Restless spirits, p.7
Restless Spirits, page 7
part #1 of Spirits Series
A speculative look came into those dark eyes. “Did you?”
“Yes.” He swallowed against a dryness in his throat. “It’s my duty to be protective of Jo, and...well. Men seem to often think the color of her skin means she’s available to them for...things.”
Night arched a brow, but he still didn’t move away. “And all the lurid dime-novel tales of Indians carrying off hapless women surely didn’t help.”
Embarrassed heat flooded Henry’s face. “No! I know you might think so, given how I spoke to you on our first meeting. Please, accept my apology.”
Night seemed taken aback. “I don’t think I’ve ever had an apology from a white man.”
Now Henry felt even more wretched. “Living with Jo has made me consider things in a way I had no cause to before.”
“I see. Then I accept your apology.” Night moved nearer, forcing Henry back until his shoulders met the stone of the wall. The man was far too close, his lithe legs pressing lightly against Henry’s, his hands still on Henry’s arms. Henry realized dimly that he still clutched Night in return, but he couldn’t quite seem to make himself let go.
“And did you only come to say you were sorry?” Night murmured, his voice gone deep and husky.
“Yes.” He had to be firm about this. Had to. “I...I should go. I w-wouldn’t want to deprive Miss Prandle of your company any longer.”
Night bent his head. “But I don’t want to do this with Miss Prandle,” he said. And before Henry did more than part his lips to ask what he referred to, Night kissed him.
His full lips moved sensuously against Henry’s even as their bodies pressed tight. The hard line of Night’s erection pushed against Henry’s hip, and Henry moaned involuntarily, rubbing them together. Night took advantage of the moan, slipping his tongue into Henry’s mouth, and oh God, he’d missed this. He never kissed any of the men he met in the back alleyways, and Night’s lips on his were like the fall of rain on drought-stricken soil. The medium tasted of cinnamon and warmth, his tongue exploring Henry’s mouth with a thoroughness which turned his knees to water.
Night drew back, his breathing uneven. He let go of Henry’s arm with one hand, running his thumb lightly over Henry’s lips. Henry bit at the tip, sucked it, but he couldn’t look away from Night’s dark eyes. This was madness—foolishness—it was Isaac all over again.
Yet he couldn’t seem to make himself stop.
There came a loud squeal of hinges from below, and they both froze. In the heat of the moment, Henry had forgotten about whatever had come up the stair behind him, forgotten everything except for the man whose prick still pressed against his through their trousers.
“Henry?” Jo called. “Are you up there?”
Night released him and stepped back. Henry cleared his throat, fighting past the bands of lust tightening his chest. “Y-yes?” Night grinned at his discomposure, and Henry shot him a scowl. “I’m here!”
“Come down quick, and bring Mr. Night with you! The bells are ringing!”
~ * ~
Vincent stood back with Miss Prandle, Gladfield, and Miss Strauss while Henry—he couldn’t help but think of Strauss as such—inspected the thread and the line of starch across the doorway leading to what had been Mr. Reyer’s bedroom. The Franklin bells had ceased ringing by the time they’d arrived, but it didn’t seem to dampen Henry’s excitement in the slightest.
“Everything here is intact,” he verified, and Miss Strauss scribbled something in their notebook. “No one entered the room to tamper with the equipment, at least through this doorway. I’m removing the thread now in order to enter.”
The gleam of genuine excitement in his eyes made Vincent suppress a somewhat rueful grin. Whatever Henry might think of mediums, there was no denying he enjoyed using his science to achieve similar ends.
No denying either the way he’d returned Vincent’s kiss in the tower, like a man dying of thirst finding an oasis in the desert.
Vincent shifted his stance and took a deep breath to calm his pulse. He’d never intended to kiss Henry, hadn’t meant to do more than flirt. But once he’d had Henry in his arms, he hadn’t been able to resist. Neither, it seemed, had Henry. If Miss Strauss hadn’t interrupted, things would have gone a great deal further.
The mental image of Henry kneeling in front of him had his prick hardening again. He had to think of something else—anything else.
