The Midnight Lullaby

by Cheryl Low

  His face twisted with confusion and worry. "I'm going to go check on her. Stay here, okay?"

  Benedict nodded.

  "Try to get some sleep. You don't need to come back down. We'll take care of everything."

  Benedict almost laughed. The door closed behind Theodore, and he was surprised when it didn't lock. He felt like he had gone mad in a matter of minutes. Somehow being locked up would have made sense.

  He dropped his head forward, staring at his hands. They weren't bloody, but a part of him had expected them to be. "What's happening?" he asked, knowing she was with him even before he looked up.

  Emmeline shook her head, arms curled around herself. "We'll never get out. We'll never leave this place."

  Benedict leaned forward onto the edge of his seat. "Was that my mother's ghost? Why would she do that? How could she—"

  "We're going to die," Emmeline choked out. "We're going to die," she said again.

  What was wrong with her? She was already dead. "Em—"

  His door opened, Elysium taking one step in. He paused, glancing around the room and right through Emmeline. "Were you talking to someone? Did Mother contact you?"

  Benedict shook his head. "I tried to talk to her, hoping maybe she'd answer…" he lied.

  Elysium sighed. "Don't. She's obviously dangerous. Hazel wants to do a séance tomorrow night, to try to draw her out so that we can send her on." It was going to be a long day.

  "Why is she here?" Benedict asked.

  Elysium's shoulders sagged under too much weight. "I don't know, but we need to get rid of her."

  Benedict nodded once. It was then that he noticed his brother slept in silk pajamas, the sort with matching top and bottom. Gray, because he imagined Elysium would think black too formal for sleepwear.

  "If you're up for it, you should join us," Elysium suggested.

  Benedict nodded again and then jumped to his feet just before his brother could leave. "The staff…the ones that died…"

  "I'll call the sheriff in the morning and let her know about the murder-suicide."

  He winced at the lacking term. Murder-suicide. It sounded like something it wasn't—like the people who had died had any control over the situation—like it wasn't the fault of the Lyons.

  "The bodies will be taken to the morgue in town for cremation. Hopefully, the sheriff won't come out to poke around."

  "Why wouldn't she?" he snapped, not meaning to sound angry but unable to stop himself. His family had always had a strange relationship with Vannes, the nearest town to their estate. For the most part, the townsfolk seemed to enjoy the mystery and stories of the Lyons, blaming everything from colds and bad weather to missing people on the family of spiritualists. A few times, his mother had called the Vannes Sheriff about town kids coming out to the estate to vandalize the property. But usually, when the sheriff had come out, it had been because of a séance gone wrong, injured guests, and staff fleeing in terror.

  Somehow everything would always be smoothed over in the end—no doubt helped by the very competent lawyers the family kept on retainer for just this sort of incident, and the Lyon habit of making large and regular donations to Vannes but never interfering in town business. They never even attended Town Hall meetings.

  Elysium sighed, nodding slowly because not even he could believe the sheriff would just ignore two dead bodies without making an appearance. "The rest of the staff are being sent away until we can cleanse the house."

  Benedict sank back down onto the couch. Emmeline was beside him now. "Send for me when it's time for the séance," he said, staring straight ahead until his brother closed the door and he could look at his own ghost. "We could leave. Right now," he whispered.

  She smiled, the gesture tight with sadness, tears welling in her eyes. They never spilled. He suspected they couldn't. "It's too late. You're going to die here."

  Benedict groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face. "Can you be less doomsday for a minute?"

  She went quiet.

  He lifted his head, afraid she had gone. She sat there still, staring at him and not saying anything. And then she cocked an eyebrow, and he realized she was being quiet for a minute to give him one with less doom. He heaved out a laugh that mingled with a sob. Damn, she was dark—he suspected even by ghost standards his Emmeline was grim.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. "You should go," she finally said, though she didn't sound convinced he'd make it.

  "It's my mother's ghost, isn't it?" he asked quietly, studying her. What he really wanted to ask was if Emmeline had done this. He had seen her in his room while that mayhem began downstairs. She couldn't have been in two places at once—that much he knew.

