“This surely wasn’t exposed to a century of weather,” Vincent said, touching it.
“No. I suspect it ended up in the church, along with the parish records,” Sylvester said. “Leave it be for now.”
The door opened almost quietly, thanks to a heavy application of oil and grease from the modern-day workers. The interior of the vault was simple, nothing more than a single, low-roofed room with thick stone walls. The weight of the earth had bowed them in slightly, but they seemed in no danger of collapse. There were no shelves to store coffins; either the deceased awaiting burial had been stacked, or the village had been too small to need much space for its dead.
Vincent lit a candle, while Lizzie and Sylvester arranged themselves on the slate-tiled floor. Ordinarily the séance would be performed in darkness, but since their purpose amounted to an interrogation of the spirit, they needed light to read the ghost’s responses.
Given Rosanna’s strength, Vincent doubted a single candle would do much to deter her anyway. He pulled the door to, shutting out the last lingering light of day and leaving behind only the candle’s pale illumination.
“Please join hands,” Lizzie instructed as he settled beside her.
Vincent and Sylvester both took hold of Lizzie’s right hand, leaving her left free to write. Their other hands they clasped together. Lizzie set her pencil to the notepad, doodling in slow loops and whirls without meaning. “Spirit of Rosanna,” Lizzie said in a clear, commanding voice. “My hand is prepared to write your words. Draw from the energy of this circle and direct my pencil as you will. I stand ready to receive you.”
Vincent’s skin prickled. Sylvester’s hand was warm in his, as was Lizzie’s. He found himself straining for any taste of ashes. Lizzie’s breathing slowed as she slipped into trance, the scratch of her pencil against the paper almost monotonous.
Would it work? Would Rosanna even answer the summons?
Ashes in his mouth answered his speculation, accompanied with the rancid flavor of overdone pork. The light of the single candle turned blue, losing whatever warmth it had possessed. A chill passed over his skin, the air of the receiving tomb going from cool to icy.
The sound of the pencil against the paper changed, jagged and sharp, as the spirit seized control of Lizzie’s hand. The fingers he held tensed, turned into iron claws, the nails pressed hard against his skin. The idle loops became words, scratched furiously into the notebook.
I am here.
Chapter 14
Henry sat in his hotel room, hands folded between his knees and his head bent. He’d meant to start packing for the trip back to Baltimore, but the sight of his clothes hanging alone in the clothespress sent him reeling to the bed. He’d gotten used to having Vincent’s shirts beside his in the wardrobe above the shop. But all he would ever see again would be what he beheld in this moment: his own dull suits, unenlivened by Vincent’s presence. Just like every other part of his life now.
There came a soft knock on the door. “Henry?” Jo called.
Jo. God. He owed her an explanation. He’d betrayed her trust just as much as anyone’s. “Come in,” he said, even though a part of him would have preferred to hide beneath the bed and pretend he wasn’t there.
She entered, but he kept his gaze fixed on his hands. It was easier than seeing the condemnation in her eyes.
She stopped a few feet away, the hem of her yellow dress just at the edge of his vision. “I don’t understand,” she said uncertainly. “You always say to tell the truth. To be honest. So why did you lie to us about the Psychical Society?”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He owed her honesty, but it didn’t make speaking the words any easier. “Fear,” he said at last.
“Fear?” She sounded puzzled.
Henry took off his glasses and rubbed tiredly at his eyes. “After so many years, I thought…but they wouldn’t accept Reyhome Castle as proof of anything but a failure. Without my interference, Vincent and Lizzie would have cleared the place easily enough, and Mr. Gladfield survived.”
“That isn’t true!” The heat in her voice caused him to look up. Her tawny face was fixed in an angry frown, and her fists clenched, as if she wished to pummel the society with her bare hands. “I was there, Henry. I saw what happened. As did Vincent and Lizzie. They wouldn’t have gone into business with you if they shared Dr. Kelly’s opinion.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “I don’t know any more.”
“Well I do.” She crossed her arms. “What were you afraid of?”
