They had come a long way sincethen. They were friends now. Partners in life and death.
"Em?" Benedict asked, voice alittle harder this time.
She glanced up through herlashes, and then her mouth smoothed into a little smile, mischief gleaming inher eyes. She ran her gaze down his naked body. She was going to flirt or saysomething lewd to try to make him smile. It might even work. He had never likedbeing at odds with her, always quick to make amends.
"We should talk aboutthis," he pressed before she could joke, stepping out of the shower andcloser to where she perched. He grabbed a towel from the rack and starteddrying off. They couldn't escape each other, and after all these years,Benedict didn't want to get rid of her. He couldn't imagine a life without her."Did you tell that ghost to kill me?"
She straightened suddenly, allamusement draining from her round face. "I..." she started butstopped, skin losing color, turning a sickly, dark shade of gray. A largebruise grew across her right cheek, spilling out of a suddenly swollen andpurple eye socket.
Benedict walked up to her,standing in front of her knees. He would pass through her if he leaned anycloser, but neither of them liked the reminder that they couldn't touch.
"I don't know," sheconfessed in the smallest voice.
He wanted to argue, to demanda better answer, but it wouldn't have been fair. As much as he liked to thinkabout Emmeline as his best friend, his roommate, and his partner, she was alsodead.
Benedict had grown up in afamily of spiritualists, known for generations to commune with ghosts and usherdangerous spirits on to the afterlife. Ghosts couldn't always communicate. Manycouldn't even interact with the living world, let alone understand it in termsof present day versus past, completely unaware of the difference between living and dead. Emmeline was something special—he knew it,and so did she.
Even when she began to replyto him, to soften a little… Even when they were friends, she still didmischievous things on occasion.
After university, Benedictfound an apartment in the city. Emmeline had already helped him fool hisbrother into believing he had the family gift a few times, so when he was sentto investigate a haunting, it had come naturally that she would relay theinformation to him. Emmeline told him about any spirits in the room and whatmessages they wanted to convey to the living. It kept them in the good gracesof his family and allowed them access to the Lyon accounts for their bills.
"Okay," Benedictuttered the word to bring peace back between them. He wouldn't say he forgaveher because he knew she would take offense. She had not apologized foranything, and he absolutely knew she wasn't sorry. He looked down at herhands in her lap. When her mood darkened, the bruises and scrapes came out, hershins covered in dark splotches and her knees bloodied. Some of her fingerswere broken, her wrists ringed in rope burns, and her palms torn open from astruggle. One side of her face swelled, bruising and splitting open where theflesh bulged under her eye.
And then, just as the firstred buds of blood began to appear on her dress, nowhere near their full size,everything unpleasant began to fade—receding from view and returning her tovivid colors, that clean cotton dress, and unmarred, though eternally ashenbrown skin.
Emmeline couldn't lie. Noghost could. And aside from that, her appearance gave it all away.
He touched the counter oneither side of her hips and leaned in, close but never touching, leaving theillusion that maybe this time they could. "What should we name him?"
She smiled slowly, and it warmedhis heart more than the hottest shower ever could. "TheWinter Spirit?"
He wrinkled his nose, pushingoff the counter and marching out of the bathroom. "That's too dignifiedfor this one! The Axeman?Like Snowman..."
"I think that one'staken," Emmeline said, following him to his room.
He left the doors open becauseshe liked pretending she wasn't a ghost at home. "No, it isn't. We'venever named a ghost The Axeman..." Benedictsaid, less sure with each word.
"No, we haven't, butthere was a serial killer by that name."
"Oh." He laughed,having completely forgotten. "All right. How about Mister Ice?" He smiled to himself, tossinghis towel into the hamper and dressing in a clean pair of jeans and at-shirt—not quite as formal as he'd wear out of the house.
"Ugh!" shemade a gagging sound. "That's so unimaginative! The last one was TheButcher's Damsel! How can we go from that to Mister Ice?"
"Frosty?"
She squished her face into acomical scowl.
"Okay. Okay. TheWinter Spirit, it is," he conceded, going to his desk and sliding out thedrawer. A leather-bound notebook rested inside, a handful of pens rollingaround in the space around it. He pulled it out, flipping it open. It had beenher idea to keep note of all the ghosts they sent away from the living world.She had come up with it on a whim, he suspected, maybe out of boredom or maybeto see if he would really do it. They had been naming the ghosts ever since,jotting them down together. He did the writing, of course, but she helped withthe wording.
The doorbell buzzed before hecould sit down.
They exchanged curiousglances. Emmeline shrugged with disinterest, and Benedict left the room. Hedidn't invite people over to his apartment. The only ones that ever rang thebell were fast-food delivery and the occasional nosy neighbor. He had a habitof being a bit of a hermit, and the widow two doors down liked to check on him.Really, he suspected she was just checking on his apartment. She always triedto come inside and look around.
He was sure she would be disappointedif he ever let her past the door—which he didn't. His apartment was modern andsparse. The only room with any clutter to speak of was Emmeline's, and hecertainly wasn't going to let anyone else in there. He tugged her door shut onhis way down the hall, hiding what was very obviously a woman's bedroom. Shehad picked out all of her furniture and possessions. She was entitled to aportion of their earnings since she did a great deal of their
