Dearly, Beloved (17 page)

“Ronnie, please,” Dr. Chase said, stepping forward. She smiled at the man, and I was struck by how young she looked. “You’re going to snap him in two, and he’s already been through that once.”

“Beryl!” Ronnie did as she said, but only in order to capture her instead. She laughed as he shook her up and down in his glee.

“What the hell’s going on in here?” bellowed a deep voice from outside. I peered around Bram just in time to see another man approach the door. He was also broadly built, but taller, with a long mane of tightly curled black hair and a goatee. “Samedi? You there?”

Samedi brushed off his gray suit. “Rats. Glad to see you’ve still got your cousin under control. He’s only caused you, what, about eight heart attacks?”

The curly-haired man roared with laughter and stepped inside, grabbing for Sam’s hand. “By God’s thumbs! Samedi! When
your message came through I thought it was a joke! I was gonna come here and shoot the idiot who sent it in the freaking face!”

“Nice to know you look before shooting nowadays.” Samedi grinned as he clapped the man’s shaking arm. “Great to see you, Ratcatcher.”

“Are you sure these people are safe?” Bram asked Dr. Chase.

She laughed, voice lilting. “I’d trust any of them with my life. It’s okay.”

“Not about to trust ’em with the house, though,” Samedi said as he pointed outside. “Let’s conduct our business on the street, eh? This place isn’t mine. Don’t need your apprentices gnawing the gilding off the walls like a bunch of termites. Might be hazardous to what passes for my health nowadays.”

Rather than cause offense, this statement sent “Ratcatcher” into high hysterics. “Outside, outside!” he ordered.

The crowd backed up, instantly obedient. I stepped up to Bram’s side as he moved to follow, and laid a hand on Pamela’s shoulder, hoping it would reassure her. She went with us, though her face told me she was far from eager to do so.

Once outside, a few of the younger visitors ran back to the carriages, perching upon them or dangling from them as they saw fit. They watched Samedi closely, apparently quite enthralled. “What happened to you, man?” Ratcatcher asked Sam. “God, your skin’s like ice. You get bit back in December?”

“Oh, no. I’m first generation, or close to it. Been dead for four years now.”

What?
I looked up at Bram for confirmation of this. His slow nod told me that he understood my concerns—four years was ancient, for a zombie.

How much longer did he have?

“Wow.” Ratcatcher finally looked at all of us, and encompassed us with a wave of his arm. “Who’re these guys?”

“My new crew.” Samedi picked us out, rattling off introductions.

“I’m honored.” Ratcatcher bowed, and then laughed again, his barrel chest shaking. “I’m just …” He lifted a fist to his cheek and exploded it, stretching his fingers out. “Mind. Blown. After a while I gave up on seeing you again. Even the usual suspects didn’t know what’d happened to you … believe me, I asked around. I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere. Or back in prison.”

Renfield held up his hands, finally daring to speak. “Wait, wait. Dr. Samedi, you were actually in
prison
?”

“A long time ago,” Sam snapped.

“Seriously?” I knew Samedi’s work with Company Z had been rewarded with a pardon from the New Victorian government, but I wasn’t told for what. I didn’t know he’d done any actual time. “Okay, that’s it. Papa hangs out with ex-cons. He is never going to lecture me about anything else,
ever
. If he tries, I will laugh in his face.”

Ratcatcher couldn’t stop laughing, himself. “Oh, yeah, he got locked up for smuggling New Victorian tech into the Punk territories. Huge black market for it down there. This was long before he met the ginger,” he noted, pointing at Beryl. “But he escaped. It was brilliant. You see, he spent months collecting bits and pieces—a pen there, a paper clip here. A spare pipe when he was on laundry duty, a spatula when he was on KP. Slowly, he used his mechanical genius to convert his cell into the cab of a walking tank.” Chas squished up one eye and dropped her jaw in disbelief, and Ratcatcher nodded. “It’s true. And one day he threw the switch and stomped away with part of the bloody jail.”

