Betrayal

Betrayal - By Lee Nichols

1

It’s not easy watching a friend get buried, especially when you were responsible for his death.

We’re here today to mourn the untimely passing of Coby Jameson Anders. Sixteen years old, honor student, high school quarterback, beloved son and friend.

A week had passed since the murder, and I loitered at the gates of the cemetery, listening to the dean’s eulogy while the casket slowly dropped into the ground. Standing at the gates because Coby’s best friends—my best friends—had banned me from the funeral.

“You’re not wanted, Emma,” Sara had said.

“Communi consilio,” Harry added. Translation: by common consent.

Great. What kind of person gets banned from a funeral? The kind who can’t reveal the truth about what happened, because no one would believe her.

His death was a shock to us all. Those who loved him …

A ghost killed Coby. Not me. But I was there, and I didn’t save him.

Outwardly a happy, well-adjusted, popular young man, Coby kept his true feelings to himself. It’s a lesson to us …

I shuddered in my peacoat, the November cold penetrating the thin wool, and watched the crowd through the iron gates. Hundreds of mourners stood in a ragged crescent around the grave, Coby’s family and friends, teachers from school. They thought he’d killed himself. They hadn’t just lost Coby, they’d lost their fondest memories of him, second-guessing his happiness and his easy smile.

Sometimes God’s plan seems unjust, unfair. We’ll never know why Coby chose to leave us, but hope that he rests easy in the afterlife.

Amid the tears, the priest gave his final blessing, and the mourners tossed dirt on the grave and filed from the cemetery. I fled, my back toward the entrance, unwilling to face the looks of grief and disapproval.

I wandered the village, past the clapboard houses crowded tightly together, down the narrow, winding streets toward the harbor, too cold now for the yachts. I carefully avoided the pond where Coby had died, its surface covered with a thin layer of ice.

I ached to be home in San Francisco, where flowers would still be in bloom and the sun still shone. Here in Massachusetts, the leafless maples loomed overhead, people’s lawns had gone all brown, and dead blossoms littered the gardens. As if I needed something else to be depressed about.

I don’t know who said from death comes life—probably one of those old, important dead guys—but I eventually circled back to the cemetery, ready to do my part. Ready to breathe a little warmth into this cold world.

As I reached the gates, a flurry of snow suddenly filtered through the gray day, and little white puff balls floated from the sky. I smiled at the clouds, tears filling my eyes, remembering Martha, who’d told me my first snow would be magical.

I caught a snowflake on my tongue, then stepped into the cemetery. Time for more magic. Time to raise the dead.



Here’s the thing about ghostkeepers. When we die, we die. There’s no coming back like other people: we’re cremated or buried and that’s the end.

But people like Coby could be summoned. Or at least, their ghosts could.

I surveyed the empty cemetery, snow dusting the granite tombstones, then wove through the monuments to stand at Coby’s grave. I bowed my head and looked at the coffin, scattered with dirt and flowers, but didn’t toss in my own handful of dirt, because to me he’d soon no longer be dead. I licked my lips, suddenly nervous. What if he hated me? What if he wasn’t the same? Or worse, what if he didn’t want to come back?

I took a deep breath. Only one way to find out.

I closed my eyes and felt the chill air go still around me. I’d never done this before, summoned a ghost who wasn’t already lingering in the Beyond. I knew I could, though—despite being new to ghostkeeping, I was powerful. Almost too powerful. Maybe if I hadn’t been, Neos would’ve ignored me, and Coby would still be alive.

Well, I couldn’t change the past, but I could alter Coby’s future. I raised my face to the sky, letting the snowflakes tickle my cheeks, feeling the energy of the Beyond. It got easier all the time to identify the supernatural tug of ghosts. Of course, standing in the middle of a cemetery probably helped.

My eyes shut, I heard the pounding of my heart and felt the blood rushing through my veins, as my summoning energy expanded beyond my body. Tendrils of power flowered through the cemetery until I sensed Coby’s slumbering spirit curled nearby, as though waiting for me. I summoned him, tugging him gently toward our world. His spirit seemed to recognize mine and came willingly.

With a sudden rush, I knew that I’d succeeded. I opened my eyes, waiting for his soft arrival. Instead, when Coby’s ghost slipped into our world, a blinding burst of spectral lightning flashed. I jumped backward in surprise, and the wet snow combined with mud at the edge of the pit gave way.

I yelped as I fell into the grave.

“Crap!” I sprawled atop Coby’s casket on my butt. A noise I didn’t recognize escaped my throat—half revulsion and half amusement. The scent of freshly dug earth surrounded me. I covered my mouth with my hand, then noticed my palm was covered in grave muck. “Bleh!”

I stood—yes, still on top of Coby’s casket—and prayed his parents didn’t return. This was bad. This was toss-Emma-back-into-the-mental-hospital bad.

