Betrayal (2 page)

I knew that voice, like I knew the taste of a hot red-eye chai on a cold morning. I looked up at him, feeling a glow of warmth despite the weather. Bennett. He wore a navy wool coat over a gray sweater and slim jeans, looking casual and gorgeous.

“Thank God it's you,” I said.

He took my hand—very briefly—and helped me to my feet. “I thought I'd find you here. Only not looking quite so muddy.” He glanced into the grave. “Did you …?”

“I fell, okay?”

“Then clawed your way out like a bad zombie movie?”

I brushed dirt from my peacoat. “Could've happened to anyone.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, your first real summoning. The flash surprises everyone.”

“You might've warned me.”

“I would have, if I'd known you were coming so soon,” he said. “He's not even buried yet.”

“Tell me something I don't know.”

He gestured to the side of his head. “You've got a little something …”

I pulled a dead beetle from my hair. “Gah.”

He bit his lip, trying not to laugh.

“It's all right.” I sighed. “I'd laugh, too, if I weren't freezing and slug-ridden. And do I smell?”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “C'mon, I'll take you home.”

He moved to put his arm around me, which was brave considering I stank like Swamp Thing. “I'm okay,” I said, stepping away from him.

Bennett reluctantly let his arm drop, then stuck both hands in the pockets of his coat. “How did it go?”

I shrugged. “He's back.”

“Is he different?”

“A little.” We walked toward the gates of the cemetery. “His clothes don't fit right, and I don't know … he's sadder and sharper. And even better looking.”

Bennett grunted.

“Not that I care,” I said. “I mean, I do care. I'm glad he's back. But I don't care that he's gorgeous. That's not the only reason I wanted him back. I mean, that's not why I summoned him at all. Why am I even talking about this?”

Bennett nudged me with his elbow. “You're nervous. It's a big deal, summoning a ghost from his grave.”

“Plus, he's the only one I knew when he was alive.”

“You're not still blaming yourself for his death, are you?”

I huddled silently in my muddy coat and followed Bennett toward his ancient Land Rover. I climbed into the left side, because the car had come over from England and the wheel was on the right.

“It
was
my fault,” I finally said. “Both their deaths were.”

I'd not only lost Coby, but Martha, who'd been Bennett's nanny growing up. I was amazed he was still talking to me.

“Emma, Neos killed them. Not you.”

“If he hadn't been after me—”

“Is it also your fault Neos murdered Olivia?”

I flinched. “Your sister died three blocks from my house.”

Bennett pulled away from the curb, and I sat there miserably, holding my cold fingers to the heating vents. Had he not made that connection between me and Olivia's death?

“Say something,” I said.

He glanced at me, then forced his eyes back to the road. “You're right about one thing—if Neos hadn't been after you, Coby and Martha would still be alive. But you didn't pull the trigger, Emma; that's like blaming a deer for a hunting accident. Neos didn't kill my sister because of you. And what's the alternative? That you're dead and they're not?”

He placed his hand on the seat beside me but didn't quite touch me. He wore a thick silver band on one finger, and I traced it with my fingertip, carefully not touching his skin, wondering if his hands were always that warm.

“I'm sorry they're dead,” he said. “But I'm glad you're alive.”

He turned into the museum gates and drove down the maple-lined drive toward his family home, a Federal-period house that during the summer was a museum open to the public. I'd been staying there with Bennett and our friend Natalie, also a ghostkeeper, since Coby's death. We'd basically shut out the rest of the world after losing so much to Neos.

“We need to find him,” I said.

“Yeah,” Bennett agreed. “Find him and dispel him.”

He parked, and I watched him walk around to my side, liking everything about him. His voice, the way he moved, the way he dressed in boho-preppy clothing that you only ever saw on New England college kids. But mostly I loved who he was, that he was loyal and protective. He even opened my door—such a gentleman.

“It's going to be okay, Emma. We're going to stop him. Together.”

Bennett had once told me that when Neos was gone, he'd be with me, even if that meant losing his ghostkeeping abilities. I followed him into the house, wanting to touch him, to press myself against him—but how do you ask someone to make that kind of sacrifice? Unlike me, Bennett had been raised as a ghostkeeper; it was all he'd ever known.

Could I really ask him to give that up? Would he be the same guy I fell for without it?

2

I didn't think I'd ever tire of walking into the museum. The French blue, sea green, and pale yellow palette of the walls and furnishings always comforted me, along with the hearty scent that wafted in from the kitchen.

Bennett leafed through the mail, then asked if I'd be ready to leave in a couple of hours. “I know the timing's not great, so soon after the funeral, but they're expecting us.”

