Damn it. Vincent pulled Henry roughly against him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never meant you to feel as though I was anything less than yours. And if you can forgive my lie of omission, I’ll forgive your outright one.”
“Hmph,” Henry snorted into his shoulder. “We’ll have to revisit your standards of honesty, Vincent Night. But…yes. God, yes.” He tipped his head back, his eyes vulnerable behind the glass shield of his spectacles. “I love you, Vincent.”
Vincent kissed him tenderly. “I love you, too,” he whispered, and the words sent a thrill through him, to be spoken aloud. “And I can’t wait to show you how much. But right now, we have a town to save.”
Chapter 16
They left the receiving vault and headed for the rail line. Vincent and Lizzie started to turn south, back toward Devil’s Walk, but Henry called, “No! There’s a faster way!”
They halted. Vincent’s black hair fell into his eyes, and for some reason the sight did strange things to Henry’s heart.
Vincent loved him. Loved him, despite all the stupid things he’d said and done. It seemed almost like a dream, except presumably a dream would have included less agonizing betrayal and fewer articles of clothing.
“What do you mean?” Vincent asked, when Henry didn’t continue.
Henry told himself to focus and gestured to the end of the rail spur. A group of flat cars sat there, some of them still loaded with brick and iron beams. “We ride the rails, of course.”
Vincent arched a brow. God, even dirty and exhausted, he looked handsome in his crimson coat and tailored trousers. “The one flaw in your plan would be the lack of an engine to pull them.”
“It’s downhill until we reach Devil’s Walk,” Henry replied, making for the cars. “We’ll uncouple the first one and ride it down.”
Lizzie laughed. “Brilliant, Henry. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and run down Sylvester on the way.”
She climbed onto the first flat car, which had been unloaded before the workers deserted the site. Henry handed his pack up to her, then uncoupled the car from the one behind it. “All right, Vincent. Remove the chocks. We might have to give it a shove to get it started.”
Vincent pulled the chocks free, and Henry pushed as hard as he could. To his surprise, it took little effort to get the flat car rolling. Vincent scrambled onto it, then reached down. “Run, Henry!”
Henry jumped for the car. Vincent grabbed his arm and the back of his coat, hauling him onto the scarred wood platform. They fell back in a tangle of limbs.
“Got you,” Vincent said with a grin.
“That you do.”
Vincent’s grin softened, and he swept a kiss across Henry’s lips, before shoving at his chest. “We should probably sit up.”
As the incline grew steeper, the car began to go faster, rushing down rails gleaming silver in the moonlight. The wind tore at Henry’s hair, his hat long gone. Lizzie perched near the front of the car, peering forward, as if she could make Ortensi appear before them. Vincent stayed at the rear with Henry, their thighs pressed together. Henry took his hand, felt Vincent’s fingers curl in his.
“Tell me what happened,” he said over the wind. “What did you find out? And why did Ortensi lock you and Lizzie in the receiving vault?”
It wasn’t easy to hear over the wind, so Vincent leaned against him, speaking almost into his ear. Under ordinary circumstances, Henry would have enjoyed sitting there so close, with Vincent’s head resting against his shoulder. Now, though, he had the urge to throttle Ortensi with the man’s own silk necktie.
“He was lying,” he said, when Vincent finished. “You knew Dunne far better than he. There was no—no plan, or whatever absurdity the man claims.”
Vincent’s black eyes gleamed, suspiciously bright in the moonlight. “I hope you’re right. I still can’t believe Sylvester would stoop to necromancy, no matter the cause.”
Henry had no trouble believing it…but he wasn’t precisely unbiased, either. “What do you intend to do?”
“Keep him away from the accursed jar. Destroy the thing. After, I’m not sure.” Vincent pressed closer, as if for comfort. “It isn’t as if he’s committed some crime.”
“What’s to stop him from finding another artifact, or learning to make one himself?”
“Nothing,” Vincent said, not bothering to hide his bitterness. “But right now, we have to worry about what Sylvester might do tonight, not some unspecified future. Look—there’s the town. I hope you gave some thought to stopping the flat car?”
“We should lose momentum—the track levels out well before the depot.” Henry peered toward the town. “I don’t see any smoke, at least. Fitzwilliam must not have made his move just yet.”
The flat car began to slow, gradually at first, then more noticeably. Eventually it glided to nearly a stop. Henry jumped off, followed by Vincent. Lizzie tossed Henry his pack, then hopped down into Vincent’s arms.
Only a few lights showed in the village. “Where is Fitzwilliam’s house?” Lizzie asked, brushing off her skirts.
