Vincent’s stomach turned sour. Of course Gladfield had always been in Henry’s corner. The whole purpose of the contest had been to give Henry the opportunity to prove his theories, not to vindicate the work of reputable mediums. If the lure of five hundred dollars had obscured the truth from him before, it was certainly clear now.

  He turned to Lizzie, wondering if maybe they should just leave, and to hell with Gladfield and Henry and everything else. Except...

  Except if they did just abandon everyone, and the haunting went bad...Henry might have more than his share of confidence, but Vincent had glimpsed his capacity for kindness and loyalty, at least when it came to his cousin. Vincent couldn’t abandon him, let alone Miss Strauss or Miss Prandle, to face an angry ghost.

  Lizzie’s scowl did nothing to conceal her anger. But she nodded once, stiffly. “As you say, Mr. Gladfield. Let’s reconvene in an hour.”

  “Where?” Henry asked immediately.

  Vincent half expected her to suggest the master bedroom. But instead she said, “The schoolroom.”

  “Why there?” Miss Prandle asked.

  Lizzie offered nothing but a thin smile. “Medium’s intuition,” she said before turning her back on them all and walking away.

  ~ * ~

  “You don’t have to be cruel, you know,” Night said from behind him.

  Henry paused, his hand on the latch of his bedroom door. Vincent—Night—stood close behind him, like something materialized from the shadows. “I don’t know what you mean,” he told the boards of his door, not daring to turn around. Not daring to put himself in such close proximity.

  The boards creaked as Night drew closer. “Whether you approve of us or not, this is our livelihood. If you win this, it will see Lizzie and me out on the streets.”

  Henry swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the latch. He found he didn’t wish to sound unsympathetic. “How many candlemakers found themselves out of a job when gaslight was introduced?” he asked. “Progress marches on, whether we will it or no. Clinging to the shadows of the past will help no one in the long term. I’m sure a woman as clever as Miss Devereaux will find her footing in no time.”

  Night let out an explosive hiss of breath, so close that the hairs on Henry’s neck stirred. “As always, you miss the point. At first I thought you had no heart at all, but your conduct with your cousin convinced me otherwise. Yet you insist on challenging us—belligerently—on every point. Could you not just quietly stand back for one moment?”

  Henry wavered. All too well, he recalled Jo condemning his behavior as beastly only hours before. “I’m sorry. But this contest is important to me.”

  “And to me as well. But not for the reasons you think.”

  Henry snorted. “You’re here for the money, the same as the rest of us.”

  “Lizzie is,” Night corrected. “I came to protect her. I’m here because I want to save both the living and the dead. Can you say the same?”

  Night stepped away, and Henry felt the loss of warmth against his back more keenly than he would have guessed. “I didn’t mean—that is—it isn’t just the money,” Henry protested. “The prize is the means to an end. The Electro-Séance will make people’s lives better.”

  “I believe you.” Night stepped away, then paused. “But we all know what the road to hell is paved with. I only hope you know which direction your good intentions will ultimately lead.”

  ~ * ~

  They gathered in the schoolroom. Vincent and Bamforth hauled a table and chairs from the third-floor parlor while Lizzie hung heavy curtains over all the windows to block out as much light as possible. A thick cloth shrouded the table, its hem brushing the floor, its black surface drinking up any stray light. Henry and Miss Strauss installed a set of their infernal bells at one end of the table and took readings from a thermometer and a barometer.

  “Jo, I’d like you to measure the temperature outside the room,” Henry ordered when they were done.

  Miss Strauss’s face fell. “But I want to see the séance!”

  Vincent barely restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Did Henry think they’d somehow corrupt his young cousin if she remained?

  “Her youthful energy would be a useful addition to our company,” Vincent pointed out. “Even though Lizzie will be the point of contact, the spirit will draw from everyone present.”

  Henry shot him a scowl. At a guess, Vincent’s disparaging remark about good intentions had stung. “Allow me to conduct my experiments as I see fit, and you may conduct your séances as you see fit.”