“They” were the Knell, the covert society that ruled the ghostkeeping world. Actually, I wasn't exactly sure what they did. Sometimes they sounded like the secret police, other times like a crazy cult. Bennett had made an appointment for us to meet them at their headquarters in Manhattan.

“They're really going to help us?”

He nodded. “This is what they do. They've been investigating Neos, and Yoshiro knows more about this stuff than anyone.”

“Who's Yoshiro?”

“The leader of the Knell. Not the friendliest guy in the world, but he'll know exactly how to beat Neos.”

I brushed at the mud on my coat, thinking about the Knell. “Is it like CONTROL in that
Get Smart
movie?”

“No,” Bennett said. “Although they do have the Cone of Silence.”

My eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Yeah, and you enter the building through—”

“A
telephone booth
?”

“Porta-potty.”

“Oh, ha-ha.”

He smiled. “Are you going to be ready to hit the train at three?”

“As long as I can eat first,” I said, starting upstairs to pack. “Though I'd be faster if you had a shoe phone.”

He turned back to the mail. “I'll see what I can do.”

I smiled, but my stomach soured. I didn't want to go. The Knell and I didn't exactly have a cordial relationship. Admittedly, the only members I knew were Bennett and Natalie, who were also my only friends at the moment. But back in San Francisco, the Knell had ordered Natalie to get me into trouble with the cops, and Bennett to play my savior. It'd taken a while to forgive them, with Martha helping me work through the deception. I hadn't quite forgiven the Knell yet.

On the other hand, the Knell was my best chance—maybe my only chance—to find both Neos and my missing family.

Upstairs, I found Nicholas in the hallway, listening at Natalie's door. Even while lurking, his youth made him seem innocent. From the look of him, he'd died sometime during the Dickensian era. “Food, Glorious Food” could spring from his lips at any moment.

What are you doing?
I asked.

She won't stop crying. Even after I made her a fire.

Nicholas laid the fires and polished the silver and did whatever other tasks Anatole and Celeste deemed below their dignity. Gotta love a household staff of ghosts.

I'll take care of her
, I said.
Go find something to eat, will ya?

I wish
, he mumbled, before fading out.

Oh yeah, he couldn't eat.
Sorry,
I called after him, then knocked on Natalie's door. “It's me.”

She cried harder.

I went in and found her curled in a fetal position on the bed, not bothering to look up. The room was a mirror image of my own, with antique furnishings and a minuscule fireplace, but hers was in shades of yellow, while mine was blue green. I plopped down next to her and started rubbing circles on her back.

She took a shuddering breath. “I like ghosts,” she said, in a small voice. “I've never been afraid of them, you know?” She turned her face toward me and I grabbed a box of tissues from the bureau to wipe her tears.

“Blow,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “Thanks, Mom,” she said, lifting tissues from the box.

“Well, right now …” I left the rest unspoken. We were both missing our moms, and with Martha gone, we kind of had to fill in for each other. I brushed her hair behind her ears and silently encouraged her to tell me what brought this on.

“It was just seeing his casket go into the grave. I knew you were going to summon him later, but he won't be the same, will he?”

“Not quite,” I said, looking at the gray light filtering through the window. “He's sad. I don't remember his ever being sad.”

“And then—this is totally selfish—but I couldn't help thinking about me. All those people there. If I died, who'd even come to the funeral? Do you think my parents would care?”

“I'm sure they—”

She blew her nose. “I don't even have a family anymore. I chose seeing ghosts over my parents. And now I drift from place to place, wherever the Knell sends me. What kind of life is that?”

“I don't know.”

“A crappy one.”

“But, Natalie, look at you. You're the queen of coping. You're pretty and fun and you make friends everywhere you go.”

“I'm in eleventh grade and this is my fifth high school.” She sniffled. “You know the Knell is paying for Thatcher?”

Thatcher Academy was the private school we both attended, with uniforms and fencing classes and old money. I'd wondered who was footing the bill for both of us, but had been too preoccupied by the fact that I could control ghosts to ask about it.

“They already told me they'll pay for college,” she said.

“That's a good thing, right?”

She grimaced. “They saved my life.” She'd been in a bad situation, before Bennett stepped in and rescued her. “But when am I going to stop owing them? I don't think they'd care if I died.”

“Natalie, stop. You're not going to die. And
I'd
care.”

“You would?”

I took her hand. “Of course. And so would Bennett. We're your family now.”

She gave me a watery smile. “We do bicker like sisters.”

“Exactly!”

I hugged her and she said, “Um, now that we're sisters, I feel I can say that you need to do something about that smell.”

“I fell into Coby's grave.”

She started laughing, like I'd hoped she would. Her mood lightened and, with that crisis averted, I told her I had to pack for the appointment with the Knell.

I was at the door when she said, “Emma, don't let them split us up.”

