Betrayal Read online

  He can’t stand me, I said, scrawling random numbers in my notebook.

  I didn’t say he liked you.

  How am I supposed to help someone who hates me?

  You raised me from the dead. I think talking with a drunk is within your— Coby startled suddenly. Who are you?

  Edmund, the man in the brown suit, had flickered into existence beside us. He nodded his head in greeting.

  Coby, meet Edmund, I said. He used to teach in this room. He’s the one who helped me figure out I was a ghostkeeper.

  You’re the one Neos killed, Edmund said, eying Coby curiously. He’d only killed ghostkeepers before you. They don’t come back, you know.

  Coby glanced at me, his brow knit. So if you die …?

  Yeah, I said, keeping my hand firmly on the desk when Sakolsky asked for volunteers to solve a problem on the board. If Neos kills me, you won’t see me again.

  We’re going to find him first, Coby said. We’ll do the killing.

  Such ferocity! Edmund said, with a slight smile. But you know, Coby, one must take care when speaking about … him. Especially with threats. He’s turning the Beyond into his own personal property. And if one doesn’t know one’s way …

  Hmm. It hadn’t occurred to me that Coby could use some kind of mentor. Someone to show him around the place. Teach him how to be a ghost.

  Maybe you can show him, I said. I didn’t know when I summoned him that—

  Emma summoned you? Edmund interrupted with surprise. That explains why you shine so brightly. I thought I sensed someone new here this morning, a powerful spirit. I’d been quite alarmed, but it must’ve been you. Yes, yes, you must allow me to show you the possibilities of the Beyond.

  Coby gave me a look like, is this guy for real? And Edmund was sort of a nutball—he had, after all, been a high school teacher—but he knew a lot and he hadn’t given me any reason not to trust him.

  So I said, I’ll see you later.

  Promise you’ll speak to Harry.

  I will, I said. But I didn’t say when.

  I watched them disappear into the ether, and Mr. Sakolsky scolded me for staring out the window. The whole class turned to shoot me dirty looks, so I buried myself in the intricacies of trigonometry, wishing all my problems had such concrete solutions.

  After class, I retreated to my locker. Thatcher’s lockers were clustered in lounges—with leather club chairs, potted plants, and oil paintings—that were meant to be study rooms, but were more like hangouts. There was a certain cachet to each lounge, and heavy negotiating for the best of them. Since I started the school year late, I’d been assigned a nerdy lounge offering little in decor beyond an uncomfortable vinyl couch and a molting fica tree, which discouraged lingering.

  Today I was grateful for the solitude when I found a Barbie doll hanging inside my locker. Someone had sheared its blond hair to look like my choppy, short haircut, dressed her in a plaid school uniform—and strung her tie into a noose.

  It bothered me more than it should’ve. It was malevolent and cruel and whoever had put it there (Harry!) had no idea how close I’d come to death that night Coby had been killed.

  I untied Barbie and buried her in the trash. Then I thought for a second and wasn’t sure if trashing my likeness was a good idea. So I dug her out, straightened her uniform, and tidied her hair. She looked pretty unimpressed by the rough treatment, so I put her in my bag, and decided to emulate her self-confident serenity.

  6

  Much to my chagrin, Fencing was a required course at Thatcher. Not that I wasn’t good with a sword, but I fought like a barroom brawler. There’s nothing elegant about fighting a wraith, which was why I was terrible at fencing. Sure, I could beat anyone in class in a real swordfight, but I couldn’t get a feel for the rules and intricacies of the exhibition sport.

  I trudged downstairs and into the only room at Thatcher that looked like it belonged in a regular school: the girls’ locker room. The floors were gray concrete, the lockers public-school brown. I was late, and slipped into my fencing whites as the bell rang.

  In the gym, the coach paired me with Sara. “She’ll go easy on you.”

  “Oh!” I said. “No. Actually, she’s—”

  “Delighted,” said Sara, prowling in front of me.

