Dangerous Spirits (2 page)

~ * ~

Vincent had barely shut the door behind them before Henry
pounced. Henry and his cousin Jo lived in the small suite of rooms above the
shop, while Vincent and Lizzie each leased apartments a short distance away.
Henry occasionally spent the night in Vincent’s bed, but as he disliked leaving
Jo alone for too long, they more often found themselves here.

A situation to which Vincent didn’t object. All of his
previous affairs had been of the most casual sort, and he rather liked seeing
some of his spare clothes hung in the wardrobe, bright against the more somber
tones of Henry’s suits. It made him feel as if perhaps moving from New York to
Baltimore had been the right thing to do. As if he might again find the sort of
home he’d once enjoyed as an apprentice, after James Dunne rescued him from the
streets of the Bowery.

Assuming Henry didn’t leave him behind.

Henry caught Vincent’s hair in his fingers, tugging him down
for an urgent kiss. Henry’s mouth tasted of whiskey, his tongue hot and wet as
it slid against Vincent’s. Vincent shaped Henry’s form, shoving beneath his
coat to catch his slender hips and pull him tight. The hard ridge of Henry’s
erection pressed against Vincent’s own, and he ground against Henry, receiving
a moan for his efforts.

“I want you,” Henry breathed when their lips parted again.

The words made Vincent’s heart speed. “What do you want from
me?” he asked, lust thickening his voice.

Henry’s pale skin flushed pink, whether from the whiskey,
the heat of a July night, or desire Vincent didn’t know. All three, most
likely. “Everything,” he growled, and kissed Vincent again.

Vincent wished he could give it to Henry. The fame and
recognition Henry craved. The dream they’d shared in front of the poster.

He hadn’t told Henry when he applied for membership in the
Psychical Society. Not because he wished to hide anything; it simply slipped
Vincent’s mind during the chaos of the move from New York.

Then the letter came. Oh, it was polite, as such things
went, but still sent a clear message. The Baltimore Psychical Society was for
whites only.

He’d kept the rejection a secret from Henry and lied when
Henry suggested he join. The thought of confessing to his lover he’d been
turned away because of the color of his skin etched his veins with an acidic
mixture of anger and shame.

Henry wouldn’t have stood it for a moment. He would have
been furious, would have sworn never to speak to a single member again.
Probably would have written Dr. Kelly an angry letter. All of which would spell
disaster for
S, N, & D
.

Tonight’s triumph meant great things for their business. New
connections. New opportunities. And if the price was Vincent keeping his mouth
shut, he would pay it. Grudgingly, perhaps, but it was how the world worked.

He pushed the dark thoughts aside. Tonight they celebrated,
and he refused to let his lingering anger sour Henry’s moment of triumph.
Vincent dragged Henry to the bed, shedding clothes as they went. The breeze
wafting through the light curtains was a blessing against his naked skin. He
ran his hands over Henry’s shoulders, avoiding by habit the still-painful scars
where a bullet tore through flesh and bone last January. He ducked his head,
kissing his way down Henry’s throat, his cock swelling with anticipation when
Henry tipped his head back to give him access. The taste of salt and sweat
filled Vincent's mouth as he sucked first on one pink nipple, then the other,
biting and worrying until Henry moaned softly beneath him. He made his way down
farther, pausing to nibble at the ticklish spot on Henry’s belly and getting a
strangled curse for a reward.

He sat back for a moment to admire his handiwork. Without
the shields of his gold-rimmed spectacles, Henry’s eyes looked oddly
vulnerable, their blue a thin ring around pupils gone wide with desire. Vincent’s
bites marbled his pale skin with spots of red. His nipples were hard nubs, his
prick dark against his belly.

“Mmm, what a sight you are.” Vincent licked his lips slowly,
watching from beneath his eyelashes as Henry tracked the movement hungrily.

“I could say the same of you,” Henry replied. His hand went
to his cock, stroking slowly. Moisture glistened around the slit. “Just looking
at you tries my control.”

Vincent bent down and licked away some of the slickness from
the tip of Henry’s cock. “And what would you do, if you lost control?”

Henry’s face reddened. Vincent lost any shame at an early
age, but Henry’s upbringing had been rather more refined. Still, he was
beginning to come around with suitable encouragement from Vincent. “Fling you
down and bugger you until you spill.”

