smelled of raw earth and the sap of massacred trees.
No animals stirred, although perhaps that was ordinary for this time of day? He
hadn’t the slightest idea.

Neither did Henry, most likely. Henry, who had vanished just
like Norris.

Blast Henry. What if Vincent couldn’t find him? What if the
minutes turned into hours, then into days, just as they had for Norris’s
family? What if it was Henry’s belongings Lizzie went through next, his last
moments she reported?

Vincent clenched his jaw. It wouldn’t happen. He couldn’t
bear it.

“Henry!” he called. “I’m coming for you!” And plunged into
the woods.

Henry ran.

Terror lent him speed. He didn’t dare look over his
shoulder, too afraid of what he might see. Branches whipped across his face,
nearly tearing his spectacles free. His shoe caught on a root, and he almost
pitched forward, barely catching himself on the tree it belonged to.

Leaves crunched beneath his feet. His breath scraped in his
throat, too loud for him to hear whether anything gave pursuit. Any moment, he
expected to feel a skeletal hand grab the back of his coat, or a blast of cold
against his neck. His lungs burned and his sides ached, but he didn’t dare
stop.

The trees fell abruptly away—thank heavens, he’d made
it back to the construction site.

Except there was no large expanse of raw earth and
half-built walls. Just trees, outlining a clearing in an eerily perfect circle.

Damn it. He’d gotten turned around and ended up where he
began. If only he hadn’t left the compass with Jo, but he’d hardly imagined
he’d need it. Barely breaking stride, he raced back into the trees. He’d make
certain he went in a straight line this time. Eventually it would take him back
to the work site, or the railroad tracks. Anywhere these accursed trees didn’t
hem him in.

He ducked, dodged beneath branches, jumped a small gully,
and—

Found himself back in the clearing again.

“No,” he said aloud. It wasn’t possible. He
knew
he’d
gone, if not in a straight line, at least not in a circle.

The ghost wanted him here and didn’t intend to let him
leave.

“Henry!”

A shriek escaped Henry, and he spun, hands up to fight off
whatever horror had come upon him.

Vincent caught his wrists. “Henry, stop, it’s me!”

Relief weakened Henry’s legs. “Dear lord, don’t do that
again!” he gasped. “You nearly gave me apoplexy.”

Vincent pulled him close. “Thank God you’re all right.”

“I…yes. I’m fine.” But he must have sounded as shaky as he
felt, because Vincent tightened his arms convulsively.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart.” Vincent whispered against his
sweaty hair. “Tell me what happened.”

When Henry finished, Vincent caught his chin and tipped his
head back. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, and kissed Henry tenderly.

Henry knew he must reek of sweat after his frantic run, but
if Vincent didn’t care, neither did he. Just the taste of Vincent’s mouth,
cinnamon cachous and faded coffee, calmed his racing heart.

“Thank you,” he managed, when the kiss ended. “Not to sound
ungrateful, but what are you doing here?”

“Lizzie convinced Norris’s parents to lend her one of his
possessions.” Vincent sighed and ran his hands lightly up and down Henry’s
arms. “He’s dead. He died here in the woods, disoriented, attacked by the
ghost. And I…I panicked.”

Not good news. Even so, Henry said, “Vincent Night, panic?”

Vincent’s dark eyes remained sober. “Yes. I was terrified
the same fate might have befallen you and Jo. When Jo said you’d gone into the
woods and not returned…” He took a deep breath, and the faintest hint of his
usual smile touched his lips. “At first I thought I’d have no hope of finding
you amidst the trees, but fortunately I heard you crashing about like an
elephant in a glassworks.”

Of course Vincent would have worried for them…and yet
hearing it out loud sent a foolish warmth through Henry’s chest. “I’m glad you
came along when you did,” he admitted. “If you hadn’t…”

“I don’t think Rosanna could have done you any real harm,
not during the day,” Vincent replied. “Just play nasty little tricks to
frighten you and keep you disoriented.”

“And my fear gave her energy to continue.” Henry had stupidly
lost his head—he should have stayed and confronted the spirit. Instead
he’d panicked. What must Vincent think of him?

“It is odd she kept directing you back here.” Vincent let go
of Henry and stepped back. “The clearing doesn’t seem entirely natural, does
it? Too free of undergrowth in just this area. And—what’s that?”

Henry turned. Burned into the bark of the nearest trunk was
the letter H.

“The devil?” Curse it, if only he had his instruments with
him. He bent over to inspect it more closely and spotted another letter on the
trunk behind it.

“There’s more,” he said.