  She was beautiful in her anger, mahogany locks twirling about her shoulders as though they were mad, too. Her color was high and her voice low—even rougher than usual, like she’d worn herself out crying over Coby.

  She lowered into en garde position, and I made a half-hearted effort to defend myself.

  She lunged and I riposted, back and forth down the mat. Well, mostly back, because I wasn’t attacking, just defending.

  “Would you fight?” she said.

  “I don’t want to fight you.”

  “You promised”—she executed a perfect coupé—“you wouldn’t hurt him.”

  I fell back. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? He’s dead, and you’re sorry.”

  “I couldn’t—” I swallowed. “There was nothing I could do.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  The point of my foil drifted downward. “No.”

  “Neither do I.”

  And with that, she stabbed me in the chest … and then she just lost it. A horrible, wracking sob burst from her chest, and she started flailing at me with the foil like it was a riding crop.

  I guess I just stood there.

  In a minute, Coach noticed and started screaming at Sara. She banished her to the bench, threatening disciplinary action, but Sara just hurled her foil across the room and shoved into the locker room.

  The ghost jocks—two teenage boys whose mission in death seemed to be heckling me—shimmered into being on the bleachers.

  That Sara has great form, the dark-haired one said.

  Indeed, the other agreed. And she fences well, too.

  Then they high-fived each other over their smarminess.

  I slunk over to the bleachers on the other side of the room, and in a minute Natalie came and sat beside me.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “You could’ve defended yourself.”

  “I deserved it,” I said.

  “No, Emma, that’s where you’re wrong.”

  Someone stole my lunch. My locker had definitely been compromised, and I vowed to carry a bigger bag, so I wouldn’t have to use it anymore. Anatole always packed loads too much, so Natalie shared with me.

  We sat in the corner of the cafeteria, which was nothing like the cafeterias I’d grown up with. It was more like a quaint dining room. There were no gray-haired lunch ladies slopping peas into trays, just the unscrewing of thermoses and quiet tinkling of silverware brought from home. Not wanting to call attention to myself, I answered Natalie’s forays into conversation with monosyllables. I was reminding myself of Bennett.

  “I like the lemon dressing on the salad.”

  “Mm.”

  “Good grapes.”

  “Yup.”

  “Want some more chicken?”

  “Nope.”

  “You’re thinking about Bennett, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  I glanced up and saw Sara and Harry frowning at me from across the room. They were backlit by the windows, and for once the sun was shining, making them look like avenging angels. I just couldn’t take it anymore.

  “I’ve gotta go,” I told Natalie. I stood and helped her pack up the remains of the lunch, then started for the door.

  I almost made it. I was three steps away when a foot came out from one of the tables and tripped me. I fell to my knees and, as though I was still six years old, I almost burst into tears.

  “This is pathetic,” Natalie said, standing and facing the rest of the cafeteria. “I’m only going to say this once. Emma is not responsible for Coby’s death. He almost killed her by tying her to that torture device you people call a monument. She
barely escaped, then Coby took his own life. She doesn’t deserve this. It’s not her fault he’s dead. Mourn him, but don’t smite her. Coby wouldn’t have wanted that.”

  When she’d finished, she led me from the room with her back erect and head high, like a queen having issued her edict.

  “You were awesome,” I said in the hallway outside. “I’ve never heard anyone use the word smite.”

  She grinned. “Old habits die hard.” Then she grew serious. “This is going to blow over, Em. Things will get better.”

  “I know,” I said.

  But in Western Civ, someone had carved QBK into my desk. I just wished I knew when they’d get better.

  After school, I dragged my laptop into the museum kitchen. I bit into an apple and sat in the breakfast nook, scanning my messages. Hoping to hear from Bennett.

  He hadn’t e-mailed, of course—but Abby had. Which surprised me, because she’d kind of deserted me. She was a ghostkeeper, too. Sort of. We’d been best friends forever, until she’d hooked up with Max last summer. That’s when she’d discovered she could summon ghosts, though I didn’t know at the time, because I was still in the dark about my own powers.