“Why would they?”

“They don't like us to get too close. But they'll listen to you.”

I frowned. We
were
like family, and the Knell had played manipulative games to get us together. I hated the idea that they might try to separate us. And what did that mean for me and Bennett? Did the Knell know how close we were getting? Were they going to send Bennett away? My heart constricted at the thought.

“I won't let them,” I promised, though I wasn't sure how I'd stop them.

But it was enough for Natalie. She nodded, looking relieved.

I crossed the hall to the bathroom and set the shower to blistering. I stepped in and scrubbed my hair and skin, trying to scrape away the feelings along with the dirt: all the anxiety, pain, and fear from the last week. It didn't work, but at least I no longer stank.

My bedroom was down the hall, across from an oil painting of one of Bennett's stuffier-looking ancestors. Inside, I found my suitcase open on the bed where Celeste—the resident ghost maid—had undoubtedly left it. She knew I didn't like her packing for me, but she always wanted to help. I put on black jeans and a gray wool sweater, then rifled through my clothes. After a minute's thought, I packed everything else I owned that was black. In New York, I wanted to blend in.

I was zipping my suitcase when my stomach rumbled. I'd skipped breakfast that morning, nervous about summoning Coby, and was suddenly starving. I went downstairs to the kitchen for a few bites of whatever was filling the house with a delicious smell.

I found Anatole pulling popovers from the oven. Before he died, Anatole had been resident chef to one of Bennett's ancestors, and his spirit had lingered. It was odd how quickly you could get used to a French ghost serving your meals.
Yum. Can I have one now?

Oui. I made them for you.
He slathered one with butter and handed it to me on a blue and white china plate.

Fameux
, I told him.

I'd been looking up French words on the Internet to please him. Hopefully
excellent
had the same connotation in French as in English, and I hadn't just said
excellent … in bed
, or something. There was no telling with the French. He and Celeste, who was sitting in the breakfast nook, appeared unimpressed, so I guessed it was okay.

What are you up to?
I asked, sitting down beside her. It was unlike Celeste not to be occupied with some household task. Unless she was telling Nicholas to do it.

Waiting for you
, she said. She was young and pretty, as ghosts went, and wore a gray dress and white apron. I wondered if she ever got tired of that outfit and wished for a day off.

I finished my packing.
I bit into the popover, which was like eating a buttered cloud.

Oui, but you are off to ze big city
— She gestured to an assortment of beauty products on the table.
I do your hair and makeup.

Oh.
The last time Celeste gave me a makeover, I ended up strapped to a ducking chair and almost drowned.
I don't know if I need …

I will be quick as a quicky quick
, she said. Talk about lost in translation.

I don't think that's an expression.

She paid no attention as she drifted behind me and worked product into my hair without touching my scalp.

I finished my popover and brushed crumbs from my chest as she applied blush and mascara. I wiped my mouth with the linen napkin Anatole handed me, then puckered for her to apply lipstick. She fluttered around me for another few minutes, then said,
Fini
, and handed me a mirror.

I looked exactly like myself, only prettier.
I don't know how you do that
.

She'd even made my hair look longer. I'd been trying to grow it, despite remembering with a shiver that Bennett had told me he liked it short. You had to like a guy who wasn't looking for a Barbie doll.

Celeste smiled a secret smile, then told me to be careful in New York.

Oui, chéri
, Anatole said, leaning against the table.
You cannot trust those people.

Which people?

He shrugged meaningfully, but before I could press him, Bennett stepped into the kitchen.

He eyed the three of us at the breakfast nook, and Anatole leaped to serve him a popover while Celeste tidied the makeup away. Bennett frightened them a little, because he couldn't communicate with them, only see them—and dispel them, if he wanted. Which he wouldn't.

I frowned. At least, I thought he wouldn't. Last week I'd finally heard from my mother. She'd left me a photo of Bennett in the mailbox with the cryptic message:
Don't trust him.

Thank you, Mom, for that detailed letter after you've been missing for two months. So glad to hear that you and Dad are having a marvelous time, wherever you are. Oh, and thanks for keeping the fact that I'm a ghostkeeper a secret all those years. You'll shortly be receiving your nomination for Best Parenting award in the mail. Oh, wait, I don't have your address.

Anyway, I'd crumpled the photo before Bennett saw it, but I still worried about it. Anatole's comment made me wonder if I was supposed to mistrust Bennett because he worked for the Knell. Is that what my parents meant? Or did they know something about Bennett that, as usual, they weren't telling me? And did I even care what they thought?

Bennett downed the popover in three bites, then pressed his hands together in a praying motion and bowed to Anatole, which I thought was nice.

He turned to me. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” I said, then remembered: “Oh no, my coat.” Still covered in grave muck.