More drawers tore open, and he didn’t wait to see what they might hold. Gaining the door, he slammed it shut behind him just in time to hear more objects hitting the wood.

  Close. And the butler’s pantry, with all the china, was between him and the main hall.

  He ran flat out, pain stitching up his side, his bruised hip screaming a protest. The sound of exploding glass came from the butler’s pantry, but he didn’t let it distract him, and an instant later, he burst out into the grand hall.

  And collided with someone, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

  ~ * ~

  “Perhaps if we run,” Jo suggested.

  Ice seemed to wrap around Henry’s heart, packing against his ribs with every beat. The ghost was indeed toying with them, like a malicious child ripping the wings from a fly.

  “Can we close our eyes, as with the door?” he asked Miss Devereaux.

  She nodded, her loose coil of hair whispering over her shoulder. She looked pale—did her efforts to see through the ghost’s lies take some toll from her? “Yes. At least, I think so.” She straightened with apparent effort. “Join hands and form a line. I’ll lead us out of here.”

  Henry grasped Jo’s hand in his, and she took Miss Prandle’s. “Close your eyes, and whatever you do, don’t let go,” Miss Devereaux ordered as she took Henry’s free hand. “If you do, you’ll be lost. I have no doubt the ghost is more than capable of separating us from one another.”

  Henry nodded and closed his eyes. Jo shivered beside him, and he gave her hand a tight squeeze. “We’re ready when you are, Miss Devereaux.”

  It was hard, letting her lead him, trusting his feet not to trip. With no sight to distract him, he became painfully aware of the freezing air on his skin, burning in his nose with every breath. Jo’s hand was a like a brand in his, but Miss Devereaux’s fingers felt like ice.

  His foot caught on something—probably the edge of the carpet runner—and he nearly fell. The medium’s hand tightened on his convulsively, but she didn’t say anything. Her breathing grew rapid, labored, as if she hauled them behind her up a steep hill.

  A finger ran slowly along his cheek.

  Henry gasped sharply. “Did—did one of you touch me?”

  “No,” Jo said, and an instant later, Miss Prandle let out a gasp of her own.

  “There’s something behind us!”

  “Keep going,” Miss Devereaux grated out. Her voice was thicker, lower, closer to what Henry supposed her natural tones must be. “It’s trying to trick you into letting go.”

  Fingers pinched Henry’s side viciously, even through the layers of his clothing. He winced and tried to ignore the touch.

  Nails now. Scraping along the back of his neck. A breath in his ear.

  There was something beside him in the hall. Right beside him; he sensed its presence, and if he just opened his eyes, he’d see it looming only inches from his face.

  “D-don’t look, Jo,” he ordered. “Keep going!”

  It exhaled again, breath fetid, like a beast’s. Maybe it was a beast. A monster, meaning to kill him, and oh God he was going to die, he had to look—

  “We’re at the stairs,” Miss Devereaux said. “Just a few moments longer. Henry, the step is right in front of you.”

  Gritting his teeth, he fought against the overwhelming sense of menace commanding him to freeze, to look. He felt carefully with his foot, found only air instead of floor, and stepped down.

  His ears popped, and warmth flooded back into his limbs. Opening his eyes, he beheld the sweep of stair, the grand hall far below.

  “To the door, now,” Miss Devereaux said. Ignoring the pain in his foot, Henry pelted down the stairs after her, pulling Jo and Miss Prandle behind him. They reached the grand hall, and Henry let go of their hands.

  A dark shape, moving fast, caught the corner of his eye. He didn’t even have time to turn before it collided with him.

  He struck the floor, sending a jolt of pain through his elbow. Whatever had attacked him was heavy and surprisingly solid, and he managed to throw a glancing blow.

  “Henry!” Vincent exclaimed. “Stop, it’s me.”

  Henry blinked stupidly. Vincent lay atop him, their faces only inches apart. His dark hair was in disarray, and he reeked of wine. “Vincent? What are you doing in here?”

  Vincent rolled off and staggered to his feet with a wince. “Reyer held the front door closed. I came in through the basement to find you.”