  I guess Max had freaked out, accused Abby of stealing his powers, and dumped her. But Abby hated seeing ghosts, and was trying to lose her powers altogether. She was weak, so if anything, Max would’ve absorbed her abilities. But they’d both acted like drama queens, so that simple solution had never occurred to them.

  Hey Emma,

  I can’t see ghosts anymore!!!

  This cute guy knocked on my dorm-room door last night and offered to cure me. I kind of freaked out, because I didn’t understand how he could know that I saw ghosts. But they were still coming to me in my dreams, and I was just desperate enough to believe him.

  It worked, Emma. We held hands and he said some crazy ritual and I could feel all that power draining from me. And now I can’t see ghosts anymore. They’re gone!

  Which means we can be friends again, even if you’re in Massachusetts and still part of that creepy ghost world. I’m just glad it’s over. I worry about you. The guy wouldn’t leave his name or number or anything, but I hope he finds you. Maybe he can cure you, too.

  And if you ever need me, I’m here—just not about this stuff! Anyway, I thought you should know that there’s hope …

  Love,

  Abby

  Wait. What? Some guy had stripped her powers? That sounded a little too much like Neos for comfort—though nobody would call him cute. Maybe he’d possessed another body to steal her power? Had he approached Abby because of me?

  So many questions, and nobody to ask for answers. Normally, I’d be on the phone to Bennett, but not now. Should I call Gabriel or William? I barely knew them, and they already blamed me for everything.

  Abby’s e-mail left a bad taste in my mouth. She was there if I needed her … just not about the only stuff I might actually need help with? Everything I was going through—the deaths of my friends, my family disappearing, Rachel dying, Bennett leaving—was because I could control ghosts. How could she expect me to act like it was nothing, like I was just some normal girl?

  Because I wasn’t, not anymore. Maybe I never had been.

  I didn’t delete the e-mail, but I didn’t respond, either. My mother always warned me that friends grew apart. I just wasn’t prepared for how hard it would be. How hard everything would be.

  I stared through the window, taking stock. According to Rachel, I needed a weapon to focus my powers and to watch out for some mysterious siren. Coby wanted me to talk to Harry and Sara, and I needed to figure out who’d taken Abby’s abilities. I also needed to wait for my team, so I could stop Neos before he killed anyone else.

  That was a lot for one To Do list. What I really needed was food.

  I raided the pantry for Anatole’s chocolate-chip shortbread. Then googled “siren” and found a bunch of stuff about the Greek myth. Since I wasn’t a sailor and couldn’t be lured to crash my ship against the rocky coastline, it wasn’t helpful.

  I read the rest of my e-mail, which was just spam and hate mail from kids at school about Coby. I deleted them unread. The subject lines were bad enough. I skimmed some of my favorite blogs, but nothing satisfied. I was antsy, and wished I knew how to blow off steam like Natalie. I wasn’t a runner like her … but maybe there was another way.

  I went upstairs and changed into a T-shirt and leggings, then went into Bennett’s dad’s study for one of the swords that hung on his wall. Across the hall in the ballroom, I closed the gauzy curtains and plinked a few keys on the grand piano.

  The Rake appeared before I summoned him, as if he knew that I needed him. He was Bennett’s namesake and Emma’s lover—the one who’d lived at Thatcher. I called him the Rake because he was an eighteenth-century bad boy with a rough exterior that masked the sensitive soul underneath. And he was awesome with a sword, because rakes were always fighting duels and such; at least, that’s what I’d learned from my mother’s old romance novels.

  I saw a flash of motion and caught a glimpse of him in his open-necked dress shirt, buff-colored pants, and riding boots, before his rapier slashed toward me.

  I yelped and backpedaled. Hey! I’m not ready!

  Such is life, he said with a crooked grin, as the flat of his blade smacked my elbow.

  Pain flared in my arm, and I swore and switched the sword to my left hand and went on the attack. He lifted an eyebrow, which was about the only sign of approval he ever showed, and parried my furious blows.

