Graveminder (12 page)

She bent closer and brushed her lips over his cheek, quickly tucking a book of matches into his hand as she did so. “Welcome to our world, Undertaker.”

Chapter 22

D
AISHA LIFTED HER HAND TO KNOCK ON THE TRAILER DOOR.
S
HE FELT
odd knocking, but the alternative was walking in unannounced and that didn’t feel comfortable either. Nothing felt quite right: being here wasn’t right, but not-being-here was wrong. So she knocked.

The door opened, and her mother stood in front of her. She wore a clingy T-shirt and too-tight jeans. Makeup hid some of the splotchiness of her skin, but it couldn’t do anything for her bloodshot eyes. She had both a cigarette and a beer bottle in her hand. For a moment, she simply stared at her daughter.

“You’re gone. You left.” Behind her, the light from the television flickered and cast blue-tinged shadows on the wall.

“Well, I’m back.” Daisha thought about shoving her mother aside and going into the trailer, but the idea of touching Gail made her hesitate.

“How come?” Gail leaned again the doorjamb and studied Daisha. “I don’t have the time to be bailing you out if you’re in some sort of trouble, you hear?”

“Where’s Paul?”

Gail narrowed her gaze. “He’s at work.”

“Good.” Daisha stepped past her mother.

“I didn’t say you could come in.” Gail let the door slam closed even as she said the words. Absently she flicked the ash from her barely smoked cigarette in the general direction of one of the overfull ashtrays on the scarred coffee table.

“Why?”

“I’m not running a motel. You left and—”

“No. I didn’t
leave.
You sent me away.” Daisha didn’t feel the confusion she’d been feeling since she’d woken up. The walls had the dirty tinge of too much smoke trapped in a small space; the carpet had the burn marks and stains of too many drunken nights; and the furniture had the cracks and tears that told of fights and poverty. As she stood in the tiny structure that had once been her home, she understood more than she had so far: this was where she belonged. It was hers, her home, her space.

“He said he’d be good to you, and it’s not like I was sending you off to some stranger.” Gail lit another cigarette and then flopped back onto the sagging sofa with the same bottle of beer and the cigarette in hand. “Paul said he was good people.”

Daisha stayed standing. “You knew better, though, didn’t you,
Mom
?”

Gail lifted the beer bottle to her lips and drank. Then, with a vague up-and-down gesture, she motioned at Daisha. “You look fine, so what are you bitching about?”

“For starters? I’m dead.”

“You’re what?”

Daisha stepped across the small room to stand at the edge of the sofa. She looked down at her mother and hoped to see some sort of emotion, some hint that Gail was relieved to see her. There was nothing. Daisha repeated, “I’m dead.”

“Right.” Gail snorted. “And I’m the fucking queen of Rome.”

“Rome doesn’t have a queen. It’s a city, but”—Daisha sat down beside her mother—“I
am
dead.”

The words felt unnatural, admitting them felt impossible, but they were right. Her body didn’t live. Her heart didn’t beat in her chest; her breath didn’t fill her lungs. The things that made a person alive had stopped—because her mother had let someone make her dead.

“Dead,” Daisha whispered. “I am dead, not alive, not right, and you’re the reason why.”

“You think that’s funny?” Gail started to stand, but Daisha shoved her back before she was all the way upright.

“No,” Daisha said. “It’s not funny at all.”

Gail raised a hand, the one holding the cigarette, as if to slap her daughter. The cherry of the cigarette was almost pretty.

For a tense moment, Gail’s hand stayed upraised and open, but she didn’t touch Daisha. Instead, she took a drag off the cigarette and exhaled noisily. “I’m not laughing.”

“Good. It’s not funny.” Daisha took her mother’s wrist and forced her arm back down. The bones under her mother’s skin felt like brittle twigs wrapped in sweet flesh and warm blood. It was hard to believe she’d ever thought her mother was strong.

Daisha kept hold of Gail’s stick-thin wrist and scooted closer. She pressed her knee hard into Gail’s leg, pinning her. “Tell me. Did you honestly think—even for a moment—that I would be safe?”

Gail’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say any of the words that would help. Instead, she shoved ineffectually at Daisha with the hand that held the bottle and muttered, “You look fine to me.” She shoved again, harder this time. “Let me up.”

“No.” Daisha took the beer bottle and tossed it at the opposite wall, hard enough that it shattered. The glass shards fell to the carpet like glitter. “Did you know what he was going to do?”