I spun, looking for a way out, and discovered Coby beside me, still in the suit he’d worn for Homecoming. Except now he was slightly transparent and his suit didn’t fit quite so well—and it didn’t seem possible, but he was even better looking.

Welcome back, I said to him.

Emma! You’re all dirty.

Yeah. I, um, slipped.

He stepped forward with a crooked grin to wipe my face. I knew I should’ve taken hand wipes to Homecoming.

Wait, I said. You can’t touch me.

The grin turned to a smile. Is this some kind of purity-ring thing?

Actually, it was a ghosts-burn-ghostkeepers thing.

No, I said. I, um … What’s the last thing you remember?

He focused into the distance. Wait, yeah, what happened? I drove to your house and you looked so hot in that dress and we stepped outside and … He didn’t quite pale, already being a ghost and all. It was like a bad dream.

It wasn’t a dream, Coby.

I didn’t know where to start, what to tell him first. Did he remember Neos? Did he know his death was all my fault?

He faded until I saw the dirt wall clearly behind him, and his face grew haggard and grim with memory. I watched his faint eyes as he recalled everything: Neos possessing his body, then trying to drown me in the pond, my turning into a ghost and battling Neos before fleeing and abandoning him.

Who are you? he finally asked.

I’m Emma. I’m still Emma.

I mean what are you?

I’m a ghostkeeper. I see and compel and communicate with ghosts. I dispel them and …

And what?

I summon them.

Oh God, he said. Oh God. I’m a ghost!

He faded, and I called out, “Coby! Coby, come back! I’m sorry—please, I’m so sorry!”

The wind whispered through the branches of faraway trees as he disappeared completely. Leaving me alone with my aching need to make things right with him.

You’re sorry? he said, materializing behind me.

When I turned, his face looked harder with knowledge and determination, and I flinched. He’d vanished into the Beyond, where a ghost had once explained to me that time wasn’t the same. It moved slower there, giving Coby a chance to think.

Everything’s changed, he said, his voice rough.

I know. How you can ever forgive—

Forgive you? I’m dead because of you. And you still couldn’t leave me alone.

He stepped nearer, and his grave seemed to grow smaller, the walls tightening around me. A wave of nausea rose from my stomach at the earthy smell and the knowledge that I was standing on top of Coby’s dead body—and at the look in his eyes, intent and furious. He was right—everything had changed—especially him.

He took another step and raised his hand to hover at the bare skin of my cheek. I’ll burn you if I touch you, won’t I?

Coby, please. Please don’t, I said, as I met his unearthly gaze. I couldn’t bear his transformation, or how much it reminded me of when Neos possessed him. This wasn’t the Coby I remembered. That boy never would’ve wanted to harm me, even if I deserved it.

Give me one reason why, Emma, he said. One reason you shouldn’t have to share my pain.

And that’s just it. I couldn’t. So I stepped into him, pressing his fingers to my face.



Pain flared on my cheek for an instant before Coby pulled back.

What are you doing? he asked. Haven’t you heard of dramatic effect? I don’t want to hurt you.

You don’t? I wouldn’t blame you if you did.

No, I just— He frowned at his semitransparent hand. I can’t believe I’m really dead. Forget about graduation. Forget about prom, forget about college. I’ll never play football, I’ll never hear music or—

You’ll hear music, Coby. I’ll play whatever you want.

His sad smile broke my heart. What am I supposed to do now?

I don’t know. Go see your parents? Sara and Harry miss you. I don’t know what your life will be like—

He shot me a look. My what?

Okay, wrong word. Your existence?

A short nod.

I don’t know what it’s going to be like being a ghost. I’m not even sure what it’s like to be a ghostkeeper. Sometimes I wish there were a manual. But I promise you two things. I’ll always be here for you. And I’m going to find Neos—I’m going to kill him for what he did to you.

He nodded slowly, then met my gaze. I’ll help you do it.

Oh! I smiled in relief that he didn’t hate me. I was just hoping you’d still talk to me.

It’s not like I’ve got so many other people to talk to. And you need all the help you can get.

Nah, I said, trying to reassure him. I’ve got everything under control.

Other than being trapped in my grave? Too bad you’re not a ghost—if you were, you could do this. He shot me a crooked grin, like the old Coby, and vanished.

He had a point.



Okay, so you’ve fallen into a grave. Your ghost friend abandons you, you’re cold and wet and wishing you’d worked more on your biceps. How do you get yourself out?

I wasn’t about to use the original Emma’s ring to turn into a ghost. Not only because this was so ridiculous, but because I didn’t know if there were any side effects, like that ring in Tolkien. All I needed was to start gibbering about my preciousssss.

