Henry’s pulse fluttered in his throat. Now was the moment—either Reyer would respond and the séance would proceed, or he’d suffer humiliation in front of Gladfield and everyone else. Drawing a deep breath, he started to repeat the invocation.

  A wave of freezing air poured over him, shocking in its cold. The thermometer’s reading plunged, and the galvanometer showed the charge vanishing from the air. “Keep cranking, Jo!” he cried. “It’s working!”

  His words came out in a breath of steam. Frost coalesced on the surface of the table, raced along the Wimshurst machine, and gathered on the copper wires surrounding the table. A thin skin of ice formed over the dispeller’s water bowl.

  Jo let out a cry and jerked her hand back from the crank. “It’s too cold!”

  No—they couldn’t fail now. Henry lunged at the crank, grasping it with his gloved hand. “Jo—attach the wires to the phantom fence. Quickly, before the spirit leaves!”

  She rushed to carry out his instructions, but he kept his eyes fixed on the air of the original cold spot. Was it his imagination, or was there a sort of shadow there, like the ripple of a heat wave, only darker?

  There came a soft hum as the fence came to life. At the same moment, the ripple seemed to thicken. A translucent substance, not quite smoke and not quite solid, took shape. A sickly, yellow-green glow clung to its edges, allowing him to make out its form in the dark room.

  “We have ectoplasm!” Henry exclaimed. Someone—he thought it might have been Miss Prandle—clapped in delight.

  A pair of eyes appeared amidst the ectoplasmic swirl. Not human eyes, but spots burning with some unholy light. They fixed upon Henry.

  He stopped cranking, the Wimshurst machine letting out a few last cracks as it slowed. “Francis Reyer?” he asked. “Your presence is no longer welcome here.”

  A soft laugh, like the skittering of skeletal fingers across his ear, came from the form.

  All the little hairs on the back of his neck tried to stand up. Pushing back his fear, he said, “Be gone, or you leave us no choice but to force you out.”

  The eyes blazed, and malevolence struck him like a physical force. The spirit began to advance on him.

  Instinct screamed that he needed to back away, to run, to put as much distance as possible between them. This thing wanted to hurt him, to break his will, to lay greasy fingers upon his very soul.

  He had to hook the dispeller to the battery. But his every muscle locked in place. He couldn’t move, could barely breathe.

  It was only inches away. Was this the last thing the maid had seen before she’d fallen to her death? These soulless eyes, full of hate and rage?

  “Henry!” Vincent cried from somewhere beyond the phantom fence.

  The spirit’s attention snapped away from Henry. He sagged, knees turning to water. His hands slammed into the desk, palms catching him from collapsing altogether. From beneath the desk came a pitiful squeak. Jo had taken refuge under there—thank heavens she wasn’t hurt.

  And Vincent? Why had the spirit turned from Henry? Did it realize Vincent was a medium—a gateway open to spirits, as he’d said earlier?

  Oh God. Vincent.

  Henry forced himself straight just in time to see Reyer rush the fence. For a horrified second, he thought the spirit would surely slip past the wire. How could he ever have imagined simple copper and current would hold back such hate?

  Just inches from the fence, the roil of ectoplasm stopped, jerking away from the wire and its current. Another pulse of rage and hate beat against Henry, and Jo moaned.

  “You have it trapped!” Gladfield shouted. He sounded like a spectator at some entertainment, unaware or uncaring of the horror saturating the very air inside the fence. “Finish it off, Mr. Strauss!”

  Finish it. Yes. A hurried glance at the galvanometer showed the charge in the air had dipped far below normal levels. The water for the piezoelectric dispeller had frozen, but there was no more energy within the circle for the ghost to draw from. Save for him and Jo, at least.

  The ghost grounder. Where was it?

  A growl vibrated through the air. The spirit turned from its futile attempts to breach the fence, its baleful eyes fixing on Henry once again.

  “Don’t look at it, Henry!” Vincent cried. “Damn it, let go of me! We have to stop this!”

  “Hold him, Bamforth!” Gladfield roared. “He’s trying to sabotage Mr. Strauss!”