  Looking disappointed, Miss Strauss took a thermometer and a notebook outside and shut the door. Lizzie sat at the head of the table, a pencil and paper in front of her. Everyone else crowded around, knees bumping, Vincent to her left and Gladfield to her right. A bit of subtle maneuvering on Vincent’s part ensured that Henry sat to his left.

  Gladfield wore an air of expectation. Something significant in the house’s history must have happened in this room. Had they been the frauds Henry feared, Gladfield would have been an easy victim.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Gladfield said grandly, as if he had command of the spirits.

  Vincent wiped his hands surreptitiously on his trousers. He hadn’t attended a séance since the night Dunne died. True, Lizzie had chosen this room in order to interact with the lavender spirit, not the more threatening one Vincent had sensed in the bedroom, which hopefully meant there was less risk.

  But what if something went wrong? What if he turned around and found something else wearing Lizzie’s skin? What if the amulet didn’t work, and something else ended up using his body like a puppet? Something cold and evil, staining him from the inside with slime and rot...

  “Will this be like the trance in New York?” Miss Prandle asked. Startled out of his thoughts, Vincent jumped. Henry shot him a concerned look.

  Lizzie nodded. “Very much like. Mr. Gladfield, would you put out the light?”

  Darkness shrouded the room, with only the faintest glimmer of muted sun filtering through the twin draperies of cloud cover and heavy curtains. “Now, if I may have silence from everyone,” Lizzie said. “I’m ready to begin.”

  Henry let out a soft snort as if he thought it easy to go into a trance state. Lizzie ignored him. “If everyone would please join hands. Vincent, Mr. Gladfield, both of you will take my right hand to leave the left free to write.”

  Vincent did as instructed, taking Lizzie’s hand in his right and Henry’s in his left. Hopefully his palm wasn’t sweating too badly. As no one else could see in the dark room, he ran his thumb slowly across the back of Henry’s hand and was rewarded with a hitch of breath.

  If they were to be deprived of the youthful energy Miss Strauss would have brought to the circle, sexual energy would do just as well.

  “Spirits of this place.” Lizzie’s voice seemed to float above them in the darkness. “My hand is prepared to write your words. Draw from the energy of this circle and direct my pencil as you will. I stand ready to receive you.”

  Vincent slowly traced the length of Henry’s thumb with his own, taking his time. Exploring a callus, caressing the cuticle of the nail, mapping the creases of flesh above the knuckle. Henry’s fingers tightened on his, breathing quickening even as Lizzie’s slowed. Her chair creaked as she leaned back, body relaxing into trance. There came the soft scratch of pencil on paper—only looping now, idle circles which would resolve into words if the spirit took the chance to communicate thusly.

  Lavender in his mouth, with just a hint of blood. The spirit was responding.

  Might as well give it more energy. If Henry could use their skills to further his own goals, surely it was only fair to use Henry in return.

  He shifted his grip on Henry’s hand slightly, running his thumb over the vulnerable skin of the palm. Henry’s breath caught audibly. A moment later, his chair creaked, as if sitting had grown uncomfortable. His pulse fluttered in his wrist beneath the swipe of Vincent’s thumb.

  Henry’s grip shifted, and Vincent grinned at the feel of a hesitant caress across the back of his own knuckles now. He ached to draw Henry’s hand to his mouth, to plant kisses over it before kissing him more thoroughly. That would be noticeable even in the darkened room, though. Instead, he tugged Henry’s hand off the table and slid their joined fingers into Henry’s lap.

  The taste of lavender grew stronger.

  Henry jumped slightly as Vincent found the outline of his prick. Vincent slowly drew their clasped fingers up and down the length, feeling it go harder beneath the barrier of cloth separating them. Henry’s fingers tensed but he didn’t pull away.

  Blood spiked the lavender. The scratch of the pencil shifted, going from the idle loops to something more deliberate, and the Franklin bells began to ring. Henry tensed, so Vincent deliberately ran the nail of his thumb over the rigid outline of the head of the other man’s cock. A startled gasp escaped Henry, largely covered by the bells, and his hips shifted. Vincent grinned into the dark, imagining how Henry must be fighting the need to move, trying to keep his left hand from shaking and giving anything away to Bamforth.

