Dangerous Spirits (18 page)

At least they weren’t real phantom hands. Not yet, anyway.

It wasn’t something he could worry about at the moment. He
linked one arm through the uppermost crossbar of the tower and peered at the
automatic feeder. If the fault were in one of the electromagnetic coils, he’d
never be able to repair it in time.

The headlamp might be hot as a coal strapped to his
forehead, but the light it put out illuminated the mechanism perfectly. The
coils seemed intact, and the carbon electrodes in place. What then…ah. There it
was. The latch that regulated the coils had become misaligned somehow and
jammed against them.

Now came the hard part—making the repair without toppling
off the metal scaffolding to his death.

Henry shucked off his coat and slung it around his waist.
The sleeves he tied together on the other side of the uppermost iron bar. With
any luck, the makeshift sling would let him use both hands without falling
backwards off the moon tower, even with the weight of the batteries on his
back. The satchel he looped around his neck to hang in front of him. Its strap
cut uncomfortably into the back of his neck, but he ignored it in favor of
digging through for a small screwdriver. If he removed the latch and realigned
it, the automatic feeder should work as intended.

How much time did he have left? How close was the engine
below to full steam? If it was already running, could he still do the repair in
any safety and dispel the ghosts in the square outside the building?

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.

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 would 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.