Vincent started forward, but Henry held up his hand. “Wait.”
He stepped back again, shifting for a better angle.

In the right line of sight, the letters spilled across the
trunks. “H-E-L-P-M-E,” he read. “Help me?” 

Vincent met his gaze, looking equally puzzled. “So it would
seem. But what could it mean? It doesn’t make any—”

There came a loud creak from the branches above them.
Startled, Henry looked up in time to see something plummeting toward them.

He leapt back with a cry, dragging Vincent with him. The
object smashed into the ground barely a foot away, releasing a stench of burned
pork and rotting flesh so powerful Henry choked on the bile rushing into his
throat.

A man’s body lay there, twisted and broken from its fall. Blackened
skin covered the charred features, arms drawn up in a pugilist’s pose, mouth
gaping in a silent scream.

Vincent gripped Henry’s arm, but his eyes remained fixed on
the body. He swallowed convulsively, and his voice grated when he said, “I
think we’ve found Mr. Norris.”

~ * ~

Some hours later, they sat around the table of the private
parlor once again. Henry sipped a cup of weak tea, hoping to settle his nerves.
The sight of the surveyor’s charred body seemed inscribed on the inside of his
eyelids, and the memory of the stench clogged his nose.

“A group of men have gone to retrieve the body,” Ortensi
said gravely. “Norris’s father among them, to see if he can recognize the
clothing, or whatever is left of it. But after Lizzie’s earlier contact with
Norris’s spirit, there seems little doubt as to the victim’s identity.”

“Or how he died,” Vincent said. He took his flask from his
pocket and added a generous dollop to his coffee.

“I’ve already had a note from Mr. Emberey.” Ortensi sat back
in his chair, lacing his hands in front of him. “He wants results. Now.
Otherwise, he fears there will be a panic.”

“I can’t say I disagree with his assessment,” Lizzie said.

Ortensi nodded. “What of your expedition into the woods, Mr.
Strauss? Before discovering the body, I mean. Did your instruments detect
anything useful?”

“No,” Henry muttered. So much for returning in triumph.
Instead, he’d returned thoroughly shaken.

“I see.” Ortensi didn’t smile, but Henry thought he detected
smugness in the man’s tone. “Fortunately Vincent and I had a productive
morning.”

After the grisly discovery, Henry hadn’t even thought to ask.
“Oh?”

“The bodies from the old cemetery were moved, and Zadock—Rosanna’s
lover—is buried here,” Vincent said, but his brow furrowed as he spoke.
“We speculate she referred to Zadock’s bones when she wrote ‘bring him back.’
But with this new message, I’m no longer certain.”

“‘Help me,’” Lizzie murmured, frowning at her coffee.

Jo looked from one to the next of them. “Why would a ghost
need help? Is she trapped here somehow? On this side of the veil, I mean?”

“It is a quandary,” Ortensi said. “Perhaps she wished Mr.
Strauss’s help in returning Zadock’s bones?”

“You’re fitting the evidence to your preconceptions,” Henry
said, peeved despite himself.

Ortensi arched a brow. “Do you have a better theory? Please,
share it with us.”

“Maybe it wasn’t Rosanna this time,” Jo suggested. “Could
the message have been from Mr. Norris? Maybe she’s holding his ghost to this
world, like in Reyhome Castle?”

Lizzie shook her head. “I sensed nothing of the sort.”

“Oh.” Jo deflated.

“Given what has happened, and the success of my attempt at
psychometry, I say we cease speculating and ask Rosanna what she wants
directly,” Lizzie said. “As she seems eager to communicate through writing,
we’ll hold a séance and I’ll—”

“Absolutely not!” Vincent exclaimed. “Look at what happened
to Sylvester’s hands. Worse—what happened to Norris. You’d be killed for
certain.”

“You don’t know that,” Lizzie replied. “And I’ll thank you
not to take such an imperious tone with me again.”

Ortensi chewed on his lower lip. “Any medium will be in
danger, but we must do something. One of us will have to channel her sooner or
later.”

“No, you won’t.” Henry’s heart beat faster. “We can use the
Electro-Séance.”

Ortensi stared at him, as if he’d said something mad. “Electro…Séance?
Really, Mr. Strauss—”

“No, wait, Henry’s right.” Vincent sat forward in his chair.
“The Wimshurst machine will provide her the energy to manifest without a
circle.”

“She doesn’t need a circle to manifest now,” Ortensi
replied, annoyance creeping into his tone.

“No, but without a séance, we have no control over
where
she appears.” Excitement for the plan unfolding in his head flooded through
Henry. “Surely she’d be drawn to an easily accessible source of energy like the
Wimshurst machine. And once she manifests, we trap her inside the phantom
fence.”