Instead, I hurled myself at the muddy wall and clawed upward until I reached the top of the open grave and grabbed a handful of grass. My boots skidded and slipped as I got another grassy handhold and dragged myself out.

I lay on the ground, panting and aching and wondering how I’d ever get the mud out of the only coat I owned. The snow drifted down and the cold soaked into my sore fingers.

And a pair of worn lace-up boots appeared beside my head. Perfect. The groundskeeper. Probably about to call the police.

“What happened?” he asked.

I knew that voice, like I knew the taste of a hot red-eye chai on a cold morning. I looked up at him, feeling a glow of warmth despite the weather. Bennett. He wore a navy wool coat over a gray sweater and slim jeans, looking casual and gorgeous.

“Thank God it’s you,” I said.

He took my hand—very briefly—and helped me to my feet. “I thought I’d find you here. Only not looking quite so muddy.” He glanced into the grave. “Did you …?”

“I fell, okay?”

“Then clawed your way out like a bad zombie movie?”

I brushed dirt from my peacoat. “Could’ve happened to anyone.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, your first real summoning. The flash surprises everyone.”

“You might’ve warned me.”

“I would have, if I’d known you were coming so soon,” he said. “He’s not even buried yet.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

He gestured to the side of his head. “You’ve got a little something …”

I pulled a dead beetle from my hair. “Gah.”

He bit his lip, trying not to laugh.

“It’s all right.” I sighed. “I’d laugh, too, if I weren’t freezing and slug-ridden. And do I smell?”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted. “C’mon, I’ll take you home.”

He moved to put his arm around me, which was brave considering I stank like Swamp Thing. “I’m okay,” I said, stepping away from him.

Bennett reluctantly let his arm drop, then stuck both hands in the pockets of his coat. “How did it go?”

I shrugged. “He’s back.”

“Is he different?”

“A little.” We walked toward the gates of the cemetery. “His clothes don’t fit right, and I don’t know … he’s sadder and sharper. And even better looking.”

Bennett grunted.

“Not that I care,” I said. “I mean, I do care. I’m glad he’s back. But I don’t care that he’s gorgeous. That’s not the only reason I wanted him back. I mean, that’s not why I summoned him at all. Why am I even talking about this?”

Bennett nudged me with his elbow. “You’re nervous. It’s a big deal, summoning a ghost from his grave.”

“Plus, he’s the only one I knew when he was alive.”

“You’re not still blaming yourself for his death, are you?”

I huddled silently in my muddy coat and followed Bennett toward his ancient Land Rover. I climbed into the left side, because the car had come over from England and the wheel was on the right.

“It was my fault,” I finally said. “Both their deaths were.”

I’d not only lost Coby, but Martha, who’d been Bennett’s nanny growing up. I was amazed he was still talking to me.

“Emma, Neos killed them. Not you.”

“If he hadn’t been after me—”

“Is it also your fault Neos murdered Olivia?”

I flinched. “Your sister died three blocks from my house.”

Bennett pulled away from the curb, and I sat there miserably, holding my cold fingers to the heating vents. Had he not made that connection between me and Olivia’s death?

“Say something,” I said.

He glanced at me, then forced his eyes back to the road. “You’re right about one thing—if Neos hadn’t been after you, Coby and Martha would still be alive. But you didn’t pull the trigger, Emma; that’s like blaming a deer for a hunting accident. Neos didn’t kill my sister because of you. And what’s the alternative? That you’re dead and they’re not?”

He placed his hand on the seat beside me but didn’t quite touch me. He wore a thick silver band on one finger, and I traced it with my fingertip, carefully not touching his skin, wondering if his hands were always that warm.

“I’m sorry they’re dead,” he said. “But I’m glad you’re alive.”

He turned into the museum gates and drove down the maple-lined drive toward his family home, a Federal-period house that during the summer was a museum open to the public. I’d been staying there with Bennett and our friend Natalie, also a ghostkeeper, since Coby’s death. We’d basically shut out the rest of the world after losing so much to Neos.

“We need to find him,” I said.

“Yeah,” Bennett agreed. “Find him and dispel him.”

He parked, and I watched him walk around to my side, liking everything about him. His voice, the way he moved, the way he dressed in boho-preppy clothing that you only ever saw on New England college kids. But mostly I loved who he was, that he was loyal and protective. He even opened my door—such a gentleman.

“It’s going to be okay, Emma. We’re going to stop him. Together.”

Bennett had once told me that when Neos was gone, he’d be with me, even if that meant losing his ghostkeeping abilities. I followed him into the house, wanting to touch him, to press myself against him—but how do you ask someone to make that kind of sacrifice? Unlike me, Bennett had been raised as a ghostkeeper; it was all he’d ever known.

Could I really ask him to give that up? Would he be the same guy I fell for without it?