  Bruises moved like shadows over her skin, there and gone. She was a corpse, and then she was a girl again. "It's her," she said quietly.

  He sighed and nodded slowly, standing from the loveseat. "We'll stay for the séance then. If you see her… You'll warn me, won't you?"

  Emmeline startled, cracking that veneer of spiteful fury. "Always."

  He nodded and then went to his room and flung himself down on the bed. He laid there on his chest, waiting for her to join him. She did, laying down next to him on her side of the bed. She curled onto her side, staring back at him the way she always did. Always. But there was something brewing between them, something gathering in her like a storm that had been there for years. He feared it would be a hurricane when it finally broke free.

  "There are things you don't tell me," Benedict whispered sleepily, so tired.

  "There are things you don't understand," she countered. She wasn't tired, but she wasn't entirely present either.

  He closed his eyes. "Will I understand when I'm a ghost, too?"

  She didn't answer. Or maybe he fell asleep before she did.

  Chapter Ten

  Benedict woke around nine in the morning, showered and dressed, and snuck out of his room. It reminded him of when he was younger, creeping around because he didn't want Mother to spot him and test his lack of abilities.

  He paused at the top of the stairs. Hazel and Elysium were arguing in the foyer, voices hushed.

  "We need to send him away," Elysium pressed.

  "You don't think that'll look suspicious?" Hazel countered.

  "It isn't safe for him."

  She laughed, and it was an ugly sound. "You mean it isn't safe for you? Just tell him. Who cares if it makes him sad? We did what we had to. We saved his life!"

  "Shut up," Elysium snapped when her voice rose. "Something like this could ruin the family."

  Benedict wondered if they were talking about Mother's ghost and the dead staff. That seemed pretty scandalous. But who were they worried about finding out? Had they not told Uncle Vernon? Had he somehow missed it?

  Benedict was about to go down, interrupt their whisper fight, and ask some questions of his own when Emmeline caught his attention. She stood at the other end of the hall, waving him toward her. When he started walking, she held a finger up to her mouth and pointed at Theodore's bedroom door. She smirked in a very mischievous, up-to-no-good way that both thrilled and worried Benedict. It was the first sign of her acting like her usual self since they got here. She slipped through the closed door, vanishing.

  Benedict followed with quick steps.

  He didn't knock.

  The smell of incense hit him first, the room dark despite the rising sun outside. Heavy curtains had been drawn over the windows and the lamps left off. Dozens of candles were lit and set out along the side tables, casting shadows more than light. Theodore's room had always looked the same—like a guest room. Comfortable and expensive, but far from personal. He had been honing all his personal expression on clothing since childhood—his room had never mattered to him.

  "Theo?" Benedict asked.

  His cousin sat at the table, slumped over it, forehead to the tablecloth. He didn't move or speak.

  "Theo?" Benedict tried again, coming closer. The door snapped shut behind
him, but before he could turn toward it, Theo jerked upright—inhaling so deeply that he shuddered in his chair.

  His eyes opened, wide and unfocused for a long second. And then the man laughed, grinning widely. It wasn't his laugh or his grin. He hugged himself, rocking back and forth in the chair.

  "What are you doing?" Benedict whispered.

  Theodore stood up and stretched. "He was asking for it," Emmeline explained, her voice mingled with Theo's. "He was begging to talk to a ghost in this house. He even offered himself up as a vessel, looking to understand." Theodore walked around the table, but his sway and his stride were all Emmeline.

  He walked right up to Benedict, standing only inches away, and reached up to brush fingers across his cheek.

  Benedict should stop her, and he knew that. It wasn't right. But his pulse jumped at that touch.

  Theodore leaned down, plush lips close to his. Heavy lashes lifted to meet Benedict's gaze in the near dark. He saw the swirls of her maddening green in the depths of his cousin's eyes. She kissed him, and Benedict kissed back, sinking fingers into the back of his cousin's hair to hold his face closer, kissing deeper. Emmeline did not taste like he had imagined she would—no sugary coffee or hint of lipstick, but cigarettes and breath mints.

