Dangerous Spirits

by Jordan L. Hawk

  Putting aside questions to which he had no answer, he carefully set about unscrewing the latch. If he dropped it or the screw, they would have no hope of fixing the lamp. Ortensi would keep summoning ghosts. Even if the arc lamps came on inside the building, there was nothing to keep him from attacking the rest of Devil’s Walk as a plot to force Vincent and Lizzie out into the open.

  There. It was done. As soon as power was restored, the electromagnetic coils would feed the carbon electrodes into the correct position, and the lamp would burn again.

  His hands shaking, Henry untied his coat and let it tumble free. Pain flared in his left shoulder with every movement, but he slowly, slowly climbed down. He kept his attention on the iron cross beams directly in front of him, careful not to look down. His legs ached, and his left hand didn’t grip as it should, but he finally reached the roof. With a groan, he leaned against the tower, his whole body trembling. He wanted nothing but to collapse.

  But there was still no light. Had something gone wrong below? The breaking glass he’d heard—had the ghosts somehow gained entrance? If they’d hurt Jo…

  Stifling another moan at the pain in his limbs, he pushed himself off the tower and turned. Ortensi stood between him and the trap door.

  Chapter 18

  Henry’s heart pounded from a mixture of exertion and fear. Ortensi stood before him, coat flapping in the wind. In his hand he held the small earthenware jar.

  Oh God. If Ortensi was here, the defenses below must be breached. What had happened to Jo, to Vincent? Did they still live?

  Ortensi paced forward, his hazel eyes fixed on Henry. “Well, well. I underestimated you, Mr. Strauss,” he said, as if they’d met on a street corner and not atop a tower with the wind screaming around them and ghosts screaming below. “I viewed you as a threat. A part of the new order, determined to sweep relics such as myself under the rug. To forget the old ways, the old powers.” A small smile touched his mouth. “I dismissed the sentiment when Vincent said James would have loved you, but perhaps I was wrong.”

  Henry tried to back up, but his shoulders collided with the tower. Sweat slicked his palms and the headlamp felt like a miniature sun strapped to his forehead. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I should have offered to join forces, rather than try to discredit you.” Ortensi gave Henry an assessing look. “I forgot what James always knew—how to select the right tool for the right job. I need money to travel, fame to gain access to the last pieces of knowledge we need. Money and fame, the very things you crave most of all, but haven’t attained on your own.”

  Ortensi lifted the jar, as if Henry might have missed it. “With this simple object, my return to the stage is secured. But your inventions would give my séances a modern flair. Few doors would remain closed to us.” A fatherly smile crept across his face. “You wish to provide for your cousin, do you not? Imagine what an education at the finest universities of Europe might do for her. Here, she’ll be lucky to find a negro college that accepts women, let alone prepares them to be anything more than teachers or nurses. Your dreams for yourself will be assured, and you’ll never have to worry for her again. What do you say?”

  Some mad part of Henry wanted to laugh. If someone had asked him this a year ago, if he’d stood here, having never met Vincent, the answer would have been obvious. Easy. “Vincent will never stand for it.”

  Ortensi snorted scornfully. “That is where you’re wrong, my friend. James didn’t choose Lizzie and Vincent for their independent spirits. He knew that just a little bit of kindness, the sort of decency most of us take for granted, would gain their blind devotion. They would have cut off their own hands if he’d asked.” Sadness flashed over Ortensi’s face. “James’s death was hard on all of us. If I’d been able to return immediately and take his place in their lives, perhaps there would have been no disruption. No chance for them to consider anything else. It will take time, but I can still earn back Vincent’s loyalty and trust, even if Lizzie is a lost cause. If you help me.”

  Henry’s hands felt cold despite the sweat dripping from his brow. “You want me to convince Vincent to listen to you. To go along with your plans, with your use of a necromantic artifact.”

  “The rewards for you will be great.” Ortensi’s smile took on an edge of triumph. “With my name and the power of this jar behind us, we’ll perform before Queen Victoria herself. I’ll be able to do what none other truly has and summon her lost Albert back to her, under the guise of using your machines. Your devices will divert any suspicion of my sudden talent, and gain you international acclaim. The Psychical Society will be sorry they ever turned you away. They’ll beg for your forgiveness.”

  Henry’s stomach rolled, the same way it had in the forest, when he’d turned over the old sign and found the writhing maggots underneath. Whatever Ortensi might have been, whatever scheme he and Dunne had supposedly concocted, there was nothing but a kindly veneer masking corruption.

  “Go to hell,” Henry growled.