  Obeying Vincent’s command, Henry dragged his gaze from the spirit’s. Some life returned to his limbs, and he stumbled away from Reyer, although the fence prevented him from going far. Was Jo still safe? Where was the damned ghost grounder?

  Something struck him in the back, sending him sprawling to the frost-covered floor.

  The skin of his palms burned, either from cold or friction. His chin clipped the floor, teeth clacking together and a spike of pain jarring through his skull. Beneath the desk, Jo huddled, the whites of her eyes gleaming in the darkness along with her pale blouse.

  And in front of him, just inches away, lay the copper grounding rod.

  Henry snatched it up in his gloved hand. Even as the sense of malevolence beat at his back, he rolled over and thrust the grounder deep into the heart of the presence looming above him.

  Frost raced across the rod’s surface, and sparks leapt around it, blindingly bright after the darkness. The sickly light faded from the ectoplasm, energy leaching away along the copper rod. The growl came again, deep and thrumming in Henry’s bones, but it seemed less intense.

  The grounder was working.

  The glowing roil of ectoplasm gathered itself—then shot across to the side of the circle opposite Henry.

  Was Reyer trying the fence again? Henry staggered to his feet, intending to pursue the spirit if he had to in order to sever its connection to this world once and for all. The fence had repulsed it earlier—it would again.

  Except the ghost wasn’t trying the fence. Instead, it fell upon the batteries powering the device.

  Horrified realization crashed into Henry. “No!” he shouted, but it was already too late.

  ~ * ~

  Henry stared aghast as the spirit drained the energy from the batteries, replacing everything he’d taken from it and more. The hateful, glowing eye spots flared, and there came a nasty chuckle.

  But he’d nearly stopped it before. If he could only get the ghost grounder close again—

  “The fence!” Jo shouted in dismay.

  Oh no. Without the batteries, there would be no current. And with no current...

  The spirit was no longer confined to the circle.

  “Run!” cried Miss Devereaux, and she hurled open the door.

  The ghost seemed to expand, tendrils of sickly ectoplasm streaming through the room. The mirror on the wall shattered. Paintings fell in a cacophony of snapping frames and ripping canvas.

  A violent wind filled the room, like a blast straight from the arctic, so cold it stole Henry’s breath. The Wimshurst machine hurtled from the table, smashing against the wall. One of the fence posts uprooted and struck Henry in the back, sending him to his knees. Shards of glass stung his cheek, and he cried out involuntarily. Where was Jo? Was she safe? He had to get to her out of here, but how? He couldn’t see, couldn’t even stand.

  Daylight flooded the room, even the dim illumination of a snowy afternoon blinding after the darkness.

  There came a vibration like an angry roar, shaking the walls and floor, but the storm of glass and broken furniture died away. Blinking dazedly, Henry slowly lowered the arm he’d flung up against the sudden brightness.

  A warm hand closed on Henry’s chilled one, accompanied by the scent of citrus and musk. Vincent.

  “Can you stand?” the medium demanded. No doubt it was he who’d thought to open the curtains.

  “Yes,” Henry said through chattering teeth.

  Vincent hauled him up, then, one arm around his waist, dragged him out of the room. Henry stumbled beside him in a daze. How had things gone wrong this quickly? What had happened to the others?

  “Jo,” he said as they emerged from the room. “Where is she?”

  “Everyone else had the sense to run,” Vincent replied. “You were the only one to stand there and get knocked about.”

  “I didn’t stand there! I—”

  The door to the bedroom slammed shut behind them, cutting off Henry’s words. Vincent flinched. “Well. It looks as if Mr. Reyer isn’t accepting any more visitors today.”

  Before Henry could reply, Jo hurled her arms around him, almost knocking him from his feet. Relieved beyond words, he hugged her back. “Jo! Are you injured?”

  “No.” Her hair had half come out of its bun, forming a wild nimbus around her face. “Just frightened. But what of you?”

  Henry’s cheek stung where flying glass had caught him, and his back ached from the impact of the post. Even so, he managed a reassuring smile. “I’m fine.”

  “If Mr. Night hadn’t helped you...”

  Now they were safe, fear began to be replaced by a sinking feeling. Vincent had saved him—Vincent, who had warned him not to do this in the first place.