  The kiss grew frantic, Theodore pushing Benedict up against the nearest wall and pressing against him. With a groan, Benedict shoved him back and shook his head. "No."

  Theodore laughed, but the sound was Emmeline. "Why not?"

  "You can't use his body like this," Benedict said, breathless. "I can't."

  "Because he's your cousin?" she asked, tipping Theodore's head to one side.

  "Because he's an unwilling participant. Let him go, Em."

  The smile on Theodore's lips withered. "Why?" she demanded again, voice darker.

  Benedict's head snapped up to glare at the ghost in his cousin's eyes. She had never done anything like this before. She had never possessed anyone. "What's going on with you?"

  Theodore took a step back, face still twisted in a bitter scowl.

  "Are you doing this, Em? Are you infecting my mother's spirit?"

  Theodore took another step back, tears gathering in his eyes.

  "You think I haven't seen how you rile other ghosts? I see the way you whisper to them before I get there, before they go violent. If you wanted to hurt me, why not just do it yourself?"

  Theodore laughed miserably, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Oh yes, you see me, Benedict. But just me. Maybe the other ghosts aren't even there. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the only ghost and I've been the one trying to kill you all along," Emmeline said.

  He was grateful for the wall against his back, holding him up when his mind raced. He went through all of his memories, searching for the possibility of truth. No. No, she couldn't have been the other ghosts. If he could see her, then she couldn't be someplace else—his mother had taught him at least that much.

  She cried angrily, Theodore's fists balled and pushing hard into his own sides. His fingers wrapped around his thumbs—the way she did when she was afraid or sad. Maybe—that was how she had said it. Maybe she had done it. She couldn't lie, so the closest she could get was leading him to the conclusion himself. "Say it then," Benedict prompted, tears in his own eyes now. "Tell me you're the only ghost. Tell me you've been trying to kill me all these years."

  Theodore's lips pressed shut. She couldn't say it because it wasn't true.

  "I always thought it was the pain and anger of the ghosts we met that spilled over onto you. I thought it was their temper that affected you when we went out to cleanse properties…"

  Theodore stood still, lifting his chin high, and Emmeline peered out from his eyes—daring Benedict to realize the truth.

  "It's your anger, isn't it? It's your anger that makes the other ghosts violent."

  Theodore sat down, back into the chair where he had started. "You wanted to talk to ghosts, so I talked to them for you. You wanted to know their secrets, their pasts, and their names—and I gave you everything about them. I helped you push them from this world." She put Theodore's hands back on the surface of the table, palms flat. "You have no right to judge me, Benedict Lyon." Her gaze cut deep into his soul. "And I am not sorry for anything."

  Before Benedict could even think of a reply, Theodore's head flung back. His mouth opened wide like he might scream, but he only convulsed before collapsing forward again. His forehead whacked the surface of the table, and the dark room went still again.

  Seconds later, his cousin was coughing and sitting upright, rubbing at his head. He started when he saw Benedict there, no memory of him coming into the room—no memory of anything since the moment he went into his trance in search of spirits. "What happened?"

  Benedict slid his hands into his pants pockets. "Nothing. I heard you talking to yourself and came in. Jumping the gun on tonight's séance?" He tried to make his voice sound casual.

  Theodore swallowed, fingers pushing his hair back into place, away from his face. He had a red mark on his forehead from where it had hit the table. "I guess. What was I saying when you walked in?"

  Another shrug. "Couldn't tell. But you probably shouldn't do this again—not after what Mother made that maid do."

  Theodore flushed, nodding tightly. "Yeah. Yeah, it was dumb. But Aunt Gloria wouldn't do that to us." He sounded distant, glancing around the room as though almost remembering something.

  "I'm going to go downstairs to get something to eat," Benedict said, though he couldn't imagine eating anything right now. "Do you want to come with me?"

  Theodore started to nod again before he shook himself out of it, standing from his chair. "Give me a few minutes."

