by Cheryl Low
"Trying to," Theodore corrected.
Lucy turned toward him and gawked. "No. She did it."
"No, she didn't," Theodore protested.
"She did," Elysium and Benedict confirmed. Benedict had never recovered from the sight of those undead cats. He still twitched when he heard a meow.
Theodore held on to his skepticism for a second longer before shrugging. "Well, then I'd call her a witch, too."
"Mother said there were no such thing," Elysium maintained.
"She even had a spellbook," Benedict recalled, expecting Lucy to get excited at the reminder and maybe go hunting for the thing. When they had come home from that particularly nasty cleansing, his mother had kept the book and locked it away someplace. Lucy had hounded her for years about wanting to see it.
But his sister didn't light up at the reminder like he had expected. In fact, she stilled, the air pushing from her lungs in one big gush. Everyone froze for a second, and then Theodore blew smoke into thick rings and waved his hand about to dissipate it. "So, if the baby is finally here," he gestured to Benedict, still the baby at twenty-eight. "Can we get this funeral rolling?"
"In a rush to get back to Hollywood?" Lucy asked thinly, the punch of her words gone.
"London, actually," he corrected and led the way toward the back of the house.
Benedict turned only partway toward the doors, pausing to look out the big windows at the stretch of land between the house and the woods. He could see the family graveyard from here, made noticeable only by the figures standing in it. The hunched shape of his Uncle Vernon leaned heavily on a cane, staring down at a grave. He assumed it was his mother's freshly covered plot, but really, it could have been anyone. He didn't know his uncle well enough to bet on his sentiments.
"Benedict…" a whisper hissed over his shoulder. He spun toward it, blinking at the empty dining room. Distantly, he heard Lucy, Theodore, and Elysium talking on their way down the back hall. A door opened and closed, and the house fell quiet.
"Benedict." The voice again.
"Em?" He took two steps toward the center of the room. It wasn't like her to play games with him, but Emmeline followed her whims, and he would put nothing past her. He waited, hands balled in his pockets, but the quiet hum of a large house was all that met him. The shuffle of shoes upstairs—probably the staff. A tea kettle in the kitchen, whistling through the walls.
He turned to leave and stopped short, staring at the wall of family portraits. Every single one of them had changed, backs to him, faces hidden. Every one but Gloria Andrea Lyon. His mother's painting stared at him, turned fully forward now. She stared at him, and he stared back, horrified that her image might move or speak. His pulse slammed against his skin, making his temples throb. The paint grew glossy, bubbling at the edges before slowly running. The black of her pupils spread into the dark gray of her irises, staining the whites. Darkness welled in her eyes before finally spilling over, rolling down her face like thick tears of tar.
Benedict shuddered out a breath, unblinking. The paint rolled in globs, gathering against the frame, dragging the color from her cheeks until he saw the white glint of bone beneath.
"Benedict."
He jumped and twisted around.
Elysium stood in the doorway, brow pinching. "Are you okay?"
Benedict looked hurriedly back to the wall, the muscles of his arm jumping, ready to point—but all the paintings were back to the way they had always been. Even Mother's. He coughed and nodded stiffly. Had Emmeline done that? Could she? He glanced out the windows at the graveyard again, swallowing hard when he saw her out there, far from the house, sitting in the grass by the gathering family.
"Are you sure?" Elysium's voice lowered.
Benedict nodded again and hurried out of the dining room and past him, taking long strides through the narrow hall and out the back door.
Chapter Seven
Benedict had never seen anything like that before. Oh, he had heard about visions and the hallucinations ghosts could cause, and he had faked the experience a hundred times, but other than Emmeline, he had never seen anything supernatural except for the occasional levitating object and zombie feline.