Vincent tugged at his own prick, hips thrusting forward both
to tease Henry and in response to the pleasure of his hand. “Do it.”

Henry rolled to his knees, catching Vincent against him for
a passionate kiss. Vincent groaned into his mouth, rubbing his cock against
Henry’s belly. “I adore the way you kiss me,” he said, when Henry gave him the
space to speak again. “I’ve told you that, haven’t I?”

“Many times,” Henry replied. “But don’t stop. I like hearing
it.” He kissed Vincent again, then ran his lips down Vincent’s throat, avoiding
the silver amulet Vincent had worn for the last year.

He released Vincent to rummage in the dresser for the jar of
petroleum jelly. Vincent took the opportunity to stretch out on the bed,
stuffing a pillow beneath his hips in order to offer an easier angle. Drawing
his legs up, he hooked his hands around the backs of his knees.

Henry’s eyes flashed with lust at the sight, and his hands
trembled visibly as he slicked his fingers. But his touch was sure against
Vincent’s passage, gliding around the ring before pushing in. Vincent let out a
moan of his own at the invasion. Henry knew all the ways to make him gasp and
cry out, and he put them to good use.

Vincent had never had a lover who knew him so well. He bit
his lip to keep from crying out too loudly when Henry entered him. The stretch felt
marvelous, waves of pleasure spreading through him as Henry worked in deeper
and deeper. Henry’s hands gripped Vincent’s hips, sweat darkening his hair. The
soft glow of the night candle dusted the short hairs of Henry’s arms in gold
and outlined the muscles of his chest. Vincent let go of his legs in favor of
clutching Henry’s forearms, tugging him closer.

“Is it good?” Henry gasped. His lips remained parted, as if
begging for a kiss or a cock.

“Amazing,” Vincent said, barely able to form a coherent sentence.
“Feels good, Henry. Don’t stop—ah!”

His words ended in a soft cry as Henry wrapped one hand
around his prick, giving it a long stroke. Vincent arched his back, fingers
digging into Henry’s arms, awash in pleasure. It felt good, to be touched by someone
who knew him this intimately, to be filled by someone he cared for, and he
hoped cared for him. Henry’s hips rocked more urgently, driving in harder, and
his fingers tightened on Vincent’s cock. It was too much, and Vincent bit back
a shout as the wave of ecstasy crested, hot semen spilling out and over his
belly. Henry gasped his name, pushing in and stilling, their bodies locked
together in a single circle of heat and desire.

The sound of their ragged breathing filled the little room.
Henry sat back, dipped a finger in the spend pooled on Vincent’s stomach, and
brought it to his mouth. Vincent grinned at him lazily, feeling boneless and
content. He wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and drift off into
blissful sleep.

But he couldn’t. Vincent rolled to his feet with a groan,
and went to the bag of salt sitting on a shelf near the door.

He’d spent most of his life sleeping without lines of salt
across the doorway and window sills. But ever since the night last year, when
Dunne died and the ghost that killed him vanished, Vincent never slept without
a barrier of salt. He couldn’t shake the fear the ghost still lurked out there,
waiting to complete the job it began.

Maybe it was foolish. Henry didn’t seem to think so, indeed
went out of his way to provide salt for the nights Vincent stayed over. But did
he really believe something stalked Vincent, or did he consider it a delusion
on Vincent’s part? Certainly there was no evidence the ghost even lingered in
this world, let alone had any interest in Vincent.

But the memory of Dunne’s staring eyes, face purple from the
ghost squeezing the life out of him, sent a slick surge of fear down Vincent’s
spine. The spirit had used his hands to kill Dunne. What if he awoke some
morning and found Henry lying beside him, eyes glazed and throat bearing the
marks of his fingers?

Vincent bent over and hurriedly began to pour the line of
salt in front of the closed door. Even if Henry only humored him, at least he didn’t
point out that Vincent Night was afraid of the dark.

~ * ~

Henry rose with the dawn. Vincent, who seldom moved from bed
before noon, rolled over to Henry’s vacated side, mumbled incoherently, and
fell back asleep with his face buried in Henry’s pillow.

Henry shaved and dressed quietly, then paused by the bed
before letting himself out. The white linens gleamed next to Vincent’s sienna
skin, the sheets thrown back to reveal shapely limbs and long muscles. The
sight of him stole Henry’s breath and softened something in his chest, and he
leaned down and tenderly swept a lock of hair back from Vincent’s face. Vincent
sighed softly but didn’t wake.

