What had she done?
Why?
Had the anger of the other ghost infected her?
How could she look at him like that? Like she was frightened to see him die but eager for it at the same time. What had he done to deserve it? Was she caught up in her own ghostly anger and lashing out? Would she regret it? No. No, he couldn't see anything about her now that would let him imagine regret in her later.
Suddenly Benedict gulped air—warm, summer air. He blinked, shaking and shivering, his teeth clattering and arms stiff with cold when he curled them around his chest. Mr. Whittle stood in front of him, ankle-deep in the creek and holding him up with a grip on either arm. Shards of ice fell off Benedict's shirt and vest, melting quickly in the July heat.
Benedict, still shaking with the cold that had pierced his bones, dragged himself up the bank. He reached out for the ax, hand trembling and fingers blue. Mr. Whittle grabbed it quickly up off the grass and handed it to him.
Emmeline stood off to the side, staring anywhere but at him and not looking particularly apologetic either.
Benedict walked past her, into the shed, and hacked at the floor with the old ax, cracking the floorboards and the seal, chopping Mr. Roger Clifton James's name into pieces.
Almost as soon as it was done, the cold released his bones. He waited a moment in the quiet that followed, listening to the creek outside. This was the moment where one of his siblings or cousins would extend their supernatural senses out into the world around them and see if the angry ghost was still present. Benedict could not do that, so he pretended. But he was sure Mr. Roger Clifton James was gone—because he had done this dozens of times before and they were always gone when he and Emmeline left.
Benedict walked out of the shed, handed Mr. Whittle the ax, and informed him that the violent spirit was gone—purged from the family house. He assured him it would not return. They never did once they had been sent on.
Mr. Whittle barely knew what to say, flabbergasted as he gripped the ax.
Benedict shook the man's hand and thanked him for saving his life in much the same manner he might thank a person for a good cup of coffee. Nonetheless, Mr. Whittle inflated with pride and held the ax a bit more confidently.
"Would you like me to call you a doctor, Mister Lyon? You're soaked to the bone. We must get you dried off and—"
"Not necessary, sir," Benedict assured him, starting up the grassy slope toward the house. He wasn't moving as quickly now, and the angle of the ground was no longer in his favor. "It is a long drive, and I really would like to get home to rest." He played up his spiritual exhaustion for the man, as though falling out a window wasn't enough to account for his hobbling stride.
Mr. Whittle persisted until Benedict made up some bit about needing to leave the house quickly so that it could settle back into its natural state without the magnet of his extraordinary spirit in the way.
He unbuttoned and peeled off his wet jacket, socks squishing inside his shoes as he marched across the gravel driveway to his car. He unbuttoned his vest, peeling it off, too, and throwing both garments into the backseat. Emmeline stood on the other side of the car, and for a moment, he stood there, their eyes locked.
Her jaw was set, her lips pressed, and her chin ever so slightly upturned. There was no apology in her gaze.
Benedict took a deep breath and settled into the driver's seat, drenched to the bone and puddling on the leather seat.
He glanced in the rear-view mirror. Emmeline sat in the corner of the backseat, arms folded, and attention turned out the window. She didn't look as guilty as he would like. She just looked bored, resigned to a car ride, and more than ready to go home.
He wasn't sure what she had done today or why, but he wasn't ready to talk about it either, so he turned on the car and pulled away from the newly cleansed property.
Chapter Four
Benedict reached their apartment in the city, the chill of the creek still clinging to his skin. In fact, he felt as though it was a haunting all its own—icy fingers of a dead winter having sunk down into flesh to wrap around his bones. He left a puddle where he stood in the elevator and ignored the glare of his nosy neighbor two doors down.
It wasn't exactly that he was cold, not really, but the memory would not fade, and by the time he got into his apartment, he decided his only choice was to melt the ice in his head. He abandoned his clothes in a wet pile in the bathroom, and then he stood under the spray until the whole room was choking on steam. He wanted to feel uncomfortably warm, right down to his bones. And it worked. Soon enough, he was sweating and thirsty, his brown skin flushed with heat. But even when Benedict drove out the memory of the cold, he could not forget the helpless terror of drowning so close to the surface—or the look on Emmeline's face, just watching him die.
He pushed back his wet hair, away from his face, squeezing his hands against his scalp to press the water from his dark strands. Still standing in his shower, the glass wall thickly fogged, Benedict finally asked, "What happened?"
She didn't answer.
He pushed open the door, steam gushing out. Emmeline sat there on the marble counter of the bathroom sink. She tipped her head from one side to the other and kicked her naked heels thoughtfully.
One morning, just after his eighteenth birthday, Benedict had found her in his room. The first thing he'd heard was her sobs, muffled even though he saw her curled up in the corner. For the first few weeks, she wouldn't talk to him, and when she finally did scream and cry at him, her words were mangled into nonsense. He had left his family home, a part of him hoping to leave her behind as well, but she had followed him to university. She hadn't seemed any happier about it than he was. Eventually, she'd stopped crying, but she still hadn't liked him. She spent that whole first year glaring at him, moving his keys, breaking his phone, ripping pages from his books, and snoozing his alarms.
They had come a long way since then. They were friends now. Partners in life and death.
"Em?" Benedict asked, voice a little harder this time.
She glanced up through her lashes, and then her mouth smoothed into a little smile, mischief gleaming in her eyes. She ran her gaze down his naked body. She was going to flirt or say something lewd to try to make him smile. It might even work. He had never liked being at odds with her, always quick to make amends.
"We should talk about this," he pressed before she could joke, stepping out of the shower and closer to where she perched. He grabbed a towel from the rack and started drying off. They couldn't escape each other, and after all these years, Benedict didn't want to get rid of her. He couldn't imagine a life without her. "Did you tell that ghost to kill me?"
She straightened suddenly, all amusement draining from her round face. "I..." she started but stopped, skin losing color, turning a sickly, dark shade of gray. A large bruise grew across her right cheek, spilling out of a suddenly swollen and purple eye socket.
Benedict walked up to her, standing in front of her knees. He would pass through her if he leaned any closer, but neither of them liked the reminder that they couldn't touch.
"I don't know," she confessed in the smallest voice.
He wanted to argue, to demand a better answer, but it wouldn't have been fair. As much as he liked to think about Emmeline as his best friend, his roommate, and his partner, she was also dead.