Suddenly Benedict gulpedair—warm, summer air. He blinked, shaking and shivering, his teeth clatteringand arms stiff with cold when he curled them around his chest. Mr. Whittlestood in front of him, ankle-deep in the creek and holding him up with a gripon either arm. Shards of ice fell off Benedict's shirt and vest, meltingquickly in the July heat.
Benedict, still shaking withthe cold that had pierced his bones, dragged himself up the bank. He reachedout for the ax, hand trembling and fingers blue. Mr. Whittle grabbed it quicklyup off the grass and handed it to him.
Emmeline stood off to theside, staring anywhere but at him and not looking particularly apologeticeither.
Benedict walked past her, intothe shed, and hacked at the floor with the old ax, cracking the floorboards andthe seal, chopping Mr. Roger Clifton James's name into pieces.
Almost as soon as it was done,the cold released his bones. He waited a moment in the quiet that followed,listening to the creek outside. This was the moment where one of his siblingsor cousins would extend their supernatural senses out into the world aroundthem and see if the angry ghost was still present. Benedict could not do that,so he pretended. But he was sure Mr. Roger Clifton James was gone—because hehad done this dozens of times before and they were always gone when he andEmmeline left.
Benedict walked out of theshed, handed Mr. Whittle the ax, and informed him that the violent spirit wasgone—purged from the family house. He assured him it would not return. Theynever did once they had been sent on.
Mr. Whittle barely knew whatto say, flabbergasted as he gripped the ax.
Benedict shook the man's handand thanked him for saving his life in much the same manner he might thank aperson for a good cup of coffee. Nonetheless, Mr. Whittle inflated with prideand held the ax a bit more confidently.
"Would you like me tocall you a doctor, Mister Lyon? You're soaked to the bone. We must get youdried off and—"
"Not necessary,sir," Benedict assured him, starting up the grassy slope toward the house.He wasn't moving as quickly now, and the angle of the ground was no longer inhis favor. "It is a long drive, and I really would like to get home torest." He played up his spiritual exhaustion for the man, as thoughfalling out a window wasn't enough to account for his hobbling stride.
Mr. Whittle persisted untilBenedict made up some bit about needing to leave the house quickly so that itcould settle back into its natural state without the magnet of his extraordinaryspirit in the way.
He unbuttoned and peeled offhis wet jacket, socks squishing inside his shoes as he marched across thegravel driveway to his car. He unbuttoned his vest, peeling it off, too, andthrowing both garments into the backseat. Emmeline stood on the other side ofthe car, and for a moment, he stood there, their eyes locked.
Her jaw was set, her lipspressed, and her chin ever so slightly upturned. There was no apology in hergaze.
Benedict took a deep breathand settled into the driver's seat, drenched to the bone and puddling on theleather seat.
He glanced in the rear-viewmirror. Emmeline sat in the corner of the backseat, arms folded, and attentionturned out the window. She didn't look as guilty as he would like. She justlooked bored, resigned to a car ride, and more than ready to go home.
He wasn't sure what she haddone today or why, but he wasn't ready to talk about it either, so he turned onthe car and pulled away from the newly cleansed property.
Chapter Four
Benedict reached theirapartment in the city, the chill of the creek still clinging to his skin. Infact, he felt as though it was a haunting all its own—icy fingers of a deadwinter having sunk down into flesh to wrap around his bones. He left a puddlewhere he stood in the elevator and ignored the glare of his nosy neighbor twodoors down.
It wasn't exactly that he wascold, not really, but the memory would not fade, and by the time he got intohis apartment, he decided his only choice was to melt the ice in his head. Heabandoned his clothes in a wet pile in the bathroom, and then he stood underthe spray until the whole room was choking on steam. He wanted to feeluncomfortably warm, right down to his bones. And it worked. Soon enough, he wassweating and thirsty, his brown skin flushed with heat. But even when Benedictdrove out the memory of the cold, he could not forget the helpless terror ofdrowning so close to the surface—or the look on Emmeline's face, just watchinghim die.
He pushed back his wet hair,away from his face, squeezing his hands against his scalp to press the waterfrom his dark strands. Still standing in his shower, the glass wall thicklyfogged, Benedict finally asked, "What happened?"
She didn't answer.
He pushed open the door, steamgushing out. Emmeline sat there on the marble counter of the bathroom sink. Shetipped her head from one side to the other and kicked her naked heelsthoughtfully.
One morning, just after hiseighteenth birthday, Benedict had found her in his room. The first thing he'dheard was her sobs, muffled even though he saw her curled up in the corner. Forthe first few weeks, she wouldn't talk to him, and when she finally did screamand cry at him, her words were mangled into nonsense. He had left his familyhome, a part of him hoping to leave her behind as well, but she had followedhim to university. She hadn't seemed any happier about it than he was.Eventually, she'd stopped crying, but she still hadn't liked him. She spentthat whole first year glaring at him, moving his keys, breaking his phone,ripping pages from
