Benedict had grown up in a family of spiritualists, known for generations to commune with ghosts and usher dangerous spirits on to the afterlife. Ghosts couldn't always communicate. Many couldn't even interact with the living world, let alone understand it in terms of present day versus past, completely unaware of the difference between living and dead. Emmeline was something special—he knew it, and so did she.
Even when she began to reply to him, to soften a little… Even when they were friends, she still did mischievous things on occasion.
After university, Benedict found an apartment in the city. Emmeline had already helped him fool his brother into believing he had the family gift a few times, so when he was sent to investigate a haunting, it had come naturally that she would relay the information to him. Emmeline told him about any spirits in the room and what messages they wanted to convey to the living. It kept them in the good graces of his family and allowed them access to the Lyon accounts for their bills.
"Okay," Benedict uttered the word to bring peace back between them. He wouldn't say he forgave her because he knew she would take offense. She had not apologized for anything, and he absolutely knew she wasn't sorry. He looked down at her hands in her lap. When her mood darkened, the bruises and scrapes came out, her shins covered in dark splotches and her knees bloodied. Some of her fingers were broken, her wrists ringed in rope burns, and her palms torn open from a struggle. One side of her face swelled, bruising and splitting open where the flesh bulged under her eye.
And then, just as the first red buds of blood began to appear on her dress, nowhere near their full size, everything unpleasant began to fade—receding from view and returning her to vivid colors, that clean cotton dress, and unmarred, though eternally ashen brown skin.
Emmeline couldn't lie. No ghost could. And aside from that, her appearance gave it all away.
He touched the counter on either side of her hips and leaned in, close but never touching, leaving the illusion that maybe this time they could. "What should we name him?"
She smiled slowly, and it warmed his heart more than the hottest shower ever could. "The Winter Spirit?"
He wrinkled his nose, pushing off the counter and marching out of the bathroom. "That's too dignified for this one! The Axeman? Like Snowman..."
"I think that one's taken," Emmeline said, following him to his room.
He left the doors open because she liked pretending she wasn't a ghost at home. "No, it isn't. We've never named a ghost The Axeman..." Benedict said, less sure with each word.
"No, we haven't, but there was a serial killer by that name."
"Oh." He laughed, having completely forgotten. "All right. How about Mister Ice?" He smiled to himself, tossing his towel into the hamper and dressing in a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt—not quite as formal as he'd wear out of the house.
"Ugh!" she made a gagging sound. "That's so unimaginative! The last one was The Butcher's Damsel! How can we go from that to Mister Ice?"
"Frosty?"
She squished her face into a comical scowl.
"Okay. Okay. The Winter Spirit, it is," he conceded, going to his desk and sliding out the drawer. A leather-bound notebook rested inside, a handful of pens rolling around in the space around it. He pulled it out, flipping it open. It had been her idea to keep note of all the ghosts they sent away from the living world. She had come up with it on a whim, he suspected, maybe out of boredom or maybe to see if he would really do it. They had been naming the ghosts ever since, jotting them down together. He did the writing, of course, but she helped with the wording.
The doorbell buzzed before he could sit down.
They exchanged curious glances. Emmeline shrugged with disinterest, and Benedict left the room. He didn't invite people over to his apartment. The only ones that ever rang the bell were fast-food delivery and the occasional nosy neighbor. He had a habit of being a bit of a hermit, and the widow two doors down liked to check on him. Really, he suspected she was just checking on his apartment. She always tried to come inside and look around.
He was sure she would be disappointed if he ever let her past the door—which he didn't. His apartment was modern and sparse. The only room with any clutter to speak of was Emmeline's, and he certainly wasn't going to let anyone else in there. He tugged her door shut on his way down the hall, hiding what was very obviously a woman's bedroom. She had picked out all of her furniture and possessions. She was entitled to a portion of their earnings since she did a great deal of their work, after all. He wasn't always sure it was good for her, though, having that room. It had been fun in the beginning, when he set up the four-post bed and laid out the bobbles and makeup on the vanity just like she'd asked. But sometimes he found her just standing in there, looking like death and staring transfixed at her closet with all the things she had selected for herself but could never actually use.
Emmeline had at least a dozen pairs of the same black ankle boots in there, boxes on top of boxes, with one or two shoes set out. Her ghost was barefoot; he supposed that meant she had died that way. He had asked once why she always picked the same style, and Emmeline had given a little shrug and sigh, "Because I want them." And there had been so much honest want in her voice that he didn't press anymore. She wanted her shoes, and he didn't have the heart to point out that she couldn't wear them no matter how many she bought.
Benedict swung out of the narrow hall and turned toward the front door, the living room and kitchen still dark. He opened the door, not sure who he expected, but surprised all the same.
His eldest brother, Elysium, stood in the hallway. His hands were in his pockets, matching jacket unbuttoned and black vest perfectly snug. Benedict did not like how similar their work attire was. He hadn't realized he was imitating his brother until just now—probably because he hadn't actually seen him in four years, not since the last time Elysium swung by to check up on him. But, of course, for Elysium, it wasn't work attire—he dressed this formally all the time.
Elysium was nearing forty, fit, and teetering between handsome and beautiful. He had a casual authority about him, putting anxious people at ease and gently commanding every room he walked into. He was the golden child of the Lyon family, the heir to the spiritual throne—if there were such a thing.
"I thought you'd still be at the Whittle house," Elysium said, deep voice offering no suggestion of opinion one way or the other.
Benedict remembered his manners, plastered on a smile, and took two steps back from the door. "I didn't know you were on your way or I would have waited. The job wasn't so big that I couldn't handle it." He gestured for his brother to enter.
Elysium walked in, casually surveying the apartment, as though not to judge it though they both knew he couldn't help himself. "I never doubted you, Benny. I am just surprised how quickly you managed it. And from what Henry said—"
"Henry?"
"Mister Whittle." Elysium ran his dark gaze over Benedict. He had lost points in this inquiry for not knowing the man's first name, it seemed. "It sounded like quite the ghost. I heard you were thrown from a window."
Benedict laughed before he could stop himself. "Did you come to check on me? You know I had to have seven stitches after that haunted farm upstate, right?"