  Vincent, who, it seemed, had a point.

  The medium stood a few feet away now, near the rest of the group. Beside him, Miss Devereaux’s hair was disarranged, but otherwise she seemed calm—if angry. Miss Prandle’s eyes were huge, and her hand fluttered above her breast.

  “Oh!” she said. “Your séance had quite a bit more excitement than one usually sees.”

  “Indeed.” Bamforth hovered near Miss Prandle, but his gaze went to Henry, tight and angry. “You’ve given the ladies a terrible fright, Mr. Strauss.”

  Heat crept up Henry’s neck. “I won’t pretend things went according to plan.”

  “Then I am reassured,” Vincent said. The flying glass had nicked him as well, and spots of blood stood out here and there against his bronze skin. “If that had been the Electro-Séance’s intended mode of operation, I would have to recommend against it most strongly.”

  Henry wanted to make some acerbic reply, but as Jo had pointed out, he owed Vincent a great deal. “Thank you, Mr. Night, for your timely intervention. Without you, I fear my injuries might have been worse.”

  Vincent waved his hand languidly. “Think nothing of it.”

  “What went wrong?” Gladfield asked with the air of a man inquiring about some minor issue. Apparently, he didn’t feel the need to apologize for accusing Vincent of trying to sabotage Henry earlier.

  Curse the man. Henry took a deep breath, forcing his shoulders to relax. “The battery. The spirit—Reyer—drained the battery connected to the fence, both energizing itself and removing the only thing keeping it in check at the same time. It never occurred to me...”

  He trailed off miserably. This was supposed to be his moment of triumph, and instead he’d made a fool of himself in front of everyone.

  “And now you’ve awakened, fed, and set loose a dangerous entity.” Miss Devereaux’s eyes flashed emerald fire. “Were I Mr. Gladfield, I’d demand you pay me five hundred dollars for making things infinitely worse!”

  Stung, Henry stiffened his posture. “I’ll make things right. Jo and I will repair the equipment and try again.”

  “And you think you can force the spirit to do your bidding? You couldn’t when it was weak—how do you propose to try now?” she shot back.

  Would she not even give him a chance to put things right? “I made a mistake, yes, but I intend to fix it. Which is a sight better than standing about complaining!”

  “We need to leave.” Vincent pushed himself off the wall, his dark gaze traveling over the company. “This is the ghost of a madman who murdered his own wife and children. It’s dangerous, and it’s angry. Depending on precisely when Reyer hanged himself, we have approximately twenty-four hours before the hour of its death makes it even stronger. We should pack our things and depart for the next train south. Reyhome Castle belongs to the dead now.”

  Of course Vincent had no confidence in Henry’s ability. Why should he, given how badly the séance had gone? Still, Henry struggled to keep the hurt from showing in his voice. “I will fix my mistake. But I won’t ask you to stay.”

  “Don’t be absurd—I’m not leaving you here,” Vincent snapped as if insulted at the very suggestion.

  “I...oh.” He wasn’t certain how to respond, except Vincent’s words brought a foolish warmth to his chest.

  “We should at least remove the ladies,” Bamforth said, with a glance at Miss Prandle.

  Miss Devereaux’s mouth twitched in annoyance. “I’m more qualified to deal with this situation than anyone save Mr. Night.”

  “And I have to help Henry,” Jo put in loyally. Henry started to protest, but fell silent. In truth, if they were to put the situation to rights, he needed someone who could help repair their ruined equipment.

  Miss Prandle turned to Gladfield. “Well, uncle? Shall we stay?”

  “Of course!” Gladfield said, as if any alternative were preposterous. “I’m not leaving a valuable property just because of a few broken mirrors and thrown bits of furniture. The experience was startling at the time, but no one was hurt, beyond a few scrapes and cuts. The real damage was done to the furniture and poor Mr. Strauss’s equipment. I see no reason to call off the experiment, especially as conditions now offer a true test of ability.”

  “There you have it,” Miss Prandle said. “We are all resolved to stay.”

  Chapter 13

  “You need my help,” Vincent told Henry.

