He cried out in pain when hisknees hit the floor, surprised by the rawness of them. He fell sideways to gethis weight off of them, his shoulder pushing against a wall. He pulled his legsup, hand cupping one knee and feeling the wet fabric of his pants. When hepressed at his knee, the pain spiked again, the flesh soft and swollen. Hepulled his hand back and squinted down at the blood on his fingers.
It was then he realized hewasn't holding his lighter anymore. He wasn't in the foyer either. He leanedback and looked up. Benedict was inside a closet, and the whole world had gonequiet. No coats were hanging above him, just a bare rod. The door had no handleon the inside, and he knew it was locked—he knew it deep down in his stomach,where fear knotted together in fist-sized panic. Light spilled in from underthe door and through the large keyhole. Every breath he dragged in was sharpwith the stink of piss, burning his lungs.
A sniffle came from beside himin the little closet, and he snapped his head toward it.
Emmeline crouched there, inthe other corner, thighs to her chest and knees scraped open. Her hands pressedagainst her face, fingers spreading enough to have one eye staring at the door.Tears dripped off her chin, chest rising and falling in fast, panicked breathsthat rocked her whole body. "I want to go home," she cried, wordsmuffled into her palms.
Benedict nodded slowly. Hewanted to go home, too. That's what they would do. He would get them out ofthis closet, and they would leave. He didn't care what happened to the Lyonhouse. He didn't care what they did about his mother's ghost. He and Emmelinewould leave.
Voices came from outside thedoor, familiar but garbled. He leaned up to look through the keyhole. A womanpaced out there. He couldn't see her face, but there was something chillinglyfamiliar about how she swung her cigarette back and forth impatiently. Benedicthad never seen this place before. There were no windows or doors from thesightline of the keyhole, just a stone table covered with thick candles forlight. The woman argued with someone, their voices bouncing back and forth.
Tears blurred his vision, hisbreath coming out in tighter and tighter gasps. It was her fear, he realized.Emmeline's emotions were spilling into him.
"I want to go home,"she cried again, and Benedict nodded, understanding now. Not their home. Notthe place where they live together in the city with a room just for her, butthe place where she had last felt safe before she died. Hermother's house.
Benedict turned and reallylooked at his best friend in that closet. She wasn't gray like a corpse. Shewasn't bloody from knife wounds yet. Her cheeks were flushed, and her kneesstill oozed blood from where they had been scraped open. She was alive. Hereached toward her with a shaking hand, fingertips touching her temple, feelingthe heat of her skin pour through his digits. He shuddereda sob when she reached for him, holding on to his arm and the front of hisshirt. He cradled one side of her face in his hand, the other battered andswollen. "I want to go home," she pleaded, and he knew he couldn'ttake her home—not away from this. This wasn't a place. It was a memory.
A shoe scuffed the ground onthe other side of the door, and Benedict turned toward it, staring through thekeyhole again, but the room was gone, no more light shining through. The keyturned in the lock and dread pitched in his heart, just as it had in hers longago. They both reeled back, suddenly desperate to stayinside, clinging to one another.
Benedict could not untanglehis feelings from hers, both hammering through his veins. He held her tight,one hand buried in her hair and his body curling in front of hers, trying toshield her from her fate. Her pain shuddered through him, choking him withterror and misery and a deep, endless pleading for escape.
The door opened, and they bothscreamed, eyes shut, knowing that there would never be an escape—knowing thatthere was no going home.
Benedict fell forward, landingon his hands and knees on a rug. He expected pain but felt only the sting ofconfusion. Sound swirled around him, too many voices shouting in the room. Hesat back slowly, blinking at the upstairs library. How had he gotten there? Fora second, the shouting ebbed, and his siblings and cousins gawked at him withthe same question reflected in their gazes.
"You have to pay!" UncleVernon roared, drawing everyone's attention back to him. He paced behind hisdesk with a revolver in his hand. Elysium, Hazel, and Theodore were crouchedbehind an overturned table near the door, and Luis was sprawled out on thefloor in the center of the room, hands clawing at his stomach around a well ofblood. His mouth opened and closed, no longer able to get the screams out likebefore.
"Mother!"Elysium shouted, glancing sideways at Benedict.
Benedict leaned up on hisknees, nearest Uncle Vernon and all the way on the other side of the room. Howhad he gotten past his uncle and over here?
Elysium stood slowly frombehind the table, hands in the air. Hazel pulled at his vest, trying to draghim back down. There were holes in the wood shelter, proof that Uncle Vernonhad already fired at least two shots at them. "Mother, I don't know whyyou're doing this…"
Uncle Vernon shook his head,pacing. "You know why!"
"Please!" Elysium called, an edge of panic wheedling into his voice. "Ifwe are guilty, then we will pay at the end, like everyone else. But you neverdid anything that wasn't for the good of the family. You have nothing to fearabout crossing over!"
Benedict crawled toward Luison the floor, hands pressing over his and against the wet patch on his shirt.Luis groaned and arched, spitting up a mouthful of blood. His eyes rolled back,teeth painted red and mouth gaping.
"You have no idea!" theghost shouted. "You think you know what comes next? You think you knowhow payment will be taken for your crimes? No. We