Henry suppressed a sigh of his own. He should have confessed
the truth about his failure before they made love. Instead, he’d let himself be
carried away by passion, unable to think of anything beyond pleasure.

Well, no. There was pleasure, but not just of the physical
sort. He…
enjoyed
didn’t seem a strong enough word, but it would do. He
enjoyed Vincent’s company. Making him smile and laugh, and groan in ecstasy. And
drifting off in his arms, and waking up the same way.

He needed to confess. To see Vincent’s disappointment, and
hope…what? That Vincent didn’t regret throwing his lot in with Henry? Didn’t
break off their relationship and carry on with Maillard instead?

Assuming he wasn’t already, depending on what sort of
“performance” Maillard referred to last night. Ministers wrote long letters to
the newspaper, ranting against the debauchery accompanying séances. Although
hardly the orgies painted by the over-active imaginations of self-appointed
moral guardians, the accusations did hold a kernel of truth. A small group of
adults, sitting in a dark room, tension high as they waited for a ghost to
appear, created a definite atmosphere. The holding of hands, the long black
cloths draped over the séance tables, heightened the possibility of illicit
activity. Spirits drew on sexual energy—as Henry knew first hand, given
what Vincent did to him during a séance at Reyhome Castle.

They’d made no promises to one another, outside of their
business contract. Perhaps Vincent already grew bored with Henry. Vincent went
to art salons and drank coffee with poets. He already knew half the musicians
in the city, white and colored, and felt at home in the company of his fellow aesthetes
like Christopher Maillard.

Whereas Henry attended scientific lectures, read every new
journal article on electromagnetism, and preferred to be at home and in bed by
nine o’clock. Could he really be surprised if Vincent took advantage of the
opportunities afforded him?

Henry suppressed a groan and let himself out. A sitting room
separated the two bedrooms, and many mornings he found Jo sitting there,
studying scientific journals. Her late mother had gifted Jo with a genius for mathematics,
along with tightly curled hair and chestnut skin. This morning, however, the
chamber lay empty.

The downstairs floor was divided into two parts: the occult
shop out front, and Henry’s workshop in the back. A second building in the yard
just behind the shop offered an alternate place for him to work, when the
chemical smells or sounds might otherwise disrupt séances or disturb any
customers.

He found Jo in the back room, working on an idea of her own:
a headlamp such as miners used, but with a small arc light in place of a candle.
A yellow scarf kept her hair out of the way, and matched the cheerful hue of
her dress. The apron covering the front of the dress was, as usual, stained
from grease and chemicals, with small holes eaten in the fabric by acid.

To Henry’s surprise, as she usually shared Vincent’s
sleeping habits, Lizzie was there as well. She wore a long, flowing dress,
corseted tightly about the waist to lend her figure a certain shape nature had
not provided. A wide choker matched the dress, and golden hair hung in soft
ringlets about her face and shoulders.

“Of course you can borrow my earrings,” she said to Jo.

“Earrings?” Henry asked. “What on earth do you want earrings
for, Jo? Don’t you already have a pair?”

Jo and Lizzie exchanged a look. “See?” Jo asked.

“You didn’t have to convince me,” Lizzie replied. “Your
cousin has no sense of fashion whatsoever. I’d hoped Vincent might prove a good
influence, but I fear it isn’t to be.”

Henry tugged self-consciously at his coat tails. His
clothing might not be exactly new, but nothing was frayed, and there were
surely more important things for him to spend his money on, anyway. The memory
of Maillard’s stylish cream suit flashed through his mind, but he put it aside
sternly.

“My wardrobe is fine, thank you,” he said. “Should I go for
coffee and pastries?”

“Without even telling us how things went at the Psychical
Society?” Lizzie asked, raising a brow.

Jo all but bounced on her stool. “Yes, tell us all about it,
Henry!”

His tongue lay thick in his mouth. “I…”

“It was a triumph, of course,” Vincent said from the stairs
behind him.

Startled, Henry turned. Vincent stood there, clad in his
silk oriental robe, his hair still mussed from sleep. A proud smile curved his
lips.

Of all the days for Vincent to actually rise before noon.

“I knew it!” Jo leapt up and hugged Henry, her thin arms
surprisingly strong around his waist.