His hurried pace only slowed when he neared the graveyard. The grass field stood almost as tall as the old tombstones, kept back from the beds by the groundskeeper. The stones were all similar to one another, though material had changed with the times. No angel statues or heart-shaped marble in the Lyon family graveyard. They knew for a fact that their dead did not reside in this yard, that it was a place for bodies and last rights—to reassure the lingering spirit that all was tended to and that they could move on. After today, the yard would be cared for by the gardeners, kept clean and trim, and no one would visit until the next of them died—probably Uncle Vernon. He was only sixty-two, but a hard life had left him crooked and tired in a way that left permanent bruises under his eyes.
Luis stood over the fresh gave—Mother's. His eyes were rimmed red from crying, and his light hair was a mess of curls. He was something of the black sheep in the Lyon family, or, in their case, the blond sheep. Aside from being fair skinned and light haired—contrary to everyone else in the family—he was also prone to raw emotions. Today, he looked like the picture of grief, rumpled and drawn.
Strange, that he was the one out of place in this yard. Even Uncle Vernon, her own brother, had no tears to shed. Had dealing with the dead since childhood made them callous to their own? Or did they simply not believe in loss because they knew that souls went someplace else?
Benedict shook the old man's hand, smiling a little when he felt his own grip lacking compared to his uncle's. Uncle Vernon smiled, too, perhaps thinking the same. Benedict's cousin, Hazel, hurried over, cocking her head to the side. She was the model of understanding today, her light-brown hair braided loosely over one shoulder and white, tea-length dress moving in the warm breeze. She was nearing forty and managed to look authoritative and innocent at the same time. Benedict had never figured out how she did it—though she had mastered it since her early teens. Hazel liked to play matriarch whenever Gloria wasn't looking, bossing the rest of them around.
"We're so happy you came home," she said, sounding very much like the mistress of the estate. He supposed she was the eldest Lyon woman now. Maybe that did put her in charge? He doubted it. Not with Elysium governing over them all in the shadow of their mother. Hazel might lay claim to the estate, with her father to back her up, but she didn't have the natural authority Elysium had. Benedict imagined his brother would even give her reign of the house—like a Pope giving rulership of the land to a King. When the people wanted food, they would turn to her. But when they wanted their souls saved, they knew where to find Elysium.
Rumor had it that Hazel had a couple of kids hidden away someplace. She had never liked the way Mother ran the house—accusing her of being loveless and neglecting her children. With Gloria gone, would Hazel bring her kids to the family home now that no one would interfere in her mothering plans? Theodore, Hazel's brother, had met them on holidays but wouldn't let slip their names, how many, or if they were even her biological kids. When Gloria had pressed for answers a couple of years ago, Hazel had insisted they were the children of her husband and not Lyons. Though Lucy, who spread all the gossip to Benedict's ear, doubted it.
Hazel curled her arm around one of her father's and led him toward the grave. They all gravitated toward it—the fresh mound of soil that weighed their mother down like an anchor in the sea. Lucy, the first to move, laid flowers on the ground and whispered her goodbyes. Theodore put a pack of Gloria's brand of cigarettes down, patting it gently into the soft earth and wishing her well in the next life.
Uncle Vernon shook off his daughter to take the flask from his jacket and pour out a mouthful. "Good job," he said stiffly. Mother had not been the only one with emotional problems in the family.
Hazel dropped a few smooth crystals onto the grave and whispered a prayer.
Luis coughed, chok
ing back tears. Theodore rolled his eyes but turned politely away so that his cousin wouldn't see. Luis crouched down, reaching out to touch the grave. "We miss you so much, Mother," he sniffled, voice raw and so full of emotion that the rest of them took a step back, as though reminded how little they themselves had felt and were burned by it. "You were the strength and the light of this family. You were our compass at sea, always steering us right. I don't know how we'll keep from being lost without you." He stifled a sob.
Theodore caught Benedict's gaze and gestured with a finger gun to his head, blowing out his brains in silent, gruesome pantomime.
"We've always been so close, but I know these last days by your side meant so much to you, and I was so grateful to have them—to drop everything and come home to take care of you."
From the way Lucy and Hazel exchanged glances, they seemed to consider this a direct jab.