  Benedict hesitated, suddenly afraid his cousin really would try his communing with spirits again—and this time, it wouldn't be Emmeline who accepted his invitation.

  Chapter Eleven

  Benedict stood in the doorway of the dining room, staring in but unable to step through. The bodies were gone, and the floor cleaned. Two deputies were outside, taking photos of a shattered window, the body on the ground near the driveway, and the other laying in the grass.

  "You should have called us immediately," Sheriff Martin berated Hazel on the other side of the room. Her deputy, a man in his early twenties who Benedict had never met before, sat at the dining table, taking notes.

  Elysium had gone through the story of what happened. And it was a story at this point, no longer the truth. Their mother had taught them what parts of the truth to use and what parts to put away when talking to the public. According to Elysium, half the house had woken to the sound of an argument. He and Hazel, not Lucy now that she was hiding away in her bedroom, had rushed downstairs and out the front door to find the maid, Amelia Jane, with a kitchen knife. Elysium said the woman had been in tears, screaming and flailing the knife about, and that she had attacked the footman, John Moreau. When he and Hazel tried to help Mr. Moreau, Miss Jane ran away, back into the house and upstairs.

  Hazel took over the story at that point, claiming to have run up the stairs after the maid, horrified to find her in the study, stabbing herself with the kitchen knife. When Hazel tried to stop her, she jumped out the window.

  Benedict listened to them repeat the story four times, never missing a step—never forgetting a detail no matter how the sheriff turned her questions. He wondered how long it had taken them to move the bodies, to come up with their story, and clean the rest of the house. Which one of them had created a blood trail up the stairs? Which one had thrown Amelia Jane's already broken body out the window?

  And whose idea had it been to talk in the dining room, where the murders had actually occurred? Was it a coincidence? Had the sheriff chosen the spot? Or had Hazel and Elysium been that cocky?

  "We were in shock," Hazel said, batting eyelashes that only barely held back her tears.

  Sheriff Martin glared at her, rolling her jaw from side to side thoughtfully. She wasn't buying Hazel's act. Sheriff
Martin had been a deputy when Benedict left home, and he wasn't the least bit surprised to see her in charge now.

  "My mother passed away recently. We just came home for the funeral," Elysium explained. "This was a lot to take in, and we didn't want my uncle to wake up to police in his home and dead bodies outside. His health hasn't been well. We thought maybe we could wait a few hours to gentle the blow. We did put sheets over the bodies and closed off the upstairs study."

  Sheriff Martin appeared monumentally unimpressed. "I've met Vernon Lyon," she said, deadpan. "I doubt all the sirens in the world would phase him."

  Benedict took a step back, stomach knotted, and ready to get as far from this charade as possible.

  Just then, the sheriff's gaze snapped to him. "You," she said.

  Benedict froze.

  Hazel glared at him from behind the sheriff's shoulder, a thousand threats and warnings in her gaze—all sounding something like, "Don't mess this up."

  "You were home when it happened?"

  "Yeah."

  The deputy at the table studied him, and then scribbled more notes.

  "You see anything?" the sheriff asked.

  "I heard the shouting last night, but when I went to see what was going on, Elysium told me to go back to my room and stay there. So I did."

  Sheriff Martin narrowed her eyes on him, staring hard. "You don't look like someone that does what he's told."

  Benedict almost laughed at that. "I do when I'm in this house." He swallowed hard when he said it, suddenly worried he shouldn't have. Was he making their home sound dangerous? Wasn't it?

  "You have nothing to add?" the sheriff pressed.

  "No, ma'am."

  She glared but nodded stiffly. It felt like a dismissal, and Benedict was more than happy to go. Another deputy was in the foyer, taking pictures of bloody shoe prints on the glossy hardwood, leading up the stairs.

  Emmeline stood to the side, watching the man work with casual disinterest.

  "Can I go upstairs?" Benedict asked.

  The deputy jumped, clutching his camera in both hands like a shield. He huffed a breath and a thin laugh when he saw Benedict. "Um. Give me another minute."