by Lee Nichols
When she began to flag, I saw an opening … and I didn’t take it. I was afraid I’d learned the Rake’s lessons too well. He’d never shown me how to score points, only how to draw blood. I resisted the urge to switch hands, break her ankle with a kick, and drive my foil into her throat.
Instead, I dropped my guard and let her through. “Touché,” I said.
Then I spent the rest of the class period getting scolded, with my head bowed to hide my smile.
“What the hell was that?” Sara asked, back in the locker room.
“Oh … well,” I said, “I’ve been practicing at home.”
23
I spent the weekend in lockdown mode. Coby and Sara tried to get me to go out, but I pretended I was sick and texted them bi-daily updates on my condition for verisimilitude—one of the few PSAT words I had gotten right.
I filled my hours with research in the museum’s archival room and told Martha I was doing homework, which wasn’t a complete lie. I still had to turn in my Western Civ paper on Monday. I surfed the net to find some hint of my parents’ whereabouts, reading endless travel blogs, hoping to find mention of a couple of antiquities dealers. I checked auction sites looking for the kind of items they generally sold, trying to find some connection somewhere, but nothing resonated.
Next were the conspiracy sites. It was weird to see theories about ghostkeeping mixed with lore of vampires and extraterrestrials. It made me wonder if there really were bloodsucking aliens. Then again, most of the whack-jobs thought ghostkeepers controlled ghosts like families of mobsters, contracting them out for crime, so it was hard to give them any credence.
I couldn’t find a single reference to the Knell, which was a disappointment. I’d grilled Martha over breakfast, but she’d remained vague, simply saying, “When you’re ready, you’ll meet them. You needn’t worry until then.”
But I was worried. Worried that they were after my parents or Max for killing ghostkeepers and there was no way for me to protect or even warn them.
Sunday afternoon, an e-mail dinged in my mailbox:
Hey Emma,
First off, I’m sorry I deserted you. I know I suck as a best friend.
The thing is … I see ghosts, too.
Yeah, I’m serious. That’s why my mom worked for your parents, to be around people who understood. I never saw much until I fell for Max, and then I started seeing ghosts everywhere. And I freaked out. Max got all paranoid I’d steal his powers or something. Only I didn’t want his powers OR mine.
Emma, I HATE seeing ghosts!!!!!!!!!!
I despise that heebie-jeebie feeling you get when they show up—and have you ever touched one? It’s like insta-frostbite. I just hate them!
Anyway, that’s why Max dumped me and why I dumped you. My mom explained to me about ghostkeeping running in families. You know that’s what you are by now, right? You’re a ghostkeeper. If not, get help.
So I thought you had been like Max all along and had never told me. I’m glad you weren’t keeping it from me, but I don’t want to see ghosts anymore, Emma. I don’t know how you’re dealing. I’m sorry, I just don’t want anything to do with it.
Sooo … this sucks. I want to be there for you, but I can’t. Not even by e-mail.
I know I’m a terrible person.
Love always and forever … just from afar.
Abby
I spent the rest of the day going through the five stages of grief.
Denial: she couldn’t really be a ghostkeeper.
Anger: how dare she not like ghosts? Natalie loved being a ghostkeeper so much she wouldn’t let her family exorcise it out of her.
Bargaining: I’d never bring up ghostkeeping in Abby’s presence, then she’d still want to be friends with me.
Depression: I’d never see her again—never even talk to her. Abandoned by my parents, my brother, and my best friend. Forever.
I never quite worked my way into Acceptance.
Sunday night, I finished my paper. There wasn’t a single reference to ghostkeeping, talismans, or murders.
Or best friends who desert you. Not that it was relevant.
. . .
Monday morning, I found Martha drinking her tea in the solarium. It was more of a greenhouse, really, with small citrus trees growing in blue and white Chinese pots and orchids blooming on red lacquered tables. It was warm and smelled faintly of dampness and earth. I sat beside her on the wicker settee with sage green pillows.