“Everything.” He shook his head. “Failure. Letting you down, letting Lizzie down. Proving myself unworthy to…everyone.”
“Everyone meaning Vincent in this case,” she guessed.
He put his spectacles back on and glared at her. “That isn’t any of your business, young lady.”
Jo arched a skeptical brow at him. “I’m not blind or stupid, Henry.”
“No, you’re a sixteen year old girl who knows nothing about these things.”
“I know love when I see it,” she shot back.
The air felt sucked out of the room, his lungs hollow. “I…”
Jo stared at him as though wondering how he could be so thick. “Mama and Daddy loved each other. You could tell, just from the way they looked at one another. The way they’d laugh or smile at some joke only they shared. I thought it was embarrassing.” She shrugged. “Once they were gone, I’d have given anything to watch Daddy tickle Mama until she all but cried, or see the silly way he’d grin when she played their special song on the piano.”
It hurt, to think Henry might have shared in those memories, had the family not turned their backs on his uncle for marrying a black woman. “I’m sorry, Jo. I wish I’d known them.”
A wistful smile touched her mouth. “So do I. But that’s not why I’m saying this.” She sat down on the bed beside him, the mattress dipping under her slight weight. “I see the same thing between you and Vincent.”
Jo had to be mistaken. It wasn’t the same. He and Vincent had made no promises to one another.
But he would have, if Vincent had asked. Would have promised anything.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, and found himself blinking back foolish tears. “I thought this haunting would give me the chance to prove myself. But as you can see, I managed to botch that as well.”
Jo heaved a sigh. “Then go after him! Help Vincent and Lizzie confront the ghost in the woods.”
Henry shook his head. If only things were as simple as she seemed to believe. “I think they made it very clear they don’t want my help.”
She let out a disgusted snort. “And you’re going to let that stop you?”
“It isn’t that easy,” he snapped. “What do you expect me to do?”
“To prove yourself!” she shot back. “Not to Vincent, or Lizzie. You never needed to prove anything to them here. You already did it at Reyhome, and in the shop. The only person you need to prove anything to is you.”
He started to argue, but caught himself. If something terrible happened to Vincent while he sat here wallowing in self pity, he’d never forgive himself.
It wouldn’t win back Vincent’s heart, he didn’t delude himself of that. He’d already thrown away whatever fragile claim he might lay to Vincent’s affections. But anything would be better than just sitting here, desperately hoping nothing bad happened to them.
“You’re right.” Henry rose to his feet. “Help me fit whatever we can into my pack.”
“And what about me?” she asked.
“You’re staying here.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he gave her a quelling look. “Jo, no. I want you in your room, with salt on all the windows and the door. Keep a sharp lookout, but don’t leave the room unless the building is on fire.”
She stood up to face him. Even though the top of her head barely came to his chin, she glared up at him defiantly. “But you need my help!”
Henry put his hands on her shoulders. “Your
safety is my responsibility. I’ve already encountered Rosanna in the woods during the day, and it was a terrifying experience. I won’t take you to face her there at night.”
The look on his face must have convinced her. “Fine. You can take my headlamp, if you want.”
He considered it, but… “I can’t carry the batteries and my pack on my back at the same time.”
They put everything that might be useful into the pack: compass, ghost grounder, portable galvanometer, and a bag of salt. Henry took up a lantern. Jo walked with him to the hotel door, where he paused.
“Thank you,” he said. “And stay safe. I love you, Jo.”
She rolled her eyes. “I know, Henry. Now get moving. The ghost isn’t going to wait all night.”
~ * ~
Vincent’s throat went dry, sticking as he swallowed against the taste of charcoal and fire. Across from him, Sylvester let out a little hiss of alarm. “She’s angry,” he murmured. “But…not at us?” He cleared his throat. “Spirit of Rosanna, we have questions to ask of you. Do you wish us to return the remains of your son?”
The pencil scratched wildly against the paper. Lizzie’s eyes rolled back into her head, showing only white. Her teeth clenched.