Benedict suspected it was more of a boast than an intended insult. Luis had a cloying need to be thought well of—though his efforts often inspired resentment rather than adoration.
"You were the best mother any of us could have asked for, and you loved us in your own way, always making us stronger so that we could hold up the family name proudly and shepherd the lost spirits—"
"Jesus!" Theodore finally burst.
Lucy giggled, and Benedict tried his damnedest not to smile.
"You're going to make a ghost out of her if you keep pissing her off like that!"
Luis was still on his hands and knees in the grave dirt, teeth gnashing and body twisting to glare over his shoulder at his cousin. "What are you talking about?"
"You—"
"Enough," Elysium shushed them both and nodded for Luis to finish.
After another five minutes of glorifying their mother, he took out a small pair of scissors and cut a lock of his own hair. He placed it tenderly into the soil and then broke down into dramatic sobs.
Elysium walked over, grabbed Luis by the shoulders, and gently pulled the other man to his feet. He turned him, walking him back a few steps from the grave. They all waited quietly while Elysium patted Luis on the back a few times, head lowered to speak gently but firmly. "Another minute and we'll go inside. Stand," he said.
Elysium straightened his vest when he stepped away. Luis managed to do as he was told, standing on his own.
Benedict caught his eldest brother's gaze. The man nudged his head toward the grave, and Benedict took it as instruction to get on with things.
He dug the coins from his pocket, took one step forward, and tossed them out onto the soil. They sank into the soft ground. He had been thinking about what to say since he got on the plane last night but still didn't have anything. He wouldn't have known what to say if she had been alive—let alone dead. "Goodbye, Mother."
Luis hiccupped behind him.
Elysium patted his shoulder, assuring him it was enough even when it was so little. It was one of the gifts of being the youngest—no one expected much of him.
They all waited, breathless, when Elysium stood at the foot of her grave. He had never been given such a gift as low expectations. He was their mother's protégé since birth—the heir to her imagined throne. For a moment, Benedict was actually impressed. He knew, without a doubt, that he would have crumbled under that sort of pressure, even if he had been a gifted spiritualist like the rest of them. He would have buckled, fought back, rebelled, or just gone mad. But not Elysium. "Sleep well," he said, taking a piece of chalk from his pocket and holding it up as though she were perched on the headstone watching. "Thank you." He tossed it down onto the pile of offerings.
For long minutes, they stood in the silence. He wondered if the others were searching for signs of her by stretching out their otherworldly senses.
Before he could think, he glanced toward the spot where he had last seen Emmeline.
She was still there, at the edge of the graveyard just beside the start of the woods. But she wasn't watching the funeral. She was on her knees, the tiny flower heads on long stalks swaying back and forth beside her shoulders. Her green eyes were focused on the ground, arms stretched out as though she were running her hands along it. He couldn't see clearly from here.
"She would have hated this," Lucy whispered, suddenly beside him.
Benedict looked away from his ghost and met his sister's gaze. Hazel and Uncle Vernon were making a slow walk back toward the house, Luis electing to stay behind and sit with Mother a little longer. Theodore stifled his annoyance with a fresh cigarette pressed between his lips.
"Do you remember when Grandmother died?" Lucy continued.
"No," Benedict answered. Grandmother was but a picture on the wall to him.
"He was still a baby," Elysium reminded.
Lucy huffed a laugh as though he had been lucky not to remember it. "It was terrible. Mother kept rolling her eyes and scoffing until Uncle Vernon finally told her to knock it off. She tossed out the apple she'd been eating in offering."
Benedict jolted at that, blinking at Lucy before bursting into a laugh. "No!"
Elysium cringed but nodded as they started for the house.
"Are we sure Theo isn't one of her kids? Maybe she just didn't want to deal with another one and pawned him off on Uncle Vernon?" Benedict speculated, casting a glance back toward the spot where Emmeline had been. She was gone.
"Oh, no," Theodore exhaled smoke, catching up to them with a few long strides. "You're not moving me on the family tree."