  Even though Henry knew Vincent didn’t mean him in particular, it still warmed his chest foolishly. “Thank you. The spirit tried to trap us on the third floor—we’re abandoning our things and meant to leave immediately.”

  Vincent nodded. “Good idea. Come along.”

  They made their way toward the vestibule, both Vincent and Henry limping. As they approached, the front door swung open, and Bamforth ducked inside.

  “Bamforth?” Miss Prandle asked in surprise. “But the door—”

  “It just suddenly opened,” he said.

  “Reyer must have exhausted himself, at least for the moment,” Vincent said. “Working against both me and your group, and holding the house sealed, drained his energies.”

  “For how long?” Henry asked.

  Vincent shrugged, then winced yet again. Blood showed through a small tear in his coat. “Impossible to say. If we’re lucky, he won’t be able to do anything further in the daylight. Nonetheless, I wouldn’t suggest trying to gather our things, just in case. It’s not worth the risk.”

  “Agreed,” Miss Prandle said, starting for the door. “Let’s be off.”

  “Forgive me, miss, but I came in to tell you.” Bamforth took off his cap and crushed it worriedly between his fingers. “The snow’s gotten worse. It’s...well, see for yourself.”

  He swung the door open. Outside, past the edge of the portico, the snow came down in a blinding torrent, so thick and heavy Henry couldn’t even see the woods beyond the drive. “It’s a blizzard,” he said.

  “And accumulating fast.” Bamforth’s face had gone pale. “Unless it stops soon, we’ll never make it through to the rail station.”

  “Then that’s it.” Vincent exchanged a look with Miss Devereaux. “We’re trapped.”

  ~ * ~

  Vincent sat in one of the chairs near the great hearth while Lizzie tended the punctures the fork had left in his shoulder. Miss Prandle wept quietly across from them, her arms wrapped around her stomach. Bamforth stood nearby, looking helpless, while Miss Strauss huddled near the fire. Henry had left a short time ago, saying he wanted to look over his equipment in the schoolroom. As if he thought there still might be some chance of saving them.

  Outside, the storm continued to rage, snow piling high against the doors and windows. Soon the sun would set, and Reyer would return. Would the ghost take him first, or would he have to see Lizzie and Henry lying dead, just as he’d seen Dunne?

  If only that would be the end of it. But even death wouldn’t free them from this place. Because there was a new taste on his tongue, of damp cigars. Gladfield’s spirit, trapped in the hall where he had died, unable to move on thanks to Reyer.

  “There.” Lizzie stepped back. “At least you won’t be bleeding everywhere now.”

  Vincent pulled his coat back on, glad for its warmth. Should he tell her? Wouldn’t it only make things worse?

  But Lizzie deserved his honesty. He indicated the other end of the hall with a nod before standing up and making his way past their silent companions. Gladfield’s rug-covered body laid against the wall now, a grim reminder of the fate awaiting them all.

  When they were far enough away to have a private conversation, Vincent came to a halt. “I’m sorry,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say. “I’m sorry I failed you. If I hadn’t let fear get the best of me, the shop wouldn’t have foundered, and we wouldn’t have been forced to take up Gladfield’s ridiculous challenge. And now we’re going to die here, and...and I’m sorry.”

  Lizzie sighed. After a moment, her hand came to rest on his good shoulder. “There’s more than enough blame to go around. I clung to the shop as if it would bring Dunne back somehow. As if keeping it meant he wasn’t really gone. But the shop isn’t him, or us. It’s just a place.”

  “We won’t escape, you know. Even after...” Vincent swallowed convulsively. “Gladfield is here. Trapped.”

  Lizzie closed her eyes and swayed slightly. “Reyer wants not just our lives, but our very souls. And he has the ability to keep us here, with him, forever.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Lizzie tipped her head back, staring up at the rafters above them. “One of us should see to Mr. Strauss. It isn’t safe for him to be alone upstairs.”

  The anger Vincent had harbored toward Henry had drained away, leaving behind only weariness and a sort of grief for all the things which might have been. “I’ll do it.”