Fortunately, the rustle of skirts sounded behind him as Lizzie approached. Glad for the distraction, he stepped away from the gathering to greet her.
The cold air outside had reddened her nose and ears, and the hem of her skirt was damp. Her gaze went past him to the bedroom. “Has Mr. Strauss made some sort of discovery?” she asked. “Or is he just showing off his instrument?”
Night snickered. “The former, actually. Maybe. His spirit-detecting bells went off, and he’s making certain no one else had access to the room.”
“And does it actually prove anything we didn’t already know?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.
Oddly, he found he wanted to defend Henry to her. “I think it does. Whatever his intentions, Mr. Strauss’s methods are ingenious. The bells alerted us to the presence of a spirit, without needing a medium to be on hand. In a case such as this, where there are only two of us and multiple spirits...”
“Hmm.” Lizzie didn’t seem so convinced.
“The spirit here was the weakest before,” Vincent added. “I hesitate to suggest it, but could the fact its presence stirred the bells mean it’s growing stronger?”
“Hardly a comforting thought,” she muttered.
“I know.” He glanced over his shoulder to make certain everyone else was still occupied. “Did you find anything?”
“No. I tramped around in the snow for nothing.” Her lips turned up into a wicked grin. “Perhaps I should tell Mr. Strauss I sensed something in the pond. Let him freeze his fingers off trying to measure a cold spot on the ice.”
“He’d do it,” Vincent agreed ruefully.
“I’ll keep the thought in mind in case we need entertainment later.”
“Don’t be cruel, Lizzie.”
She gave him an odd look. “He’s our competition, Vincent. No matter what else you might get up to with him, he’s not your friend, or mine.”
The thought was dispiriting. Henry’s kindness to his cousin, his willingness to apologize to Vincent for a slight, suggested Vincent’s original assessment of Henry had been wrong. He wanted to get Henry alone again, not to kiss—although he’d certainly relish the opportunity—but to talk. To find out more about that clever mind and unexpectedly warm heart.
But Lizzie was right. “There’s something else you should know,” he said and told her of the apparition Jo had glimpsed in the mirror. “Henry and I exchanged words, and I went to investigate the tower.”
“Henry?” she asked sharply.
Damn it. “Strauss,” he said hastily. “He came to find me, and the tower door slammed behind him. Then he reported hearing disembodied footsteps coming up the stairs.”
“Did you hear these steps?”
“No,” he admitted. “And I didn’t sense anything. But something frightened Strauss. I suppose it might have been his imagination.”
“Hmm.” She continued to look at him askance. “I’ve known you for a long time, Vincent Night. There’s something you aren’t telling me.”
“The tower...I think it bears closer inspection.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Regardless of whatever Mr. Strauss heard on the stair, the small room at the top of the tower is a locus of spirit activity of some sort.” The taste of rusty iron nails had been so strong in his mouth he’d almost gagged.
Until the kiss washed it away with the sweetness of another’s lips. Then he hadn’t tasted anything but Henry.
~ * ~
A short time later, everyone drifted into the dining room for lunch. It was less formal than their earlier meals, and at the moment only Henry, Jo, and Night were present; the others’ footsteps and voices sounded on the stairs and in the hall.
Henry scarcely believed the Franklin bells had worked. Of course theory said they should, and he’d been confident in it...but there had always been a little seed of doubt.
Not now. He’d create his own model of the bells and patent it as a “ghost detector.” Strauss’s Sure-Fire Spirit Finder—that sounded good, didn’t it? Sleep peacefully, without fear of unseen spirits, the ad might say. Of course, he’d have to find some way of insulating it from lightning storms, or else legions of customers would end up convinced that they were haunted every time the weather turned foul.
But those were just details, to be figured out later. For now, the point was that the device had worked.
Bamforth laid out a selection of cold meats, cheeses, and bread for them on the long side table. Henry assembled a sandwich from them and dropped into one of the chairs at the table.
Vincent Night sat down directly beside him.