Lucy gasped in mock offense. "You don't want to be my brother?"
Theodore huffed and stretched one long arm back to point the fingers holding his cigarette at Luis. "I am not going to be brothers with that."
Elysium shot him a glare. "Don't pick on him. He's not taking the death well."
Theodore groaned but lowered his arm. "Does he take anything well?"
At the door, Benedict looked back at the yard. Luis still stood at the edge of their mother's grave, but he wasn't looking at it anymore. His head had turned, and Benedict could swear that his gaze had settled on that spot near the tree-line where Emmeline had been.
"Can you believe he put a lock of his hair on her grave? Can you imagine how your mother would have reacted to that show?" Theodore laughed with a shake of his head. "She'd be rolling."
Lucy wrapped her arms around one of Theodore's, leaning against his side. "Even I have to admit it was a bit much… And all that talk about how loving she was? I mean, I didn't hate mom, but come one, let's be real—that woman was stone-cold."
Benedict pressed down a smile. "Word choice, Lucy…"
Chapter Eight
After dinner, they lingered at the table, basking in the sense of familiarity without the oppression of their matriarch. No one wanted to say it—how freeing it felt to be in that house without Gloria Lyon. Uncle Vernon had retired early. And Luis had gone upstairs not long after, sullen and mumbling something about heartache and loss.
Theodore pillaged the freezer and returned with cartons of ice cream and a fistful of spoons—the same way they had snuck the dessert as teens at night when the adults were out on a ghost hunt. No bowls meant no evidence.
Elysium told the staff to take the rest of the night to themselves—the Lyons would manage on their own for the evening.
"Okay, so let's hear it," Lucy started, picking up a spoon and dragging the carton of strawberry ice cream toward herself. "Who has kids?"
A stretch of silence spread through the dining room, everyone exchanging glances until at last a few guilty smiles grew on their lips. Hazel, Theodore, and finally, Elysium raised their hands in confession.
Lucy howled laughter. "Theo! You do not!"
Theodore shrugged, opening the chocolate ice cream with brownie chunks. "One. Didn't know about her until she was already six years old. She doesn't live with me, but her mother lets me see her sometimes."
He said it all so casually. Benedict supposed there was no real normal in his family.
Hazel confirmed t
hat her husband's three kids were, as they all suspected, her own. She had just wanted to keep them safe from the Lyon ways.
Elysium was the real surprise, though. Benedict had been sure that if and when Elysium continued the family line, it would be just as Gloria had done—coming home with a baby and no mention of a spouse like it was the most normal thing in the world. They all waited for him to explain, and he let the silence stretch until Theodore was about to burst.
"Two boys. Benjamin and Everest."
Benedict felt Lucy and Hazel glancing his way just when he had been stealing the strawberry ice cream from his sister.
"Benny?" Hazel said. "You named your kid after Benny?" she asked Elysium before asking Benedict, "Did you know?"
Benedict shook his head with a shrug and dug into the ice cream. It was the creamy kind, with strawberry chunks, at that perfect point of melting where it had become like soft serve. "Didn't know about anyone's kids."
"We should have a family get together here!" Lucy said. Either sugar hit her hard, or she was honestly excited about this whole nieces-and-nephews business. "We could do Christmas or something."
Hazel nodded. "We should. I was thinking of moving home to look after dad. Jackson's a writer, so he can move anywhere, and the kids would probably love the house."
Theodore laughed, tapping his spoon against the rim of the chocolate ice cream. "Love it? Because we loved it so much?"
She waved off her brother's skepticism, turning toward Lucy. "We'll make it happen. You're seeing someone, aren't you? You could bring them!"
Lucy smiled brightly. "Her name's Alex, and we got married last year."
The table of siblings and cousins let out a cheer of surprise and congratulations. Benedict laughed along with them, eating another spoonful of strawberry and marveling at how little they knew about one another.
"What about you, Benny? Seeing anyone?" Lucy asked, stealing his spoon from him. Though it had been her spoon first, so really, she was just taking it back.