  Ortensi’s smile dissolved. “Have it your way, Mr. Strauss,” he snarled.

  Rosanna flamed into being behind him.

  ~ * ~

  Vincent’s wrist ached from holding the ghost grounder, and yet the spirits kept coming. Whatever power the jar had given Fitzwilliam to command, it was nothing as compared to its potential in the hands of a true medium. No wonder Sylvester spoke so admiringly about Rosanna’s ability, to have created something like this.

  Thank God for the ghost grounder. The mediums’ commands might not be able to overcome the power of the jar, but the grounder still worked as it always did. Every bit of energy it stole from the ghosts offered them another few seconds of life.

  Had Sylvester reached Henry yet? Would he attack Henry with the knife, or merely summon more ghosts to him? Or…

  Oh no. Rosanna had vanished after opening the door. But Sylvester surely hadn’t let her go. She’d burn Henry, turn him into a pillar of flame like Fitzwilliam. And all the while Vincent was trapped down here, desperately trying to save everyone else, while the man he loved screamed and died.

  “I’m out of salt,” Lizzie said, and flung the empty bag at one of the ghosts. It went through his insubstantial body and struck the floor.

  “Can we run for it?” Emberey asked. “While Ortensi is occupied?”

  “No.” Lizzie backed rapidly toward the dynamo. “There are other ghosts outside, waiting in the square. This is our only chance.”

  “Get behind me, Lizzie,” Vincent ordered. He slashed at a ghost coalescing beside her, leaving his other flank exposed.

  Emberey screamed as unseen hands yanked him away from the furnace. His shovel scraped along the floor. He swung it frantically. The iron made contact, and the hands dragging him let go. But before he could scramble back, more grabbed him. He flew into the wall, and there came a snap as his arm broke against the brick, accompanied by his cry of agony.

  Vincent yelled. He to had get to Emberey, and protect Jo and Lizzie at the same time, but how?

  A powerful blow struck his back.

  “Vincent!” Lizzie shouted.

  He stabbed blindly about him with the ghost grounder, but at least one spirit had learned to avoid it. Another blow struck him on the side, then on the knee. He went to the floor, curling to protect his vitals as unseen hands pummeled him. “Jo!” he shouted.

  “It’s ready!” she yelled. “Shield your eyes!”

  The lights overhead blazed to life.

  ~ * ~

  Henry flung up his hands, as if the gesture would somehow hold the ghost back. “No—don’t!”

  “End him,” Ortensi ordered.

  The light of Henry’s miniature arc lamp fell across Rosanna’s face. Her image seemed to thin, her movements stutter.

  He’d been right. The miniature arc lamp did affect her. Just not enough to stop her.

  She stalked toward him, compelled no matter what he did to her. As long as Ortensi held the jar, its necromantic power wo
uld force her to obey his will.

  It was impossible to see if any regret lived in her blank, boiled eyes. Her hair burned in a fiery cloud around her face. Blackened skin cracked on her cheeks as her mouth opened, revealing fire-shattered teeth.

  Henry backed up, trying to put as much distance between them as possible. But the top of the clock tower was small, and made even more cramped by the moon tower and its guy wires. The edge of the roof stopped him far too soon.

  Ice cold air caressed his face as she stalked closer. But it wouldn’t stay cold for long. In a few moments, she’d incinerate him, as surely as she had Fitzwilliam. Desperate to slow her, even for a moment, Henry snatched tools from the satchel hanging in front of him and flung them at the ghost. The brass ones had no effect, but she snarled and jerked back from an iron wrench. A hole tore in her ectoplasm, and she growled when the beam of his arc lamp crossed the wound.

  But she still didn’t stop.

  “No,” he said, crouching at the very edge of the roof, even though he knew the words would do no good. “Please, Rosanna, stop, stop!”

  She came to a halt only inches from him. The intense cold began to reverse itself. Heat poured out of her, the suddenly hot air creating a breeze against Henry’s cheek, lifting the edge of his hair.

  Rosanna stretched out a hand. Henry found himself staring fixedly at the broken nails, the bloody, blackened skin as it moved closer and closer. One touch, and he’d die as she had, his body wreathed in flame.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  “You should have taken my offer, Mr. Strauss,” Ortensi said. “There’s no one here to save you.”

  The great arc lamp overhead blazed to life.

  Rosanna arched back, her mouth stretched into a silent scream. The light struck her like a strong wind scattering ash, bits of burned skin and hair flaking away, first a few, then more and more. At the same moment, she grew fainter, less substantial—until with a faint pop, she vanished into nothingness.