Silence greeted the end of this story, as everyone turned to stare at Sam—Dr. Chase included. He sighed and said, “Is that how it got spun? Christ. I
was
on laundry duty at Drike’s—fixing the industrial washers. Didn’t take long to figure out how to
break
them, too. Messed one up so bad they had to order a replacement and ship it out. I got out inside it. Scurried back behind Punk lines fast as my two legs could carry me. Ask Fi—”

Ratcatcher lifted his arms, as if invoking the gods. “No. Don’t ruin it for me. I’ll believe what I want to believe.”

He was the only one on that page. The rest of us continued to gawp at Sam, Beryl excluded—she just rolled her eyes. “You
escaped
from Drike’s Island?” Pamela asked, voice practically a whisper.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m a free man now.” Sam turned slightly from us, mouth grim. “Anyway, if you thought I was dead, please don’t tell me you fenced my equipment.”

“Oh, hell no, man. I got your back.” Ratcatcher clicked his tongue and pointed to the truck. “There she is. Meanwhile, sounds like you owe your new crew a few bedtime stories. You’re depriving them of an education.”

“Later,” Sam muttered as he hurried over to the truck and the mysterious object that had been unloaded from it. We weren’t kept in suspense much longer. He drew the tarp off with a flourish.

The thing under the tarp wasn’t a carriage.

It was an honest-to-God pre–ice age car.

The long, low, sensuously curved vehicle was painted a chilly shade of silvery blue and trimmed with bug-eyed headlights and a delicious amount of chrome. The only flaws I could see were two odd attachment points mounted over the front wheel wells. Then again, I didn’t know anything about historical cars—maybe they were meant to be there.

“I know I was just babysitting her, but it still hurts to let her go. Ain’t she a stunner?” Ronnie said, moving to join Sam. Renfield wordlessly trailed after him, expression filling with blatant physical longing.

Sam slid a hand over her hood. “Oh, she is; 1956 Rolls-Royce
Silver Cloud. Tell me I was wrong to con all those innocent souls. Their money was turned into this through the magic of the black market.”

“Nineteen fifty-six?” Renfield gasped. “She’s older than the angels. Almost two hundred and fifty years. And she still works?”

“Oh, yeah. Had Belinda convert her to run on electricity,” said Rats. The woman who’d spoken before nodded. She had a handsome, square-shaped face beneath a cloud of kinky hair. “Keys are in the ignition. Everything else is in the trunk.”

“Perfect.”

“Welp.” Ratcatcher wound up the tarp and tucked it under his arm. “I’d love to stay and shoot the breeze, but this is a bit out in the open for us.” He moved to hug Sam, and Sam returned the gesture, patting his back. “But it is great to see you.”

“Likewise,” Sam said. His voice sounded almost wistful. “Sorry to get you out here.”

Ratcatcher held up a hand, indicating that Samedi should give up. “No, man. You saved Ronnie’s life. I’d do much more than drop off a ride for you, and no one will know about it. I’m just …” The big man pondered for a moment, before laughing again. Taking a step back, he addressed the young people hanging on the vehicles. “Y’all tagged along with us ’cause you didn’t believe you’d actually see Baldwin Samedi, the Undertaker, the
legend
. And here he is. Not even the grave can hold him back. That’s what I like to see!”

The crowd cheered. Within a few whirling, busy seconds they were all on board and on their way, the vehicles circling back toward the Elysian Fields entrance. “You rock, Undertaker!” someone shouted from the back of the truck. We watched them go, silence reigning.

Bram started it. “The Undertaker?”

“Nickname,” Samedi said, tone disdainful. “Cue the looks of disapproval.”

“The legend?” Pamela asked, crossing her arms over her chest and bestowing upon him one of those very looks.

Beryl fielded that one. “He was very good at smuggling. Taking things
under
to the Punk side? Ha-ha?”

“And cons?” Renfield ventured. “Anything else? I feel like we ought to know everything you’ve done, so we know what
not
to tell the cops.”

“I’ve been pardoned. Beryl has amnesty.” Samedi reached through the car’s open window, and next thing I knew I was doing my best to catch the set of keys he’d lobbed at me. “If any cops show up, they are not our problem.”