There was a second cup on the tea tray and I helped myself.
“Is everything ready for winter?” I knew she’d been helping the ghosts clean and prepare.
“We’re close. A few more rooms. The house needed some love.” Her eyes shone with affection. “Some life.”
She thought that I’d brought life to the museum. But that wasn’t how I felt, since I was constantly shrouded in the trappings of death.
“Will we have to shut off this room?” The scent of the orange trees made me miss California. Even the trees and flowers would all be dead soon. I wasn’t looking forward to it.
“No, the sun and a heater keep it warm. And Anatole uses the fruit.” She set down her teacup. “I was going through some drawers and I found something that will interest you.”
“What?”
“It’s a surprise. Bennett’s coming to dinner, so let’s wait until then.”
“Okay.” I hadn’t talked to him since our last fight. I was nervous about seeing him.
“Will you work on the menu with Anatole? So convenient that you can talk with him.” She gave me a few dish ideas, then said, “And how are you, my dear?”
“Well,” I said. “I’ve been thinking. I can’t do this alone. I need to know all the secrets you’re keeping—you and Bennett.”
Martha took a long sip of tea, then said, “You’re right. We’ve been trying to protect you, but we’re only endangering you. I’ve spoken with Bennett—that’s one reason he’s coming. We’ll talk before dinner.”
“No more secrets?”
“Well, the Knell always has some. We all have some—even you.”
I managed not to touch the jade necklace under my shirt. “All I want to know is how my family is involved. Who killed those ghostkeepers and why? What’s the story with wraiths? What does ‘Neos’ mean? Why didn’t—”
“Wait.” Martha’s gaze sharpened on me. “Neos?”
I nodded. “Yeah. I think all the wraiths kind of … chanted that. The ones back in San Francisco, the ones here.”
“All the wraiths? How many have you seen?”
I tallied in my head all the times I’d heard that name: the ashes in my father’s urns, the shadows in the village and that monstrous thing I killed. “Three? I don’t really know if that’s what they are, though.”
“Neos,” she said, thoughtfully. “I’ll look into that while you’re at school. Should I invite Natalie to dinner?”
“Um …” Natalie and I were coming to terms, but I needed Martha and Bennett to myself tonight.
“If you let her, Emma, Natalie will be a real friend to you.”
“Oh, Martha.” I hugged her before leaving for school. “All I need is you.”
I waited at Thatcher’s front gates until Harry and Sara showed up. Coby had already gotten to school at the crack of dawn for football practice. Every waking moment he wasn’t in class, he was on the gridiron—that’s the football field. See what you learn when you’re almost kinda the quarterback’s sorta girlfriend?
On the way through the orchard, Harry recited an ode to Natalie’s butt. Seriously. In terza rima, he told us, with rhyming couplets. Neither Sara nor I had a clue what that meant. Except that he liked her butt. We got that part in triplicate.
By the time we reached the front doors, I started getting suspicious. Harry’s infatuation with Natalie was so completely over the top, I didn’t quite believe it anymore. Like maybe he was just trying to make Sara jealous or something. Especially when Natalie showed up for Latin, l
ooking like she was made to wear a school uniform, and Harry didn’t blink an eye.
The mysteries of Harry’s mind were beyond me I decided, as I sat down in Trigonometry. Coby arrived to class looking flushed and windswept, and half the girls simultaneously sighed.
He really was perfect. If only he were perfect for me.
After Trig, I sat on the bench during Fencing, still in trouble. The idiot ghost-boys kept me distracted with their running commentary. Mostly about the girls in class.
Would you stop? I finally told them.
Hey, there weren’t girls here when we were alive, one said.
The other nodded. That’s right. Cut us some slack. This is a novelty.
You’ve been dead for like thirty years! How long can girls stay a novelty?
Shall we tell her? one asked the other.
Tell me what? I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear.