“I’ve no idea.” Henry glanced at Vincent, got a shake of the head in return. “Curse it.”
“Emberey will know,” Lizzie said. “He’s the target of the ghost—someone needs to protect him while the rest deal of us with Fitzwilliam. And…and Sylvester.”
“Henry!” Jo shouted.
He spun—what was she doing out here? She ran toward them, a lantern in one hand and a satchel in the other. Its yellow light revealed a look of fear on her face.
“Are you all right?” she cried. “I thought something terrible had happened!”
Startled, he caught her in his arms. “I’m all right, Jo. Why did you think something went wrong?”
“Mr. Ortensi came back alone. I spotted him through the hotel window. I ran out and asked where you were. He said he hadn’t seen you. I thought you didn’t make it through the forest.” She hefted the satchel. “I was coming to save you.”
Henry hugged her tightly. “I appreciate the rescue. Ortensi is a traitor. He imprisoned Vincent and Lizzie.”
“And if he knows Henry went into the woods after us, Sylvester must realize there’s a chance Henry let us out,” Vincent said. His expression was flat, but his fist clenched. “He’s probably run straight to Fitzwilliam’s house, assuming he knows where it is.”
“Curse it.” Henry released Jo. “Stay close. We’re going to Mr. Emberey’s house.”
The square lay silent, save for the chime of the clock tower. Most of the houses showed no light. Given their relatively impressive facades, it seemed likely the owners possessed wealth enough to leave town until the danger was past.
It made the lone sliver of light spilling out from one even more noticeable. Had someone left a door ajar?
“Isn’t that Emberey’s house?” Lizzie asked sharply.
Vincent let out a hiss. “She’s here. Rosanna is here!”
~ * ~
Vincent ran for the open door, his mouth full of ashes and rancid flesh. There was no time for subtlety; he kicked the door hard, sending it crashing back against the wall. “Emberey!” he shouted. “Em—”
He stumbled to a halt. Emberey stood at the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor. Before him, shabby coat and dirty shoes looking out of place in the large foyer, stood Fitzwilliam.
And at Fitzwilliam’s side burned Rosanna.
Fitzwilliam clutched a small earthenware jar in his hands. His face twisted in a look of fury, his eyes wild and staring. “Stay back!” he shouted. His voice turned to steam in the icy air. Rosanna turned her head, ghostly tendons and vertebrae snapping loudly, until her ruined eyes stared at them.
“Help!” shouted Emberey. His ivory skin went paper white with fear. “Stop him! He’s mad!”
“I’m the sanest person in this damned town!” Fitzwilliam growled. “You and your kind let our sons die to build your mills and factories, but does anyone stand up to you the way they should? No! Your filthy
money bought their souls.”
A manic smile touched his face, terrible to see. Vincent shuddered. “When my boy brought me the jar he’d found in the diggings, I knew it must be God’s will. My ancestor was only a girl when Whispering Falls burned, but she remembered seeing the witch whispering to the jar, one day when she played in the woods. She wrote about it in her diary, many years later. And as soon as I touched it, I knew this was the same jar.”
Did the man have some mediumistic talent, too small to channel spirits, but enough to sense such a powerful artifact? Perhaps it ran in their line, and had prompted his son to pick up the accursed thing in the first place.
“At the time I didn’t know it was put in my hands to do God’s work,” Fitzwilliam went on. “To cleanse this modern-day Gomorrah, starting with the three devils who let my boy die. You’re going to pay for your sins, Emberey. I’m here to watch you burn.”
Rosanna’s gaze returned to the fore. In eerie silence, she began to drift toward Emberey.
In the seconds it took to wrest the jar from Fitzwilliam, Emberey might die. Vincent darted forward, past Fitzwilliam. “Get the jar!” he shouted over his shoulder. Pulling the bag of salt from inside his coat, he wrenched it open.
Emberey screamed in terror, scrambling madly up the stairs. Rosanna’s flames burned stronger, and she let out her piercing shriek. Emberey screamed again, clutching his ears.
“I’m sorry, Rosanna!” Vincent said, and hurled the contents of the salt bag onto her.
She vanished in a swirl of ectoplasm. “You did it!” Emberey exclaimed.
“It won’t last more than a few seconds.” Vincent grabbed the man’s arm. “Run for the door—we don’t want her burning the house down around us. I—”
Rosanna materialized inches from Vincent.
Her blow sent him skidding down the stairs and onto the floor. Emberey’s boots thudded past a second later, making for the door.