“Well done,” Lizzie agreed. “I will admit, I was a bit
skeptical when Vincent pled the case for us to go into business with you.”

“After my behavior at Reyhome Castle, you had every right to
be,” Henry said faintly.

“Indeed,” she agreed. “But it seems Vincent was right about
you.”

Oh God. He wanted to sink through the floor, or burst into
flames, or perhaps just fall down stone dead.

“And Vincent, really, put some clothes on,” Lizzie went on,
oblivious to Henry’s distress. “Wandering about in nightshirt and robe in front
of two ladies! Your manners are deplorable.”

“It’s not scandalous,” Jo protested. “Vincent is family.
Right, Vincent?”

Vincent tugged affectionately at Jo’s scarf. “Right, Jo.”

Henry’s heart plummeted even further. The disaster at the
Psychical Society last night wouldn’t just affect him, would it?

After Jo’s parents died in a railway accident, she’d first
gone to their aunt. The wretched woman behaved as if President Lincoln never
freed a single slave, and considered Jo her property rather than her niece.
When Henry dared write to the girl, Aunt Emma tried to warn Jo off by telling
her the family rumors of his proclivities. Jo decided Henry the lesser of two
evils, and showed up on his doorstep shortly thereafter. The matter of Henry’s
preferences had never come up…until Vincent.

Far from being repulsed by him, Jo adored Vincent. If he
left, it wouldn’t only be Henry who ended up with a broken heart. And while
Henry and Lizzie might not precisely be friends, she and Jo had formed
something of a bond.

“Put on some trousers, Vincent,” Lizzie ordered. “Jo and I
will go to the café and fetch breakfast.”

Vincent waited until Lizzie and Jo left, before giving Henry
a kiss. “Good morning,” he murmured against Henry’s lips. “You don’t seem to be
feeling the effects of last night too badly.”

“No.” Not the way Vincent meant, anyway. “Are you?”

“A bit of a headache.” Vincent pressed against him more
tightly. “A little bit of an ache somewhere else.”

Heat flooded Henry’s face. “I’m sorry—”

“I’m not. I like it when you get enthusiastic.” Vincent
nipped Henry’s lower lip gently with his teeth.

Henry pushed him away. “You’d better go and get dressed,
before Lizzie and Jo return.”

“I suppose.” Vincent’s hand skated lightly over the growing
bulge in Henry’s trousers. “You could join me.”

“Dear heavens, no!” Henry exclaimed, mortified. “I mean—we
don’t have time before the others get back—they’d know—”

Vincent laughed. “I rather imagine they know already,” he
said with a wink. “But have it your way.”

Henry turned to the workbench, determined not to admire the
sway of Vincent’s backside as he made his way up the stairs. As the familiar
silence of the shop settled around him, he slumped onto the stool Jo had
vacated. Parts lay in front of him, a scatter of batteries and acid flasks, the
carbon electrodes for Jo’s headlamp, and spools of copper wire.

He began to sort through the jumble, as though imposing
order on the workbench might do the same for his thoughts. Parts to one side,
completed tools to the other. The ghost grounder lay buried beneath a pile of
loose wire, its copper rod slightly tarnished from disuse.

How dare Dr. Kelly accuse him of
reducing
the
“beloved dead,” as Kelly put it, to mere electromagnetic impulses? The ghost
grounder worked by draining the electromagnetic energy of spirits—wasn’t
that proof enough that they were comprised of electrical impulses, no different
from the activity of the human brain in life?

Scowling at the tarnish, Henry put aside the grounder and
began to sort the loose copper wire by gage. He just wanted to save people the
heartache he’d gone through as a lad—was that so wrong? Why shouldn’t they
protect their families from unscrupulous fake mediums by detecting themselves
whether a cold spot came from a spirit or a badly fitted window? Or sleep
peacefully, knowing Strauss’s Sure-Fire Spirit Finder would warn them of
ghostly activity?

But it all cost money. His gaze went to the dispeller, with
its crystalline wafers and electrodes and batteries, and God, why did
everything have to be so damned expensive? Purchasing the shop had eaten
through the five hundred dollar prize from Reyhome Castle, and a good deal of
their personal savings as well. Business since had been just enough to buy
parts and keep food on the table, but no more. Last night had been supposed to
fix all of that, give them the money to manufacture his devices and keep the shop
afloat.