  The bells rang more and more frantically, and Lizzie’s hand tugged against his with the violence of her movements. On his other side, Henry tried to pull away, to break the circle. His fingers shook in Vincent’s—he must be close.

  Vincent gripped his fingers hard to keep him from pulling away and ran a final, firm caress down Henry’s prick, from head to base—

  Lizzie cried out sharply, the pencil snapping, bits flying away. The racket of the bells crescendoed, the suspended ball striking them so fast as to be deafening. Vincent’s mouth was lavender and blood. Henry’s head arched back in a silent cry.

  Then nothing. The bells fell silent, as if a hand had reached out and stilled them. The only sound was of ragged breathing from both Lizzie and Henry—albeit for different reasons.

  “L-light, please,” Lizzie said, sounding tired. “The spirit has left. Let’s see what it had to say.”

  ~ * ~

  As Gladfield pulled open the curtains to let the gloomy daylight inside once more, Henry hurriedly dropped Bamforth’s hand. Had he given himself away? He’d tried not to, but that damnable Night...

  He shot a glance at the man beside him. Night’s lips were turned up in a smirk. Although it was hard to tell given the color of his skin, Henry thought his face was flushed. Still, he seemed composed enough, although the voluminous tablecloth hid any evidence of arousal.

  Henry’s burning cheeks grew even hotter. He should have pulled away or forced their hands back up onto the table. He was supposed to be observing the séance scientifically, and instead he’d let Night use the cover of darkness to bring him to orgasm. And allowed it to happen in the middle of a group, where they might have been caught at any moment. Had he entirely taken leave of his senses?

  But it had felt so good he hadn’t been able to bring himself to make Night stop. Now he’d have to leave the room last and make certain the hang of his coat covered any wet spot. And put up with Night’s knowing smirk.

  Of course, Night probably wasn’t feeling terribly comfortable at the moment. A small revenge, but he’d take it.

  Damn it, he was supposed to be recording data, not staring at Night. Turning hastily to the equipment, he checked the barometer. “A slight change in pressure. Temperature decrease by four degrees,” he said, hoping his voice sounded natural and not like a man who’d just come in his drawers like an untried youth.

  “Your bells performed quite adequately,” Night put in.

  Henry flushed again, but answered the comment as if there had been no double meaning to it. “Assuming no one broke the circle during the séance in order to play a trick on us.”

  “I certainly couldn’t have if I’d tried,” Bamforth said. “You’ve got quite the grip there, Mr. Strauss.”

  Perhaps he’d just die from shame and become a spirit himself.

  “What does the writing say?” Gladfield asked, rescuing him from further humiliation.

  Miss Devereaux stared down at the pad, her mouth pensive. “See for yourself,” she said and passed the paper to Gladfield. He frowned and handed it across to Night. Henry peered across the table.

  The upper portion of the paper was covered in nothing more than loops and swirls, scrawled without lifting the pencil. Gradually, however, the scribbles became more and more defined, until they were first linked words, then finally separate ones.

  Getoutgetoutgetout get out Get out.

  Leave now.

  Leave.

  I can’t hold him back much longer.

  Leave.

  Before he comes for you.

  Chapter 9

  “We need to leave,” Vincent said before Lizzie could vanish into her room.

  They’d retreated from the schoolroom to dress for dinner. Rather than go to his own quarters, Vincent had hurried after the other medium, desperate to talk to her as soon as he could get her alone.

  “Because of the spirit writing?” she asked.

  “That’s part of it. The house is Gothic Revival, so it can’t be any more than fifty years old. Nonetheless, it’s haunted by multiple spirits, one of whom is warning us to get out before ‘he’ comes for us.” Vincent shook his head. “We need to get out of here. And quickly.”

  Pity flashed in Lizzie’s green eyes. “Vincent,” she said, her tone far too gentle, “have you considered that your reaction to the house might be...compromised...by your experience of last summer?”