“No!” shouted Fitzwilliam, and Henry let out a cry of pain.
Vincent rolled to his elbow and looked up the stairs. Rosanna drifted down toward him, her fiery hair and dress streaming behind her.
The flames spread, racing over the floor and up the walls. They burned blue in her presence, the spectral light at odds with the heat pouring forth. Vincent stumbled to his feet, beginning to cough as smoke billowed from the burning wallpaper. He turned his back on her and made for the door.
Henry lay on the floor, blood trickling down the side of his face. Jo crouched beside him, wiping at it with her handkerchief.
“Henry!” Vincent stumbled to them.
Henry blinked. “Fitzwilliam—he hit me in the head with the jar.”
“He ran after Mr. Emberey,” Jo said. Something caught her attention over Vincent’s shoulder, and her eyes went wide. “Vincent! Duck!”
He flung himself to the floor. A blast of hot air roared over them, and he glimpsed Rosanna flash past, like a spark on the wind. For a moment he thought the house would come down on their heads. Then the flames turned hot orange—she’d left, in pursuit of Emberey.
“Where is Lizzie?” he asked. Smoke stung his eyes, and he blinked rapidly in an attempt to clear them.
“She went after Fitzwilliam,” Jo said. “We have to get out of here!”
“Go!” Vincent ordered. He hauled Henry to his feet. Smoke billowed around them, and Henry began to cough. Vincent dragged Henry out the door and into the clean night air.
Lizzie leaned against the side of the house, her free hand on her ribs. “Sylvester,” she said, before Vincent could ask. “The bastard lay in wait outside. He knocked me into the wall.”
“Look!” Jo exclaimed, pointing.
The light of the flames washed over Devil’s Walk, illuminating the square. Rosanna burned like a second fire, advancing once again on Emberey. The overseer fell to the ground, either from injury or terror.
Not fifteen feet away, Fitzwilliam and Sylvester struggled over the jar.
Both clutched its earthenware body, each striving to wrench it from the other’s grasp. Fitzwilliam’s lips drew back from his teeth, his expression utterly deranged. “Emberey must pay! Must atone for his sins!” he howled.
Sylvester kicked him in the shin. Fitzwilliam staggered, and Sylvester almost succeeded in yanking the jar free. With an incoherent snarl, Fitzwilliam snapped his head forward, smashing his forehead into Sylvester’s face.
Sylvester let go and staggered away, blood running freely from his nose.
“Henry, Lizzie—take your salt and use it on Rosanna,” Vincent said, and made for Fitzwilliam.
Fitzwilliam started to turn at the sound of Vincent’s footsteps—but not fast enough. Praying his companions held Rosanna off Emberey for just a few more minutes, he launched himself at Fitzwilliam.
There was no finesse to it. They both went down in the mud. The sleeve of Vincent’s coat gave at the seam. Fitzwilliam’s elbow cracked audibly against a stone embedded in the muck.
And the jar went flying.
The air pressure changed instantly, Vincent’s ears popping. Fitzwilliam made it to his knees, so Vincent kicked the jar, sending it skidding away from Fitzwilliam’s grasp. Then he rolled away, even as heat bloomed behind him.
Henry grabbed Vincent and pulled him up. “Emberey—” Vincent gasped.
“She’s not after him anymore,” Henry said, his eyes wide with horror.
Vincent followed his gaze. Fitzwilliam managed to get to his feet, but the jar had vanished into the shadows somewhere. Rosanna stood before the man who had bound her, even as she bound some other unfortunate spirit all those years ago.
“St-stay away!” he shouted, backing up.
She screamed. Every window facing the square shattered, and the sound buzzed in Vincent’s teeth as much as in his ears. Fitzwilliam cringed away, arms flung up, as if he could somehow ward her off.
She stretched her hand out and grabbed his arm. Flames poured out from her. His clothing caught, hair igniting, and now he was the one screaming.
“Don’t watch, Jo,” Henry said. She hid her face in his chest, hands pressed over her ears.
Vincent froze to the spot, transfixed by horror. Fitzwilliam’s cries died away, and he collapsed to the ground. His body twitched once or twice, and then remained still. The stench of burning cloth and hair, of charring flesh, washed over them, joining the taste in Vincent’s mouth until he nearly gagged. Beside him, Lizzie turned and vomited.
Rosanna turned away from the smoldering pile that was all which remained of Fitzwilliam. Her boiled-egg eyes seemed to seek out Vincent. “Bring him back,” she said in a voice of flame and wind.
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.
Dangerous Spirits Page 17