Yes.
“We want to give you peace,” Sylvester said. “But you must tell us where he is buried.”
In the jar.
What the devil? Vincent glanced across at Sylvester, who frowned slightly. “What do you mean? What jar?”
I put things in the jar. Nails. Hair. His heart.
Vincent gasped. “She…she put her baby’s heart in a jar?”
Rather than a look of horror, elation spread across Sylvester’s face. “Not just a jar. A necromantic talisman. You used the bond between your baby and his father to summon a spirit to kill Zadock.”
Lizzie’s nails pierced Vincent’s skin, and he gasped in pain but didn’t try to draw away. He couldn’t break the circle, not now when they were so close to unraveling this mess.
Yes.
Sylvester…smiled. “Rosanna, I command you to tell me where this jar is.”
His grief is the same as mine. He took the jar. Awoke me. Turned my son’s heart against me.
What did any of it mean? “Turned her son’s heart against her? But the child must be in the otherworld.”
Sylvester’s eyes widened. “She must mean literally. Someone found the jar, realized its use, and used it to summon and bind Rosanna. Even someone not a medium could do it—she was on this side of the veil and had a direct connection to the talisman. That’s why she’s attacking Devil’s Walk. Not out of her own will, but because she’s under the command of one of the living inhabitants.” Admiration showed in his gaze. “My God, she must have had talent, to have created an object so powerful.”
“His grief is the same as mine,” Vincent repeated. “Heartbroken, left for another…no. Not jealousy. Henry was right. This is about grief for a dead child. A dead son.” He met Sylvester’s eyes. The blue flame of the candle reflected eerily in their depths. “Fitzwilliam. His son died in a wall collapse. Emberey said the ground shift caused it—Fitzwilliam must have blamed Norris for approving the site fit for building. And Brooks must have been the foreman on the work crew Fitzwilliam’s son was in.”
“And then we showed up, trying to stop Rosanna,” Sylvester said. “Fitzwilliam tried to warn Mr. Strauss away. When that didn’t work, he ordered her to attack us in the graveyard.”
Yes. All must die.
It ends tonight.
“Someone else,” Vincent said. “She’s after someone else. But who?”
“Surveyor, foreman…overseer?” Sylvester suggested. “Is that right, Rosanna? Are you being sent against Mr. Emberey tonight?”
It is time.
The candle flame suddenly roared to life, stretching up toward the ceiling like a blue streamer. Lizzie’s nails tore into Vincent’s hand, and he jerked back instinctively from the pain.
The circle broke.
Lizzie pitched forward, gasping great lungfuls of air. The flame died to a more ordinary size and reverted to a soft, orange glow. The freezing room began to warm once again. Swearing softly, Vincent wrapped his handkerchief around his bloody hand. “Lizzie? Are you all right?”
Sylvester leaned over and put a supportive hand to her arm. She pressed her fingers to her forehead and nodded. “Yes. I…did we get our answers?”
“Rosanna made a necromantic charm using the heart of her stillborn baby,” Vincent said. He stood up and pushed open the door to let in some fresh air. The sun had set, probably at the very moment Rosanna ended the séance. “Someone—probably Fitzwilliam’s son—found the jar she used and took it home. Now Fitzwilliam is using it to order Rosanna to murder everyone he blames for the death of his own son.”
“Emberey?” she guessed.
“Maybe. Or maybe the whole damned town.” God, Henry and Jo were there. “We have to return to Devil’s Walk immediately!”
“Let’s not panic,” Sylvester said, holding up his hand. “I agree, we must return to the town and confront Mr. Fitzwilliam. We’ll take the jar from him. It’s what we do afterward which I want to speak to you about first.”
“What do you mean?” Why did Sylvester want to have a discussion while Henry might be in danger?
And God, despite everything, despite all the lies and the pain, he still cared about Henry. If Henry died, it would break him, grind all the little pieces left of his heart into dust.