  As he started to turn to the stairs, Lizzie touched his arm, staying him. “Mr. Strauss tried to make amends,” she said. “For whatever it may be worth. I will admit I’m not pleased with his actions, but at least he’s apologized. I believe he acted out of anger and stupidity, rather than malice.”

  Vincent frowned. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I just wanted you to know, I think there’s hope for him. Or there would have been.” She let her hand fall. “He’s proud and stubborn to the point of foolishness, yes. But he can learn.”

  Vincent glanced past Lizzie to where Miss Strauss sat miserably in front of the fireplace. “Thank you, Lizzie.” Turning away, he made for the stairs.

  Chapter 21

  “You never give up, do you?” Vincent asked.

  Startled, Henry turned from where he’d been bent over the equipment, reconnecting the last wires of the phantom fence. Vincent stood in the doorway, his head cocked to one side. A tuft of black hair spilled across his forehead, and his clothing was covered in wine stains, blood, and cobwebs. A bruise darkened one cheek, and his stance favored one leg. And yet somehow Henry found him even more beautiful than before.

  Henry gestured vaguely at the table holding the remaining fragments of what had been the work of years. “I have to do something. Have to try.”

  A tiny smile flexed the corner of Vincent’s mouth. “I don’t know whether to admire you or think you mad.”

  “Mad, then. Certainly I’ve done nothing to admire.” Henry turned to the window, unable to look at Vincent as he spoke. Wind whipped the snow into a frenzy, turning the world beyond perfectly white, as if nothing really existed beyond these walls. “We’re trapped here, thanks in part to my actions. We can’t leave until the storm ends. And it’s far more likely Reyer will end us first.”

  Vincent’s soft sigh was barely audible over the groan of the wind around the cornices. “Henry...”

  Henry held up his hand. “Don’t. I know what I’ve done. I only...”

  “What?” Vincent prompted when he lapsed into silence.

  “I just wanted to help people.” Henry shook his head miserably. “I wanted to keep anyone else from being taken advantage of, the way my family had been. I wanted to make the world a better place. And now it’s all gone wrong.” He wrapped his arms around his chest, feeling as if the blizzard outside had crept within. “You say I never give up, but you’re wrong. I did give up. On people. On hope.” Henry glanced over his shoulder and found Vincent watching him. “On you.”

  “You had good reason.”

  “Did I? Clinging to old hurt, like a jilted bride to the gown she never wore.” He crossed the room to the window and stared out into the streaming snow. How long did they have until sundown? “When I found out you’d lied about your origins...it was like Isaac all over again.”

  “I know.” The floorboards creaked beneath Vincent’s weight as he drew closer. “I should have told you. I intended to last night, after we made love.”

  No one had ever called it that before, not with him, at any rate. “Oh.” Would it have changed things? Henry would still have been hurt, but if they’d had a chance to talk before dawn...

  It didn’t matter. He’d never know. “Why did you do it?” he asked. “Miss Devereaux said your background wasn’t the sort to inspire confidence in men like Mr. Gladfield, but why make up some fairy tale of Indian princesses and medicine men?”

  “Why do you think?” Vincent’s voice held a bitter edge. “People who look like me are still being killed every day in the West. But here in the East, with the tribes safely dead or contained, we’ve become ‘noble savages.’ Magical spirit guides. Fairy tales, as you said, instead of people. Why not take advantage of it? I don’t know if I’m Mohican or Iroquois or even Comanche. I don’t even know if I have a drop of white blood in my veins. Given my looks, I doubt it, but I suppose it’s possible. What choice do I really have but to weave the fantasy my clients want to hear? If saying my father was white, if claiming good missionary folk raised me, it harms no one and allows me to do the work I’m called to do.”

  “It does hurt someone, though,” Henry said. “It hurts you.”

  “Perhaps.” Vincent sighed. “The truth—the entire truth—is that I never knew my parents. At least, as far as I know. There was a young woman—a girl, really—who might have been my mother. Or my older sister, perhaps. She died when I was very young. After, I was on my own. I did whatever it took to survive, from selling newspapers on the corner, to scavenging scrap out of middens, to letting men fuck me for money. And in the end, yes, I did run a scam, just as your detective found out.”