Bands tightened around Henry’s chest, and his hunger dissolved. Or rather, his hunger for the food. Even not looking directly at Night, he was keenly aware of the medium’s body inches from his, just as he would have been the heat from a fire. He reached hurriedly for his coffee with his right hand even as Night reached with his left. Their elbows bumped, and Henry felt in his groin the shock of the casual touch.
“Pardon me,” Night said, giving no indication that Henry’s presence had any effect on him at all.
“Of course,” Henry replied, striving to sound cool. Which was impossible, considering all he could think of was the heat of Night’s lips on his, the press of his erection through their trousers.
No. He had to fight this. The man was a fraud and a liar at worst, an archaic purveyor of superstition at best. How many widows had Night tricked out of their inheritances, leaving them destitute? How many young men had he taken advantage of, claiming to care for them?
Except he’d gone out of his way to reassure Henry last night in the bedroom. Offered to make him tea. And this morning, he’d tried to help Jo, at least until Henry had intervened. Those seemed less like the actions of a fraud, and more like the actions of someone concerned about those around him.
“Are you quite all right, Mr. Strauss?” Miss Prandle asked as she entered the room.
Henry blinked back to the here and now and realized he’d been clutching his coffee and glaring at his plate without either taking a sip or eating a bite. “Quite fine, thank you,” he said and brought the coffee cup to his lips.
“I’m sure Mr. Strauss is merely excited by the morning’s events,” Night said blandly.
Henry choked on the coffee in his mouth, succeeding in bringing it up his nose. Jo helpfully pounded him on the back.
“Indeed,” he said, mopping his face with his napkin. “Science is always thrilling. Far more so than most other activities one might undertake.”
“Of course,” Night replied, pausing to take a bite of bread. “There is nothing quite so rousing for a man as to have his bells played with.”
Jo giggled, and Miss Prandle covered an unladylike snort behind her hand. Thank heavens Gladfield had only just come in and hadn’t overheard. Even given the loosened boundaries allowed mediums, he might have objected to Night’s talk.
Henry’s neck and cheeks flushed hot. He bit savagely into his sandwich, imagining it was...well, he wouldn’t want to really bite Night. Although...
Damn it.
Bamforth reemerged from the kitchen with an offering of fresh coffee, distracting the company. Miss Devereaux entered the room, making their gathering complete. Night turned his attention to Miss Prandle, asking something about a misplaced will. Too flustered to follow the conversation, Henry concentrated on his meal, glad to be left in peace for a few minutes.
Once finished, he tossed down his napkin and drained the rest of his coffee. “Come along, Jo. As we’ve gotten results in the bedroom, I wish to set up the barometer inside. We’ll monitor it throughout the afternoon.”
They climbed the stairs to the second floor. Henry’s mind was already half on the experiments he intended to run, when Jo grabbed his arm and let out a gasp. “Henry, look!”
Startled, he raised his head. They’d come up the easternmost of the double staircases, which let out directly facing the wall of Mrs. Reyer’s bedroom. High up on the wall—higher than any human could easily reach, at least without a ladder—someone had scrawled “Kill the whores.”
Chapter 8
Vincent stood in front of the wall, staring up at the uneven letters. He breathed deep, but smelled only chalk and dust, tasted only the milk-cut coffee from lunch. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I don’t sense anything.”
“Don’t be daft.” Henry cut him a sharp look. “This...filth...certainly wasn’t here when we went down to lunch, or else we would have seen it. The starch and threads on the servants’ stair weren’t disturbed, and with the doors to the dining room open, no one could have gone up the main stair without us spotting them. It’s impossible for any human agency to have done this.”
“Mr. Strauss is right,” Bamforth said. “It had to be a spirit.” He swallowed and glanced at Miss Prandle. “Do you...do you think the ladies are safe staying here?”
Vincent refrained from saying he didn’t think any of them were safe. Was it possible he’d lost his skill? In refusing to channel the spirits, had he somehow let it atrophy like an unused muscle? First he hadn’t heard the steps on the tower stair, and now he didn’t sense any lingering presence.
