Betrayal - By Lee Nichols Page 0,22

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