“The phantom fence,” Ortensi repeated in disbelief.

Henry forged on. “It uses the principles of electromagnetism
to keep spirits out—or in. If we wish to be doubly sure of Rosanna
manifesting where we wish, we could set our trap in the churchyard, where her
lover’s remains lie. If you’re right about her wanting his bones, then his
grave and the Wimshurst machine together will offer a potent lure. When she
enters the interior of the fenced area, we connect the batteries and trap her
there. I’ll have the ghost grounder on hand, and—”

“Really, Mr. Strauss,” Ortensi said, “it sounds as if you’re
trying to sell us some sort of patent medicine.”

Henry’s cheeks burned. “I had ad copy in mind when I devised
the names, yes,” he admitted. “But they work.”

“I assure you, Sylvester, the machines are quite effective,”
Vincent said.

“When they don’t backfire and give the ghost more energy to
attack us,” Lizzie added wryly.

“It only happened once!” Henry protested. “This will be
different.” It had to be.

Ortensi contemplated Vincent and Lizzie. “You think Mr.
Strauss’s plan will work?”

“Yes,” Lizzie said. “I do.” Vincent nodded as well.

“Very well.” Ortensi settled back. “I suggest we work
quickly. It would be best to have everything in place and ready by sundown.”

~ * ~

“May I speak to you privately, Vincent?” Sylvester asked.

They stood outside the cemetery, the low sun casting their
shadows ahead of them. Inside, Henry and Jo busied themselves setting up the
phantom fence, ghost grounder, and other equipment. Lizzie opted to remain back
at the hotel until closer to sunset, while Vincent and Sylvester helped Henry
carry his devices to the graveyard. With that task done, there remained little for
the two mediums to do save wait.

“Of course,” Vincent replied. Turning back to the cemetery,
he called, “We’re going for a stroll, but we’ll return shortly.”

Henry waved a hand to indicate he’d heard. Vincent followed
Sylvester away from the cemetery and back through the town. Norris’s body had
been returned to Devil’s Walk, although its condition meant it lay in the
receiving tomb rather than in his parents’ parlor. No doubt it would remain
there until the local pastor returned from the other communities in his charge.

Would there be a wake tonight? Given the nearly deserted
streets, Vincent doubted it. No one seemed to want to venture outside even in
the daylight. Even most of the shops were already shuttered.

“What did you wish to speak of?” he prompted, when Sylvester
remained silent.

Sylvester sighed. He’d removed the bandages from his hands,
although the skin was still pinker than usual. “You weren’t with Mr. Strauss
during his encounter with the ghost earlier today, correct?”

“No,” Vincent said. “Why?”

“There’s no easy way to say this, but…are you certain it
wasn’t a hoax on Mr. Strauss’s part?”

Vincent came to a halt. “Of course! Henry hates such fakery
more than anyone I’ve ever met. He’d never make up such a tale. Why would you
even suggest it?”

“I mean no disrespect,” Sylvester said hastily. “But the
message. ‘Help me.’ Doesn’t it strike you as…odd? As Miss Strauss said, what
does a ghost have to fear?”

Vincent tensed. Taking a deep breath, he pulled back his
temper. Sylvester didn’t know Henry, didn’t realize how good and honest he was.
“Surely you don’t mean to suggest Henry just happened to set up a hoax in the
exact place Mr. Norris’s body was concealed.”

“Perhaps he spotted it hanging in the tree canopy?”
Sylvester replied with a shrug. “I don’t know, Vincent, and surely I’m wrong.
The entire incident simply strikes me as strange, that’s all.”

“I don’t understand.” Vincent glanced back at the distant
iron fence of the cemetery. “You seem determined not to trust Henry. I thought
it was simply the unfamiliarity of his devices, but there’s more, isn’t there?”

“I’ve traveled the world. Performed in front of kings, yes,
but also investigated ancient ruins and sought out half-forgotten tribes. My
life has been saved by guides and interpreters, or put in peril by unscrupulous
innkeepers willing to murder for a pocket watch.” Sylvester shook his head.
“The very fact I’ve lived to tell you this is proof I’ve honed my instincts to
a sharper point than most. And every instinct I have says your Mr. Strauss is
lying about something.”

“In this case, your instincts are wrong.” Vincent crossed
his arms over his chest. “Henry is the most honest man I’ve ever met. Or…or
perhaps what you sense as a falsehood is merely his concealment of my role in
his life, which of course must be kept secret by its very nature.”