“Paul said—”

“No,” Daisha repeated. She pinched the cherry off the tip of the cigarette and dropped it on her mother’s lap.

Gail shrieked and tried to swat it out. “You little bitch. How dare you?”

“You sent me away with someone you didn’t know, and you didn’t expect me to come back.” Daisha squashed the smoldering ember before it did any real damage. “You knew.”

“Paul said that a lot of countries still do arranged marriages and bride prices, and it’s not like you were making a contribution. Food and electricity and ... kids are expensive. We can’t afford another baby if you’re here.” Gail’s chin jutted out. “If you were gone, we’d jump to the front of the wait to have a baby. Paul wants a baby, and I’m getting old.”

“So you were just recouping your losses, right?” Daisha stared into her mother’s eyes. This woman had given her life. All she saw was irritation. “He
hurt
me, and then he left me in the woods like trash ... He left me there bleeding, and when I thought I’d found help, when I thought the people from
here
who found me were going to help, they
killed me.
All because you wanted rid of me. All because
Paul
wants a baby.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You’re right,” Daisha whispered, “but the longer I’m awake, the more I
do
understand. Seeing you here, it helps. Being here helps. You’re helping me now, Gail, but you know how you can help me more?”

“I can’t let you stay here, but I can ... I can not tell Paul you were here. Maybe I could get you some money or something.”

“No.” Daisha leaned her forehead against Gail’s and whispered, “I need more than that from you.”

“I don’t have anything else to give you.” Gail squirmed and batted at Daisha. “I can’t let Paul know you’re back.”

When her mother’s hand made contact with her cheek, Daisha caught both wrists and held them with one hand; she pressed harder on her mother’s leg. “Paul will figure it out when he gets here.”

Daisha covered her mother’s mouth with her hand, squeezing to make sure that the sound was muffled. She leaned forward and bit a hole in the side of her mother’s throat. It was messy, the way the blood came pouring out too fast. By the time Daisha had swallowed the first bite, Gail’s shirt was soaked.

But Daisha’s mind felt increasingly clear, and her mood was improved now that her hunger was silenced. The more she ate and drank, the clearer her mind became. Hunger made her get confused, just like fear made her drift away.

I am safe here. Now.

Eating helped; drinking helped; words helped. Gail had given her all three.

Chapter 23

A
S THEY WALKED BACK TOWARD THE TUNNEL,
B
YRON TRIED TO TAKE IN
as many details as he could. He wondered if the city itself shifted, because the streets they traversed didn’t look at all like the ones he thought they’d come in on. The area around him was definitely not modern, but he could see what looked to be a 1950s suburb at one intersection. Some blocks belonged to eras he couldn’t identify, but the residents didn’t always fit the landscape: flappers and apron-clad women were accompanied by miners from another century and modern businessmen.

“I’m going to need a map or a guide or something,” he muttered. “Otherwise, how will I ever find my way around here?”

“It gets easier,” William assured him.

“After how long? How long have you been coming here? How
often
?” Byron stopped at an intersection. Two women riding late-nineteenth-century high-wheeled bicycles passed. The first woman smiled at them, but the second seemed not to see them at all.

“I’ve been coming for most of my life.” William rubbed a hand over his face. “I was eighteen. My grandfather was the last Undertaker.”

“Not your father?”

“No,” William said. “He was too old, or maybe it was that I was old enough. It’s hard to say.”

Byron saw the mouth of the tunnel ahead of them. Within it, flickers of red and blue blinked at him like the eyes of some great beast. In a world of gray, the brightness of the tunnel was a beacon.

“Your mother and I thought about not marrying, not having children, not passing this to our own child. If I’d married young, I might’ve been old enough that you would be spared, but then my grandson would need to be next in line, and I couldn’t stand the thought of my grandson dealing with this so young ... and your mother and I wanted a child, wanted
you
.” William shook his head, looking more than a bit sorrowful.

Not sure what to say, Byron stepped into the tunnel. William followed. Unlike when they had entered the land of the dead, the tunnel now stretched quite a ways in front of them.

“Take the light,” William instructed. “You lead.”

Byron lifted the torch from the wall. It flared to life in his hand.

“Your touch will light the way. Her touch will not. You light the way; you open the gate. Without you, she cannot enter their world.”

“Why?”