  Henry sat back on his heels, gasping. His heart felt as though it might burst from his chest, and all his limbs turned to water. Blinking against the harsh light of the great lamp, he stumbled to his feet and looked up.

  Just in time to see Ortensi rushing toward him.

  There was no time to dodge, no time even to think. Ortensi’s hands slammed into his chest, and Henry fell. His hip hit the edge of the roof, and he grabbed wildly at the bricks, a scream of terror torn from his throat. His elbow collided with one of the guy wires anchored to the roof’s corner, and he seized it instinctively, even as his legs slid over the edge.

  Agony shot through his left shoulder, and he nearly lost his grip on the wire before he managed to seize it with his right hand as well. It helped—but not by much. All of his weight plus the batteries dragged him down, the straps of the pack cutting into his shoulders. How long could he hope to hold onto the wire, before his aching fingers slipped and sent him to his death?

  Ortensi loomed up, his shadow falling over Henry. “You have the devil’s own luck,” he snarled. “But it ends here.”

  “Sylvester!” Vincent shouted. “Get away from him!”

  ~ * ~

  The effect was instantaneous. Arc lamps blazed overhead, as the dynamo spun to life. The sludgy taste in Vincent’s mouth vanished, and ectoplasm dissolved beneath the onslaught of the artificial illumination. Harsh, white light showed through the windows as well, competing with the flames to illuminate the square.

  Lizzie shaded her eyes. “No wonder Emberey didn’t want this glaring through his window,” she said, even as she hurried to the man’s side. Emberey groaned and whimpered, clutching at his arm, but seemed otherwise unhurt.

  “It worked!” Jo exclaimed, eyes bright with excitement. “Just like Henry said.”

  Henry.

  Vincent dropped the ghost grounder and ran for the stairs. “Keep an eye on Jo and Emberey, Lizzie,” he called. “Just in case something goes wrong and we lose the light.”

  The steel stairs rang under his feet as he bolted for the roof. His legs ached, as did the rest of his body, but he didn’t even feel the pain through his terror for Henry.

  The glare of the arc lamp shone down through an open trap door. He was almost there—just a short ladder between him and the rooftop.

  Henry’s scream cut through the air.

  Vincent didn’t remember climbing the ladder; it seemed the next instant he dragged himself onto the roof. The harsh light of the arc lamp seemed to pick out every detail of the scene, even the smallest irregularities of the bricks outlined in sharp-edged shadows. Henry’s tools lay scattered across the roof, as if flung by a careless hand. Sylvester stood at the edge of the tower, his back to Vincent. But where was Henry?

  Sylvester. The edge of the tower. Had Henry screamed as he fell to his death?

  Vincent’s heart seemed to stutter in his chest. The world froze, dipped in cold treacle, and his pulse turned sluggish.

  The beam of a much smaller arc lamp flashed across the edge of the tower, in Sylvester’s shadow. Henry clung to one of the guy wires strung from the moon tower to the roof corners. He was alive.

  And Sylvester meant to kill him.

  “Sylvester!” Vincent shouted. “Get away from him!”

  Sylvester turned, even as Vincent reached him. Before the other medium reacted, Vincent grabbed him by the coat and shoved him hard into the moon tower.

  The older man struck the iron with bruising force. The necromantic jar tumbled from his grip, hit the ground, and rolled away intact.

  “Vincent!” Henry shouted.

  “I’m here!” He started for Henry.

  Then Sylvester was on him. A hard arm wrapped around his neck, jerking him back and nearly off his feet. Vincent clawed at Sylvester’s arm, but his grip was like an iron bar against Vincent’s throat, cutting off his air.

  “There was no need for this,” Sylvester growled in his ear. “No need for any of this! If you’d only listened, your Mr. Strauss would be safe, and you and Lizzie would be leaving here on the morning train with me. Instead you’re determined to destroy everything. I should have realized James made a mistake in choosing you. After all, it’s your fault he’s dead.”

  Vincent snapped his head back with all his strength. His skull collided with Sylvester’s face, already tender from the blow Fitzwilliam had dealt him.

  Sylvester let out a bellow and his hold loosened. Vincent tore free and stumbled forward, gasping for breath. His shin collided with the base of the moon tower. He fell onto the bricks, scraping his palms raw against them. One of the scattered tools, an iron wrench, clattered away from his fingers.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sylvester’s calfskin shoes, now stained with mud and dust, crossing the roof toward Henry.

  “Vincent!” Henry shouted. “I can’t hold on much longer!”

  Vincent’s hand closed on the iron wrench. Lunging to his feet, he flung it into the arc lamp.

  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.”