  “You’re starting to sound like Strauss,” he shot back. “Next you’ll be saying machines are more reliable than people.”

  “But you haven’t been reliable, have you?” Lizzie scowled, although at least the pity was gone from her expression. “You refused to channel the ghost of a little girl for her parents. I thought bringing you here might help you remember the medium you used to be, but it’s only made you more paranoid.”

  Vincent ground his teeth together. “The spirit told us to get out. The same spirit as came to Strauss last night.”

  “Not an unusual thing for a ghost to tell the living,” she countered. “How many hauntings occur because the old inhabitants of a house are confused by new owners living there? Intruding on what they see as their home?”

  “And the part about leaving before ‘he’ comes?” Vincent demanded.

  Lizzie’s confident mask slipped. “That does concern me,” she admitted. “But we knew this might be a difficult exorcism. There’s no compelling reason for us to leave yet.”

  She hadn’t been in the house with Dunne and him. Hadn’t felt the malevolence first hand, beating down on her.

  Hadn’t opened her eyes, cold and drained almost to the point of death, only to find she’d killed the one person who’d ever really given a damn about her.

  He touched the amulet through the layers of his clothes, pressing the circle of metal against his skin. Maybe she was right. Maybe he was paranoid. The long nights of hiding behind lines of salt, wondering if—when—the dark ghost that had killed Dunne would come back for him, had taken their toll. All of his instincts were off.

  If their positions were reversed, would he give serious credence to the fears of someone too frightened to channel even the most docile of spirits, or read cards, or interact with the spirit world in any way? Or would he dismiss them and press on, reaching for the gleaming dream of the five-hundred-dollar prize held out before him?

  “Perhaps you’re right,” he said at last.

  She touched him lightly on the shoulder. “Go and dress for dinner, Vincent. We’ll discuss things further.”

  Not certain whether he should feel foolish or alarmed, he slunk across the balcony to the door of his chamber. But before he could open it, Henry Strauss emerged from the next room. Catching sight of Vincent, his eyes narrowed sharply. “How dare you!”

  Vincent glanced about automatically, but Henry was no fool, and no one else stirred on the third floor at the moment. Well, if nothing else, sparring with Henry might provide him with a diversion from his fears. He leaned his shoulder casually against the frame of Henry’s door, looking down at Henry with only inches separating them.

  Henry retreated, but only a little. His blue eyes flashed fire from behind the protective shield of his spectacles. Vincent had the sudden urge to pull them off, lean down, and kiss the frown off of Henry’s mouth.

  “How dare I?” he asked instead. “You’ll have to be far more specific, as I’ve done so many things to offend you.”

  Rather to his surprise, Henry grasped his arm and pulled him inside the room, shutting the door behind them. “You know what I’m talking about,” he said in a voice no less angry for its low pitch. “At the séance. When you...”

  Vincent grinned at Henry’s reticence to speak the words aloud. “When I what? Put my hand on your cock?”

  Henry’s nostrils flared. “Y-yes. Are you insane? What did you think to gain from—from manhandling me?”

  “I’m insulted.” Vincent folded his arms over his chest. “My technique was far better than ‘manhandling,’ don’t you think?”

  “Devil take you, Night. What are you about?”

  Vincent sighed and ran his hand tiredly back through his thick hair. It needed trimming again. “Spirits utilize the energy of the circle to manifest. Sexual energy works very well, and you seemed receptive. And I confess I found the possibility of touching you difficult to resist. Did I truly force something you didn’t want?”

  Henry’s anger seemed to drain away. “No,” he muttered, eyes on Vincent’s shoes.

  “As I thought.” Vincent caught his chin lightly, tipping his head back. Henry’s lips were slightly parted, his breath warm and smelling of mint dentifrice. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

  “Why are you doing this?” Henry’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed convulsively. “What do you want?”

  “I find you handsome. And I like you.”

  Henry looked skeptical. “Why do I have trouble believing that?”

 

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