“To keep her safe. She’s drawn to the dead.” William gave him a rueful smile. “And you are drawn to her. You’d give your life for your Graveminder, to keep her apart from death, yet some part of her wants desperately to hurtle toward it. She can choose not to be with you, but you and you alone will be able to tempt her as the dead can.” He shook his head. “Ella felt the call of the dead far sooner than anyone expected. Maylene brought her over. Charlie agreed to it; the old bastard never liked saying no to Mae. She was going to bring both of the girls, and let them make the choice over the next few years, but after Ella came over ... We didn’t expect her to do that, but when she did, we decided not to tell you and Rebekkah. I don’t know if it was the right choice, but that world is a temptation I don’t understand for Graveminders ... and I never did much better at telling Mae no than the old bastard did.”

William looked at Byron, waiting for something—forgiveness or questions or Byron wasn’t sure what. He couldn’t say that he was all right with everything or that he even understood everything. He didn’t even know if he was angry. Later he might be all of those things; later they’d have to talk; but just then Byron was still to trying to make sense of the enormity of the secrets that his father—and mother
and
Maylene
and
Ella—had kept from him.

And from Bek.

For another ten minutes, Byron and his father walked in silence, but the entrance appeared no closer. Byron looked over at his father and noticed that he was no longer cradling his arm. “Is it feeling better? Your arm, I mean.”

“It doesn’t hurt at all,” William assured him.

“It looked like it was bleeding pretty badly.” Byron frowned. “Whether it hurts or not, you’re getting stitches. Can you still feel it? I mean—”

“I don’t need stitches.”

“Shots, too,” Byron continued. “Did you clean it? Was there rust on whatever you cut it on? What
did
you cut it on? Was it sterile? What—”

“Byron, stop.” William unwound the bandage and dropped it to the floor on the tunnel.

As Byron watched, the bandage disintegrated and drifted away like smoke.

“The dead did this.” William held out his arm. A piece of skin was missing like it had been peeled back. Muscles were exposed and ravaged. “Shots don’t help. Bites from the dead
can
heal. The child will be fine, but like any other open wound, bites are vulnerable to regular infection.”

“The child ...” Byron stared at his father. “You and that child were bitten by a
dead
person.”

“As was Maylene.”

“A dead person is loose in our world ...
biting
people. The ones we saw seemed normal enough.” Byron paused as he realized the peculiarity of what he’d just said. “Aside from the
dead
part.”

“They’re different if they wake here.” William lowered his arm, so it hung loosely by his side. “She’s only newly awake. They come to the Graveminder as soon as they can—if they wake, and they usually don’t. Maylene’s not had one wake in years. This one wasn’t minded. They
need
minding, so they don’t wake. This girl ... she had to have died out there alone somewhere. She’s young, not much older than seventeen, I’d guess. Skittish.”

Byron thought about the girl he’d seen.
Twice.
He opened and closed his mouth.

Around them, the tunnel suddenly compressed, and then they were standing just outside the storage room again. Byron put the torch back into a space in the wall. “I think I met her. The dead girl.”

“Good. You and Rebekkah have to work together to bring her through the tunnel. I’m not sure what Rebekkah needs to do once she reaches the girl, but Maylene will have taught her or left instructions.” William suddenly clasped Byron, pulling him into a tight hug, and asked, “Forgive me my faults, son.”

Byron held on to his father for a long silent moment. “Yeah. Of course I do. We just need to figure out how to tell Bek all of—”

“No.” William released him and stepped back deeper into the tunnel. “
You
need to tell her. You are her Undertaker.”

“But ...” Byron’s words faded as he saw the sorrow in his father’s eyes.

“I can’t come with you.” William took another step back into the shadows. “You’ll do fine.”

The emotional overload he’d thought he felt mere moments ago was nothing compared to the rush of conflicted emotions that consumed him now. Charlie had told him that he could die, “simply stay here”; Byron had seen his father’s name on the list
with an end date
. William had never intended to come back to the world. Byron looked at his father, the last living member of his family, and said, “You knew when we went there ... that going meant dying.”

“I did. Only one Undertaker. Only one Graveminder. You’re able to go back and forth without a problem, up until you bring your replacement to see Charlie. Once the next Undertaker signs ...” William smiled reassuringly. “It’s a painless way to die.”

“I don’t want you to be dead ... what if I pull you through the gate?” Byron felt desperate. Too much was happening too fast. “Maybe—”

“No. I’d still be dead, but it would hurt. Heart attack, probably. Stroke maybe.” William shrugged. “For all intents and purposes, I died over there. My pain left when you signed the contract. If you force me back, the pain will return, and I’ll still die. Only one Undertaker at a time can sit at Mr. D’s table. You signed, and I died.”