Everything else had been so clear—the three spirits, their distinct flavors. So why couldn’t he sense anything now?
“Spirit writing doesn’t necessarily indicate the ability actually carry out any threats,” Lizzie said. Her mouth turned down into a frown, however, her brows drawing together.
“Surely it doesn’t bode well, either,” Bamforth argued.
“I say we put the matter to our experts,” Miss Prandle said. “Mr. Night, Miss Devereaux, Mr. Strauss—what do you think?”
“I would prefer to gather more preliminary data,” Henry said with a glance at Gladfield. “But if necessary, for the safety of the ladies, I’m willing to perform the Electro-Séance and banish the spirit for good.”
He made it sound so damnably easy. “You’ve never faced an actual haunting in your life, have you?” Vincent asked.
Color stood out high on Henry’s pale cheeks. “I don’t see that it matters. My theories—”
“Mean nothing.” God, the man didn’t even know they were dealing with more than one spirit. Whatever good qualities he possessed, his arrogance was unbounded. “An angry ghost isn’t a-a machine you can turn off or on.”
“Perhaps, when it comes to the old way of doing things.” Henry’s lip curled. “But this is the nineteenth century, not the Middle Ages. Progress has given us more than adequate tools for dealing with such matters, if we but use them.”
“I think,” Lizzie interrupted, “if this spirit is eager to communicate, we should give it the opportunity.”
Gladfield had stood back and listened to the argument without interference. Now, however, he cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?”
“Spirit writing,” Vincent said flatly. “Lizzie, you can’t. It’s too dangerous.”
“Nothing here has attempted harm to us,” she said calmly. “The apparition in Mr. Strauss’s room was fearful in aspect, but it merely spoke to him. Jo’s sighting, and the sound of footsteps on the stairs with Mr. Strauss, might have been startling, but were hardly perilous. As for this...” She gestured negligently at the ugly words. “I’ve had far worse vitriol directed at me in broad daylight on the very streets of New York.”
On the surface of things, she was right. But Vincent couldn’t shake the feeling of menace. Of something watching which meant them real harm. Was it real, though, or just the product of his own paranoia? “It’s your decision,” he said at last.
“Indeed it is.” She turned to Gladfield. “If you’ll have Bamforth remove this, I’d like an hour to meditate in my room. After, I propose we try contacting this spirit through automatic writing.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed, and Vincent knew he was trying to come up with some reason to object. “My experiment—”
“You can continue with it,” Lizzie said. “I’m certainly not going to stop you.”
“I’ll sit in and watch the automatic writing, if I may,” Gladfield said.
Despite everything, Vincent struggled to suppress a grin. A point to Lizzie; surely she’d known anyone would prefer to watch a medium in trance over a man staring at a barometer. Henry knew it as well, given the way his face darkened into a glower.
“Oh, can we watch too?” Miss Strauss asked excitedly.
“Of course,” Lizzie replied with the air of a queen granting favors.
Henry all but swelled with indignation, and for a moment Vincent wondered if he’d make some outburst or force his cousin to attend him instead. Miss Strauss must have sensed the same, because she turned big eyes on him. “Please, Henry?”
Henry seemed to deflate. “Very well. We’ll attend this ‘automatic writing’ session of Miss Devereaux’s. With barometer and Franklin bells,” he added. “It will help to verify whether any spirits actually attend or not.”
The devil? “Are you calling Lizzie a liar, sir?” Vincent asked. He took a step forward.
Henry failed to step back, but instead glared up at him. “It doesn’t matter what I think of Miss Devereaux. My aim is to scientifically measure—and manipulate—spirit phenomena.”
Lizzie turned to Gladfield. “Surely this isn’t fair—Vincent and I don’t hover over his experiments! Why should he be allowed to use my efforts to bolster his case?”
“Miss Devereaux does have a point,” Miss Prandle said, looking to her uncle.
Gladfield stroked his mustache as he considered. “True, true. But the aim of the contest is to rid Reyhome Castle of this spirit activity. Mr. Strauss’s measurements won’t affect your séance, and shall be allowed.”