Our advice from the Beyond, one of them intoned. Do not die a virgin.
I laughed, and the whole class turned to me. Coach was not pleased.
For lunch, I met Harry and Sara in the bleachers outside, where we shared the picnic Anatole had packed. We watched Coby practicing plays, throwing perfect spirals through the crisp autumn air. I would’ve enjoyed myself more if I hadn’t seen Sara’s face, shining with admiration as her eyes tracked him. How evil was I, kind of dating the guy she loved?
When she raced off for class, I asked Harry, “Do you ever wonder if you’re kind of a jerk?”
“All the time,” he said.
“No, I don’t mean you. I mean … What do I mean?”
“You mean you,” he said. “Do I ever think that you are a jerk.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not a jerk, Emma,” he said, kindly. “Maybe a cretin, or a nitwit.”
I shoved him. “Oh, shut up.”
“ ‘Ode to a Cretin.’ I’ll get right on that.”
“You’re such a comfort to me,” I told him, and trudged off to Western Civ.
Our essays were supposed to be fifteen hundred words, which is like six double-spaced pages, but what Mr. Jones hadn’t mentioned was that we were going to read them aloud in class.
After the first three boring presentations, I gave my own lackluster report, all about the history of jade. I hadn’t wanted to put my necklace on display, so I plugged my memory stick into the class computer and referred to a fuzzy image on the overhead monitor. Eyes glazed from the front row to the back.
Except for one pair that didn’t look away or even blink. Edmund, the man in the brown suit. He’d wandered in shortly after I’d started and watched intently.
When I finished, I stumbled to my chair next to Britta, who started presenting a paper on her father’s one-of-a-kind vintage Mercedes-Benz. I ignored Edmund, who was standing in the back of the room, not in the mood for his banter, but he pressed his thoughts toward me.
I need to speak with you.
I’m busy listening to the history of Nazi capitalism.
That jade design, he said. I’ve seen it before.
I spun toward him, startling Britta, who complained to Mr. Jones. “Is it too much to ask that Emma stop fidgeting while I speak?”
“Sorry,” I murmured. God, she was such a drama queen. I kept my face forward and my eyes focused on her as I communicated with the ghost.
Where? I asked. Where did you see it? I watched Britta drone about the custom leather interior. Who had it?
He took a shaky breath. I don’t want to say his name. He is strong and growing stronger. He hears things and punishes those who—
Neos?
He nodded quickly, eyes wide in his pale face. He raises wraiths, I don’t know how—he’s … Edmund shook his head. I can’t explain. Twisting things.
Who is he? How can I find him?
He’s one of you, Edmund said. Or he was. I don’t know any more than that. He knelt beside my chair. Do you really want to find him? He’s killed before. Killed the living and the dead.
Just tell me how, Edmund.
Then you’ll dispel me?
No. I was never doing that again.
He stood abruptly, his face clouded. I don’t know how to find him. You should worry more about him finding you. Someone’s been compelling spirits all morning, seeking information about him. He’s on the hunt right now.
But who would be—
Oh God. Martha.
My chair scraped across the floor as I stood. “I’m going to be sick,” I said, and raced from the room.
24
I stumbled through the front doors of the museum. “Martha?”
No answer. I ran to the kitchen, but she wasn’t in her usual spot in the breakfast nook. I called her name again, checking the porch, then her bedroom.
“Martha! Martha!” I galloped down the stairs. “Celeste, where is she? Anatole? Nicholas, come tell me what—”
I stopped, spotting the three of them at the end of the hall. Standing in a line, like when we’d first met, staring into the front parlor. They appeared duller somehow, grayer and dingier.
My throat clenched and I rushed past them to the open door. It was a large, ornate room with uncomfortable formal furnishings, so we hardly ever came in here. A clock ticked loudly on the mantel. The afternoon sunlight, dappled by falling leaves outside, shone across the far wall.