  They stood in the schoolroom, where Henry, Jo, and Bamforth had brought the broken equipment from Reyer’s bedroom. Jo and Bamforth had departed, leaving Henry standing alone, his back to the door, his arms folded and his gaze fixed on the jumble of wires and rods. How badly the devices had been damaged, Vincent couldn’t tell, but the breakage certainly looked severe to his untrained eye.

  At Vincent’s words, Henry turned to face him. Like Vincent, he’d washed the blood from his face, and only a small bit of plaster, decorating a cut on his pale cheek, betrayed the danger they’d faced an hour ago. “Do I?” he asked waspishly.

  Curse the man. Couldn’t he see Vincent only wanted to help?

  Vincent shut the door behind him and stalked across the room. Henry’s eyes widened slightly, and he backed up until his shoulders met the wall.

  “Yes. You do.” Vincent crowded him, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat of Henry’s body through the inch of air separating them. “If you won’t do the sensible thing and get the hell out of this house, you need all the help you can get.”

  Henry lifted his chin, lip jutting slightly. “I’ve made a mess of things. It’s up to me to fix them. I’m not going to beg for your assistance now after I spurned it earlier.”

  Of course he wanted to stay. Henry cared—about other families who might be ruined by frauds, about his cousin, even about Vincent. Just like Dunne had cared.

  Dunne would have stayed to help the dead as well as the living. And he certainly wouldn’t have abandoned anyone to face Reyer’s ghost alone. Even if it got him killed. Even though it had killed him.

  “You seem to have mistaken my statement for a request.” Vincent leaned in further, thighs brushing together now. Henry’s breath caught softly. “It wasn’t.”

  He kissed Henry, and that, too, wasn’t a request. For a moment, Henry held out against his insistent probing—then his lips parted, and he sucked on Vincent’s intruding tongue. Vincent pinned him tight against the wall, sliding his thigh between Henry’s, his hands braced against Henry’s shoulders. Henry shifted against him, his growing erection hard against Vincent’s thigh. One hand clutched at Vincent’s hair while the other encircled his waist, pulling him even closer.

  Vincent ached. He wanted to get this man in bed, feel their skin together, learn all the things that would make Henry whimper and beg for more.

  Vincent drew back just far enough to break the kiss, bodies still locked together from the chest down. Henry’s breath came raggedly, his eyes wide with lust behind smudged spectacles. “Why did you save me earlier?” he asked, breath soft against Vincent’s cheek. “You might have run with the others. Left me in the room to deal with Reyer’s ghost by myself.”

  “Because I wouldn’t have been able to fuck you later.” It was a lie, but it sounded good and brought a scarlet flush to Henry’s face.

  “You seem awfully sure I’ll let you.”

  Vincent rocked his thigh against Henry’s erection and received a gasp of pleasure in return. “I think my confidence is not without reason.”

  Henry slid a hand between them, pushing against Vincent’s chest. “It’s not why you didn’t leave me. Gladfield thinks I wouldn’t have been seriously injured, but...I’m not so sure.”

  “Gladfield is blinded by his vision of what this house could be,” Vincent said flatly. “Of the money it would make as a resort hotel. If he was the only person to worry about, I’d have left already.”

  Henry glanced down to where his hand rested on Vincent’s chest, directly above his heart. “You were right earlier—I was too confident,” he admitted. “Although I don’t think I’m quite the fool you take me for. Yet now you refuse to leave me, and demand in fact to help. Why?”

  “Because I’m an idiot?” Vincent suggested.

  Henry shook his head. “Not a good enough answer.”

  Vincent sighed. His glibness had served him well in the past, but Henry wasn’t the sort of man to take it for an answer. He had to get at the heart of things and find out what made them work. “You’re brilliant. Your fence and grounder might have worked, under other circumstances. But your very cleverness makes you foolhardy, because you aren’t used to being wrong.”

  He laid his palm against Henry’s jaw, thumb lightly tracing the other man’s bottom lip. “You mean well, though. You accepted your error and are trying to correct it.” Vincent smiled ruefully. “You care about people. You’re a good man, even though I want to strangle you at times.”

  “You wish to strangle me?” Henry exclaimed. “When you are the one who—”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23