Byron felt the weight of William’s admission settle on him. He’d killed his father.

“You didn’t know,” William said, drawing Byron’s gaze to his father’s face. “It was
my
choice. I took you to see Mr. D. We drank with the dead. You’re safe to do so now, up until the day you bring the next Undertaker to his table. That’s the way it’s always been ... If you’re lucky, it’s what you’ll do one day. Your son—or your heir, if your successor isn’t by blood—will walk through this door alone, and you’ll stay behind.”

“My successor?”

“If you and Rebekkah—the Graveminder and the Undertaker are drawn together—if you need to pick a successor because you marry her or have children with her”—William paused as if he was weighing his words—“it’s like arranged marriage. Watch their interests. Be wise.”

“You and Mom and Maylene ...” Byron couldn’t finish the words.

“We wanted you all to have some choice. It could’ve been either of the girls. That’s why you were drawn to them both, but Ella’s death changed things.” William’s expression grew stern. His brow furrowed, and his chin lifted. “You and Rebekkah will be good together.”

And at that, every thread of interest Byron had for Rebekkah became tainted. What he wanted, what he felt, the protectiveness and the longing—it had all been programmed in him.
How could they?
Byron couldn’t think about it then.
Practicality first.
If he thought about it, he’d be furious, and he couldn’t walk away from his father with anger between them.
Later when ... my dad is dead.
Then he could let himself feel the anger that threatened.

“How do I ... what about your service?” Byron felt foolish asking his father about his own burial, but it mattered more now than it ever had. The dead walked. That much he understood. He couldn’t have his dead father walking the earth biting people.

“We Undertakers don’t often die in the same way as most folk. Graveminders don’t either unless”—William blanched—“they don’t make it ... Sometimes they walk into the land of the dead, but it’s unpredictable.”

“You’re dying because Maylene died.”

“She’s not replaced your mother
ever
, but she is my partner. I made two vows, one to Ann and one to be the Undertaker. I made the same vow you just made.” William kept his voice gentle, but there was no mistaking the firmness in it as he said, “I don’t have any business being Undertaker now. There’s a new Graveminder. She needs
her
Undertaker, not some old man.”

“But—”

“And Maylene needs her rest,” William interrupted. “She’s earned it. I go easy to my death. She went in pain, consumed by the dead who shouldn’t have walked. It needs fixing. That’s your job. Yours and Rebekkah’s.”

“Dad—”

“Go to Rebekkah. Open the gate for her. She needs to meet Charlie before anything else can be done.” William clasped Byron’s forearm. “Then bring her home and put the dead to rest where they belong.”

“I need you.” Byron pulled his father closer. “You’re the only one I have. The only family. Maybe—”

“You know better than that. There are no maybes. I need to go.” William embraced him again. “There’s papers and things for you in the trunk in my room. The rest ... you’ll figure it out. Trust your instincts. Think about the lessons you’ve had. I’ve done what I could to prepare you. Don’t ever forget what the dead are capable of. You saw Maylene’s body. The one that did this to my arm, to Maylene, she looks harmless, but she’s not.” He caught Byron’s gaze. “Don’t let them wake, but if they do ... show no mercy. Protect each other and the town. You hear me?”

“I do.”

“Make me proud.” William turned his back and started walking back into the shadows. His voice came clearly through the emptiness even as he walked away: “You’ve
always
made me proud, Byron.”

And then he was gone.

Dead.

Byron stepped into his funeral home, his home again, and stumbled a few steps. He crashed to knees as the weight of what just happened settled on him.

My father.

He understood grief. He’d felt it when his mother died, when Ella died; he’d seen it in other people his whole life, but this was different. His father was the last tie to the world he’d known, his childhood, his memories. Everything Byron had been—the “and Son” part of the family business and of his life—was now changed.

Gone.

There was no son. With William’s death, he was Mr. Montgomery.

The Undertaker.

He’d known that he’d follow his father’s path since he was a child. At mortuary school, he’d met those who rebelled against it, who followed because it was expected, but for him, it was something else. It was a calling.

Byron stared at the still-open cabinet. The plastic bottles and their multitoned liquids were as familiar as the sterility and scents of the basement rooms of his childhood home. Even though embalming was atypical, they still had supplies on hand for those not born in Claysville. Only the town-born residents had to be buried unembalmed. The door was hidden behind the things they rarely used. It seemed an obvious clue now, but before that day, Byron couldn’t have guessed at the secrets hidden behind those chunky bottles.