The wide-planked wooden floor was painted white, and in the middle Martha lay on her back, legs and arms spread in an X. I screamed when I saw her.
Her skin was pale and cool. I shook her and called her name—even though I knew. She was dead. Martha was dead. I couldn’t catch my breath, I couldn’t stop crying.
“Martha, no,” I said, sobbing. “No, no—please.”
Anatole? Celeste? What happened?
But when I turned to the doorway, they were gone.
I knelt next to Martha’s body, afraid to touch the blood seeping from her chest and forehead. Her features were etched with fear and blood dripped into her eyes. I took a shuddering breath and forced myself to examine her.
The wound in her head trailed down one temple, across her chin, down her neck to her chest in a snakelike pattern. Her white blouse, so properly buttoned when I left her this morning, had been torn open to reveal her chest. The starched linen was soaked in crimson blood from the designs cut into her skin.
She looked so undignified that I moved to pull her shirt closed, then realized I shouldn’t touch anything before the police got here. I didn’t know what to do. I needed to call someone, but couldn’t move.
On the floor beside her, I found the pattern burned into the wood. Same as the amulet I wore around my neck.
I sat beside her corpse until shadows filled the room. Finally, I took her cold, limp hand between both of mine, to say good-bye, and realized that her fist was slightly closed. Inside her fingers, I discovered a gold ring, like a simple wedding band, with a little tag on it: Emma.
I removed the tag and held the ring to the fading light of the afternoon sun—then started crying again. This was the keepsake she’d found while organizing. Her surprise. Martha had died alone, frightened, and in pain—with a gift for me clenched in her hand.
“Oh, Martha,” I said. So sweet and good and giving.
Until someone brutally cut her life short. And I knew who.
The anger built inside of me and I summoned: Neos.
The house creaked with the wind. An ache crept into my chest, my skin itched and my stomach clenched. I felt a shifting of air behind me, but when I turned, there was nothing.
Emma Vaile. The voice came, slick and slithery, into my mind. Do not call what you cannot control.
I’m not going to control you, I’m going to dispel you.
Spectral laughter echoed. You are going to writhe under my knife.
Show yourself, then.
A patch of unnatural shadow slunk across the floor, and I shoved at it with my mind. The laughter grew louder.
I am not to be pushed around like any
old ghost, he said.
What are you? A wraith?
I am the wraiths’ master. I am Neos.
He appeared, with crow eyes and spidery fingers. There was a dagger in his left hand, the blade still wet with Martha’s blood.
Have you seen my little white dog?
I stepped back. The ghost from the abandoned storefront. All those years ago. The ghost my mother saved me from. But where was my mother? Who would save me now?
My poor lost Snowball, all alone. Will you help me find her?
“For Martha,” I whispered, and summoned my powers and lashed at him.
His form frayed and his edges feathered into dust. I struck harder—again and again—until he crumbled like a sandcastle.
Then swirled and re-formed, the same as before. Unhurt.
He laughed in triumph. All these years in the fog, growing stronger. But never strong enough—not until you started coming into your power.
No, I said, and lashed at him again.
Don’t you see? I’ve tasted your blood. As your power grows, so does mine. And when I find that talisman, I will straddle the border between life and death.
Then he unwove himself into strips of darkness. Snakes of smoky blackness wrapped around me like a cocoon, winding tighter and darker.
I struggled to find the spark inside me and I blasted him with everything I had. He bound me tighter and his darkness swallowed my light. I felt myself fading and all I could think was, Martha, I’ve failed you.
As my consciousness ebbed away, I felt the ring that she’d set aside for me still clasped in my fist—her final gift.
I slipped it on my finger. And a rush of foreign memories and emotions sang in my mind. The ring throbbed with power and tightened on my finger. All at once, I disappeared.
I became a ghost.
Weightless and untouched, I fell through Neos’s smoky snakes and stepped into the light of the front parlor. My body had become transparent and my mind flashed with foreign memories as I straightened.
