Page 74 of The Sisters of Crimson House

The audience turned to look at Sy, who stood in the back of the room. Charley went very still as they made eye contact. This guy and his dramatic entrances. This guy and his effect on how she was breathing now.

“My mother,” he said. Even from across the room, she could see he looked shattered. Though he didn’t move, he seemed poised to run, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes tight with pain.

Her hand began to tremble, vibrating as if from an electric current. She said the words before her mind could process what was happening. “Miranda Bryde will be asking Margaret Humphreys to come forward.” From the back of the room, she saw Celeste stiffen.

Miranda looked at her sharply in surprise. This was not the plan. “No family,” she said, her voice low. “You know the rules.” But that was not what the voice inside Charley’s head was imploring her to say.

“New plan,” said Charley with a helpless shrug. Hopefully whoever was issuing these commands would be tipping her off to the endgame.

Miranda gave her a long look before finally nodding her consent.

A smattering of applause and some disappointed grumbling as Charley walked to the edge of the stage. Sy didn’t move but continued to stand in the aisle between rows of seats, staring up at Miranda. Charley looked for Celeste in the back of the room, her aunt’s face an inscrutable mask. Zavier was already at the front, whispering into her ear.

“Why is he here?” he asked through gritted teeth.

“Closure?” She risked another glance at Sy. He stared at Miranda, who glared back at him from the stage.

“So I can’t throw him out? Like we should have the first time,” Zavier added, folding his arms.

“Not just yet,” Charley said. “Wait for my signal.”

Zavier nodded unhappily and walked to the back of the room, his eyes not leaving Sy. Everyone else, including Charley, turned to look at Miranda expectantly. She was a blank slate. She stared down at her feet, her devil horns slowly falling from her head where they clattered onto the floor. Someone coughed. Guests shifted in their seats uneasily. Miranda continued to do nothing. Sy almost looked disappointed. He laughed softly, shaking his head at his naivete when—

“Osiris.” Miranda said his name softly. For a moment, Charley wasn’t certain she’d heard her, until she said it again, louder and clearer this time. “Osiris.” It was not the way Miranda normally referred to him, spitting out his name like she could barely stand to speak it. Her voice was high, pleading. She did something odd then, placing her hands over her face and bending forward slightly. She was crying, her shoulders gently shaking as she sobbed into her hands. A reverent silence fell as the room watched her, the sheer strangeness, the intimacy of it almost too painful to behold. She sank to her knees, wiping the tears from her face. She stretched out her hand to Sy, beckoning him to the stage with urgency. She smiled as if to reassure him it was okay.

Charley watched in amazement as this worked. Sy slowly moved toward her as if summoned by a trance. His eyes locked onto Miranda’s as he approached the stage, and she crouched, reaching out her hands to him. He allowed her to gently take his hands in her own, and for a long moment, they just stared at each other, Miranda’s face shining with love, Sy looking like he knew his heart might break in two.

“Sy,” she said finally, laughing. “Sy, oh my, oh me, oh my,” she said, and his eyes went wide with surprise.

“Oh me, oh my, oh Sy, oh my,” he whispered back, a holy call-and-response.

She laughed again with joy at the absurdity of it all. “I don’t have much time,” Her voice was soft but urgent. “I need you to listen to me. It’s not safe for you here. Not in this house.” These words seemed to jolt Sy out of the spell he’d been under. He tried to move away, shake his hands free, but Miranda held on tight. “All I have wanted for you was to be safe,” she pleaded, her voice rising, desperate.

“Let go of me,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. But there was no breaking free of her hands.

“What can I do to make you understand, Sy? You need to stay away,” she begged, Sy’s face a mix of longing and revulsion in response.

“Miranda, let him go,” said Charley. She did not like the direction this was moving in, regardless of how this reunion onstage might read for entertainment value. Sadie had always warned the crowd to never interfere. She had always claimed it was because Miranda needed to maintain intense focus. Was that because Sadie had known the risks all along? That if distracted, Miranda could slip up, and instead of welcoming Lucille Ball, she could release a homicidal entity onto paying customers instead?

Charley touched her sister’s shoulder, and Miranda wheeled on her in a fury. “You are putting him in danger!”

Miranda’s eyes, Margaret Humphreys’s eyes, locked onto hers, flashed a warning as she released Sy’s hands and grabbed Charley’s instead. “You need to tell him it’s not safe here. Please,” she repeated. Miranda’s hands were so cold, trembling. Margaret’s hands, Charley thought. So much urgency. So much pain. The pain was building, as was the light engulfing her. Charley closed her eyes, the light in the room suddenly impossibly too bright to bear. So much pain. The pain was screaming inside her skull. Holding her sister’s hands—Margaret’s hands—Charley could feel the effort it took for this passenger to be here in Miranda’s body. The pain in her head built until the screaming was her own.

“Charley!” Sy yelled. Sy was screaming her name.

And time went sideways.

Charley felt Sy crashing into her, his hands reaching for hers as they fell heavily onto the stage floor. She lay there, dazed, Sy partially lying across her. Someone was screaming. She was struggling to understand what she was seeing: Astrid standing over them both with a bloodied kitchen knife, glowering down at them with an expression she’d never seen on her beautiful friend’s face. An expression that meant she intended to finish the job she’d started. Astrid raised the knife above her head when a strange young man with sunken eyes and cheeks fought to hold her arm in place. His rotten blue uniform hung off his gaunt frame while he physically struggled against her, her arm trembling from the strain. His strange gray eyes connected with Charley’s, and she felt a jolt of recognition.

Blue.

The ghost vanished, and Zavier was on Astrid in a flash, wrestling the knife away. He spun her around, staring at her in shock. Astrid glared back at him, her eyes black and seething with hate. Then her knees buckled to the ground as her body began to seize. “Astrid,” he yelled, moving to hold her up even though he likely wasn’t entirely sure it was safe to do so. Chaos rippled through the parlor. Guests in the front row screamed and jumped from their chairs in fright. The audience dissolved into a scrum of cries and yells as there was a mad dash for the exits, Zavier ignoring them all as he desperately tried to quell Astrid’s thrashing.

Sy slowly got to his feet, holding a hand out to Charley. “Are you okay?” he asked her, gasping in pain as he helped her to her feet. She tensed, fearful his touch would trigger some fresh hell for them to battle. Until she saw his shirt.

“Are you okay?” she asked, staring in horror at his back, the white of his button-up shirt transforming into a sea of red. Sy looked at his hand, stained with his own blood.

“She was coming for you. She wanted to kill you,” he said. Not the passenger. Not Margaret. Astrid! But she had missed, stabbed him instead because he’d saved Charley’s life.