“Wait,” I said, looking at Dr. Chase. “Amnesty? For
what
?”

She colored slightly. Before she could say anything, Samedi took over, in a tone that would brook no backtalk. “We needed to replace one of our rides, I replaced one of our rides. I’ve done my good deed for the day. This conversation ends now.”

“We could have bought a new one,” Bram said. “This thing’s going to attract tons of attention. And why didn’t you go pick it up—”

“Because I’m trying to avoid being killed in my sleep, all right?” Samedi shot back. Bram went quiet, astounded. “I’m a bad man. There, I said it. And there are probably at least fifteen equally bad people in this town who’d make me dead for real if they knew I was back. Understand?” He backed up. “That part of my life is over. I just want to do my job, help my friends, and go to my grave with something approximating dignity.”

Samedi turned and started off in the direction of the front door. Beryl met my eyes, an unspoken apology in hers, and walked after him.

“That was awe-some,” Chas said, looking back down the street. “Did you see that one guy with the stubble? He was
cute
. Too bad he’s not deeeead.”

“Did you know all this, Bram?” I asked, looking at the keys.

“No,” he said after a moment. “Well, I knew some of it, but … clearly, not everything. Let’s just get this thing up to the house.”

As I watched the boys back the Rolls into the driveway, its paint gleaming despite the lack of light, I decided my own potential secrets and sins were pretty innocent after all.

Samedi had us all beat.

Twenty pairs of unseeing eyes stared up at me, awaiting my verdict.

As I tapped my chin, trying to come to a decision, I said to the air, “Screen, on. Current game.”

The large screen on the wall to my left instantly obliged, its glow suffusing the attic. I was engaged in a computer match on Aethernet Chess Live under my new username, NotHere1. “Bishop to E3,” I decided. I knew it was a hopeless move, but I’d yet to work out another direction to take. “And volume up.”

While my adoptive father’s family was known for crafting exquisite string instruments, my adoptive mother’s native family, the Turcios, was involved in the business of industrial diamonds and crystals. Grandfather Turcio was currently making use of our extensive summer property to host his company’s biggest clients, and the string orchestra he’d hired was positioned not thirty feet from where I currently stood. Electric lamps conquered the darkness outside, highlighting the well-pedigreed “wild” trees in our fairy-tale garden from beneath, throwing branch-shaped shadows my way. Even though my bedroom was in the attic, low tinted windows were set along the walls, allowing me to watch everything
from my own private crow’s nest. Being but seventeen, I was unwelcome at the party. I’d yet to debut. If I were of age, of course, I’d have been parading down there like a cow at a cattleman’s auction.

Carefully, I looked the twenty ball-jointed dolls over again. They’d just arrived that day, sent up from New London in well-padded wooden crates. Each doll was a work of art painted in soft, dreamy hues, their glass eyes clear, their lips luminous. Each wore a fanciful gown that, at my word, could be re-created in my size. Most upper-class girls preferred to use holographic design programs to create their custom gowns, swapping out virtual ribbons and cuffs while drinking tea and chatting with their friends. I didn’t. It was too overwhelming, too easy to give up and pick out something, anything, rather than go through all fifteen thousand button options. I vastly preferred for my favorite seamstress to prepare a china doll fashion show for me, by the old custom. Call it conceit.

The door opened. I didn’t look up. It had to be a servant putting clothes away—caring for my clothing was pretty much the only chore they were permitted to perform for me. Privileged though I appeared to be, I made my own bed, dusted my own furniture, served myself from the kitchen, and scrubbed my own toilet, because I knew that no one else would. I seldom paid attention to the servants for that reason, and they were strictly sworn not to pay more than the usual attention to me, not even to speak to me.

Thus my surprise upon hearing a quiet, “Ahem.”

Tearing my eyes from the rose-colored walking dress I’d been contemplating, I found one of my mother’s maids, a downright fat young woman named Suzanna, staring at me intently from a distance. Her hands were knotted up in her apron, her cheeks pale.