  Our swords caught and he said, You’re getting sloppy.

  I had a long day, okay?

  I’m sure Neos will wait until you’re fully rested to—

  He shoved me across the parquet floor, then kicked my ankle with the edge of his boot. I grunted and stumbled—then dropped under his flashing sword and sliced for his knee. His blade barely caught mine, and his eyebrow lifted fractionally again. Then he pushed me down with his knee and I rolled backward and sprang to my feet just in time to block another blow.

  We sparred for an hour, back and forth across the floor, until my arms ached and my breath came in gasps. It was so much better than fencing class. I could grip the sword how I wanted, forget the rules, and practice with someone who actually knew what they were doing. Until I was exhausted.

  Enough, enough, I said. Stop.

  He sheathed his sword and stared at me, his aristocratic face full of disapproval. I’d once checked the museum’s records for his death notice: 1792 at the age of forty-three. His wife had died during the birth of their second child, and he’d never married the other Emma. I guess that was enough to keep anyone grumpy in the afterlife.

  What? I said, breathing heavily. I’m having a bad day and I’m tired.

  This is nothing, he said. I’m not trying to kill you. Not like Neos and his wraiths. You have to be prepared, Emma. I want you to live.

  Unlike his Emma, the first Emma of Echo Point, who’d tried to take her own life to save his. He’d killed her, instead, because if a ghostkeeper kills herself, she doesn’t die, but wanders the Beyond forever, her sanity slowly crumbling through eternity. That’s what happened to Neos.

  There was another Emma, I said. Before yours. She’s woven into a tapestry at the Knell.

  I’m not surprised.

  Why not? I was.

  I suspect that you are … not reborn, precisely. I think that a ghostkeeper of exceptional ability—and your face—arrives at the great turning points. Like right now, fighting for control of the Beyond.

  I flopped onto the piano bench. But no pressure, right?

  A great deal of pressure, he said, ignoring my sarcasm. And you’re losing focus. You’re better than that.

  I’m tired. And now Bennett’s gone … I bit my lip, trying not to cry. Do you think there was another Bennett, too? Before you? Did the Emma in the tapestry love another one of you? Were they doomed, as well?

  He moved to lay a hand on mine,
then stopped, knowing he’d burn me. You have to put that aside, Emma. Neos grows more powerful every day. You must learn to protect yourself.

  I sighed. He was right. I stood and held my sword at the ready. Yeah, my aunt told me I need a weapon to focus my powers. I’m not sure how I’m going to get around with a sword, but it’s the only thing I’ve got.

  To focus? he said. What do you mean?

  So I told him the whole story about Rachel and the wraiths, plinking absently at the piano as he paced and listened.

  When I finished, he shook his head. You’re quick and agile, but you don’t have the build for swordfighting. You’re too small. A man will overpower you every time.

  I wanted to argue. To sit him down and make him watch old episodes of Xena. But I wasn’t exactly a warrior princess, and he was right, I hadn’t been able to overpower Neos, because he was too strong in Coby’s body.

  The Rake put his boot on the bench beside me and reached inside for a hidden knife. What you need is a dagger. It’ll allow you to move close and fast, strengths not available to wraiths or Neos.

  I reached for his knife, but he pulled it away. Not just any dagger—you need her dagger.

  Emma’s? Where is it?

  He hesitated, and his eyes grew distant. The men who wanted to kill Emma hid her dagger in an unconsecrated cemetery, a mass grave for criminals and heathens.

  So I need to … dig it up? Gross.

  That’s not the problem. The dagger is bait for a trap. The men wanted to lure Emma there so the ghasts would kill her.

  Great. Sounds like good times, I said. Where is it?

  In my day, it was called the Crossing.

  The Crossing? I’d seen that name before, on one of my endless walks through the village. You mean, like, that playground?

  He gave me directions, and sure enough, they’d built a playground over an unconsecrated cemetery. First a ducking chair as a tourist attraction, and now a kids’ playground over dead bodies. You had to love Echo Point.