  Henry’s throat felt tight. No wonder Vincent had invented a happy childhood, safe and cared for. “Vincent, I—”

  “Just let me finish.” The boards creaked again as Vincent shifted his weight. “I know the scam was wrong. But at the time, it seemed easy. A safe way to make money. A...well, I wouldn’t really call him a friend, I suppose. An acquaintance came up with the idea. He pretended to be a medium. I was his ‘Indian spirit guide.’ During the séance, I’d come out dressed in a loincloth and covered in starch. Say a few sentences in the sort of broken English the audience expected an Indian to use. Then retreat back behind the curtain. Until the day I ended up channeling an actual spirit.”

  Henry finally found the courage to turn and face Vincent. “That must have been frightening.”

  Vincent laughed tiredly. “To say the least. But it brought me to Dunne’s attention, and despite everything, I can’t regret it. He was the first person who really saw me for who I was deep inside.”

  The ache of raw grief in Vincent’s voice drew tears to Henry’s own eyes. “You loved him a great deal.”

  “He was the closest thing I ever had to a father.” Vincent’s gaze went past him, focusing on the curtain of white beyond the windowpanes. “The first night in his house, I assumed he wanted...what any man who showed interest in a scrawny boy from the streets wanted. But he didn’t. He told me I was there to learn, to become the person I was meant to be, not to repeat the past. He said I could be anyone I wanted to.” Vincent bowed his head. “I kept my first name, but I chose Night because he always said mediums like us lived on the night side of nature.”

  God. Henry had made so many mistakes over the last few days, but somehow this cut most deeply of all. He’d hurt Vincent without just cause, as if spreading pain to another would somehow lessen his own. “It’s a good name,” he said quietly.

  “Thank you.”

  Henry took a step forward, even though his knees trembled. Vincent’s gaze slipped from the window and met his, and Henry found he couldn’t have looked away even if he’d wished to. “There’s nothing I can say to express how terrible I feel about everything,” he said. “Please, Vincent. Let me make it up to you. I’ll do anything it takes to earn your forgiveness.”

  Vincent’s black eyes seemed to bore into his, to peel back all the protective layers and peer at what lay beneath. For a long moment, he didn’t respond, and Henry’s heart sank.

  Then Vincent stepped forward until they were only inches apart. Lifting his hand, he traced the line of Henry’s jaw slowly with his thumb. “Anything?”

  Henry’s heart beat so hard his hands shook. He licked dry lips, saw Vincent’s gaze shift to track his tongue. “Anything.”

  A slow smile bloomed over Vincent’s mouth. “Well. Perhaps I’ll take you up on your offer, Mr. Strauss.”

  The kiss was tender, slow. A gentle caress of lips, followed by tongues and heat. Henry’s hands threaded through Vincent’s hair, and Vincent slid his arms around Henry in return.

  When they finally parted, Vincent drew back only far enough to rest his forehead against Henry’s. “That felt like a promise,” he whispered.

  Henry drew in a deep, trembling breath. “It was.” With a sigh, he stepped back reluctantly. “You’ve given me a second chance. I’m not going to die here and miss out on it, Reyer be damned.” He gestured to his equipment. “There must be something we can do—some vulnerability we can exploit.”

  Vincent tossed back his head and laughed. “You really don’t give up, do you? Very well—you’ve convinced me. What do we have available to us?”

  Henry contemplated the equipment. “The Wimshurst machine is destroyed, but it isn’t as if we wanted to give Reyer more energy anyway. The dispeller is also beyond all hope of repair. Leaving us with the phantom fence, Franklin bells, and the ghost grounder.” He glanced at Vincent. “And of course you and Miss Devereaux.”

  “So you admit a medium may have his or her use after all?” Vincent asked archly.

  The memory of the distorted hallway, the blank wall, the unfindable stairs, came forcefully back. “Yes,” Henry said, though the word stuck in his throat. “Whatever my theories may have been before coming here, I think I can safely say that mediums are indeed needed.”

 

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