Vincent swallowed, trying not to imagine it. Henry would be fine, so long as they acted quickly enough. “We smash the jar to bits, rebury anything left of the baby here in the woods, and lay Rosanna to rest.”
“That is one possibility,” Sylvester said carefully. “I would prefer to make a different suggestion.”
The look Sylvester had worn on his face during the séance…the one of elation. “You knew it was true all along,” Vincent said. The world seemed to slip sideways. “The legend of her summoning a spirit. You expected to find some kind of necromantic talisman.”
“Hoped, more like.” Sylvester smiled wryly. “I didn’t know anything. But if the stories were true, then yes, there would be some sort of object to bind the spirit. I’ve been searching for evidence all along. When we dug up Zadock’s grave, I’d thought perhaps Rosanna had secreted it on his person, or in his coffin.”
“Which is why you insisted on examining his remains yourself,” Vincent guessed.
“Of course. I never imagined it was in the hands of the living, compelling Rosanna to attack.”
“But why were you looking for it?” Lizzie rose to her feet, her face pale. “Sylvester, this thing is an abomination! Surely you don’t mean to use it!”
“Oh,” he said. “But I do.”
Sylvester might as well have punched Vincent in the gut. “You can’t.”
“Dunne would never have agreed to this,” Lizzie said. “Never.”
“Oh my poor child,” Sylvester said with a sad chuckle. “Of course he would have. He suggested it in the first place.”
No air remained in the little room. No air remained in the world. “Dunne is dead,” Vincent said. “He’s been gone for a year. Don’t you dare blame him for this.”
“And don’t you dare play the fool, Vincent Night.” Sylvester’s hazel eyes narrowed angrily. “I told you we had plans. A vision—a dream for a better world. I left New York to find everything we’d need, all the bits of knowledge scattered across the globe just waiting to be fitted together. But to do so, I needed access. Access to the libraries of the ancient houses, of the church. The funds to venture to the far corners of the earth, where men in grass huts hold secrets that would shake the foundations of the civilized world.
“For twenty years, it worked. I became the Great Ortensi. But now? Now there’s gray in my hair.” His lip curled. “Clairsentience is too tame a talent, especially when combined with the aging body of a man. The new darlings of the spiritualist world are g
irls, nubile and soft. Not to mention willing to perform partially unclothed, to ‘prove they have nothing hidden on their persons’ or whatever excuse they come up with. I cannot compete. My last European tour was canceled halfway through due to lack of interest.”
Lizzie eyed him warily. “I’m sorry, Sylvester, but it doesn’t excuse the use of necromancy. None of this has anything to do with Dunne.”
“Oh, but it does. He’s the one who suggested I find a necromantic talisman—not to kill, merely to command. The feats I’d be able to order the spirits to perform would astonish. My career would be saved, and I’d have the opportunity to gather the last few pieces we needed. Unfortunately, it’s taken almost two years for me to find a genuine talisman.”
“No.” Lizzie shook her head. “Dunne would never have agreed to such a thing.”
“He should have told you, when you survived your apprenticeships.” Sylvester arched his brow. “Or did you truly think you were the first?”
“We were,” Vincent said, but his lips went numb. “He took Lizzie in. Then me. There was no one else.”
“And I suppose you also believe he scooped you up out of the gutter for no other reason outside the goodness of his heart?” Sylvester’s look became pitying. “James did have a good heart—of course he did. You saw it for yourselves. He donated to every charity, gave a coin to every beggar. But the two of you were chosen. Special. Why do you believe he brought you into his house, instead of taking you to the orphanage or handing you a coin? Why else did he raise and train you, give everything of himself to make you better mediums?”
Vincent swayed. It was all lies. Sylvester spun a wild story in order to justify his own desire for fame. Nothing more.
“If James still lived, we’d all be together now,” Sylvester said gently. “He would have done an infinitely better job of explaining things than I have.”
“I imagine so, as you’ve explained nothing!” Lizzie chopped the air violently with her hand. “What are these plans of yours? Why should we go along with anything that includes necromancy?”
Dangerous Spirits Page 15
