Graveminder (16 page)

Chapter 29

B
YRON?”
R
EBEKKAH TRIED TO FOLLOW HIM, BUT WAS STOPPED BY AN IN
visible barrier in front of the tunnel. She put both hands on the air and leaned into it. She watched Byron take a torch from the wall. It flared to life as his hand wrapped around it. “Byron!”

He reached back through the barrier and held out his hand. “You gave me your word, Bek.”

She slid her hand into his and tried to ignore how right it felt.

For a moment he stared at her, his features unreadable, and then he pulled her into the tunnel. “When we get to the other side, we need to find Mr. D. Later, at home, we will talk ... about us. No matter what, though, you need to trust me.”

“I
do
trust you. I always have.” She wasn’t sure of much, but she knew that. In the moment she’d stepped into the tunnel, she also knew that Byron was meant to be beside her. He would lead her home. She knew with a certainty that she had never felt before that he was meant to be at her side—he was
hers
.

The voices in the tunnel lifted and fell in waves; they spoke words she couldn’t quite understand.
They are trapped.
The air around her was filled with invisible hands petting her cheeks and hair.
They are the dead who were abandoned.

Byron’s hand held fast to hers; their fingers were intertwined. She squeezed. A chill wind pressed against her, bringing tears to her eyes, stinging her face. The wind swept the tears from her cheeks and the breath from her lips.

“Byron?” she called.

“I’m with you,” he assured her.

At the end of the tunnel, she gasped. The colors she could see were so vibrant that it almost hurt to look around her. The sky was streaked in violet and gold. The buildings around her were breathtaking. Even the drabbest of them was cloaked in shades of colors that surely couldn’t exist. She let go of his hand and stepped forward. Slowly, she turned around in a circle, taking in the sights of impossible glass buildings gleaming like jewels in the distance and nearer wooden buildings and brownstones. Everything was richer in hue than her mind could process.

Rebekkah looked around. “Byron?”

“Can’t join us just now,” a man said. He shook his head. “It’s a real shame. He’s entertaining.”

“Where is Byron?” She looked around her, but she couldn’t see the tunnel either. It had vanished when she’d stepped out of it. “What just happened?”

“Your Undertaker seems to have been detained. He will meet us at the house, my dear. I will escort you there.”

“You ... No, I need to find Byron,” she insisted.

“My dear, he was escorting you here to meet
me
.” The man took off his hat, holding it by the brim, swept his arm gallantly, and simultaneously bowed from the waist. A lock of dark hair fell forward as he did so. Still in his bow, he lifted his earth-dark gaze to stare at her. “Charles.”

He straightened, still holding her gaze, and added, “And you, my lovely one, are my
Rebekkah
.”

She shivered. Her name sounded different on his lips, like a prayer, an incantation, a holy plea.

“Mr. D,” she murmured. “Byron told me—”

“Half-truths, my dear.” Mr. D extended an elbow to her. “Let me escort you to the house while we await your Byron.”

She paused, looking from his crooked arm to his face.

He smiled. “I’d rather not leave you here alone, Rebekkah. The streets can be treacherous.”

“And you?”

Mr. D laughed. “Well, yes. I can, too, but you
are
here to see me, aren’t you?”

The things Byron had told her didn’t inspire a lot of faith in the charming man beside her, but her instincts warred with Byron’s words. She
wanted
to trust Mr. D, even though she had no reason to do so. Cautiously, she laid her hand on his forearm. “I’m not sure why, but ...”

“Ahhh, the devil you know,” he stage-whispered. “You know me. Whether we’ve met or not, my Graveminders always know me.”

“And do they like what they know?”

Charles laughed. “That, my dear girl, remains to be seen. Come now. Let me show you our world.”

Rebekkah looked around one more time. There was nothing even remotely like a tunnel anywhere as far as she could see. A wooden walkway twisted off to one side; a cobblestone walk intersected it a short distance away. To her left, a dirt path and a paved city street extended into what looked like different neighborhoods. As she turned to look behind her, a river appeared. There were more paths than she’d first noticed, and none of them stood out. She turned her attention back to the man beside her. “You’re certain that Byron will come to your house? Today? Soon?”

“Most definitely.”

Unsure of what else to do—and guiltily curious about the world that spiraled out all around her—Rebekkah nodded and started walking with him, hoping that she wasn’t making a mistake and trying diligently to focus on the warnings Byron had shared with her. This was the man who had manipulated Byron, who knew the answers to the questions she hadn’t even known they should be asking until earlier today—and at that moment he was carefully guiding her through a city the likes of which she couldn’t have conceived.

She alternated between gawking at the sights and feeling oddly self-conscious of her jeans and T-shirt.
Or perhaps longing for something else.
Mr D wore a well-tailored suit, and the women around her were dressed in a variety of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century gowns. She could hear the swish of fabrics, see the jewel tones and muted shades. She wanted to reach out and touch them. With more effort than she could’ve imagined, she resisted.

“It’s normal.”

She darted a glance at him. “What?”

“Our world is different to you.” He gestured with a sweep of his hand. “Your senses are alive here. No other mortal experiences this world as you do. You are the Graveminder.
My
Graveminder. This is your world more than that other one ever will be. Shades and ashes, that’s all you can find over
there
. But this”—he took a scarlet poppy from a street peddler and held it to her face—“is your domain.”

The touch of the poppy was dizzying. The petals against her cheek felt like raw silk, and the vibrant color seemed too extreme to be real. She closed her eyes against the intensity.

“Over there you are a mere shade of what you are in our world.” Mr. D stroked her cheek with the flower. “Death is a part of you. It’s the future you’ve been headed toward all these years. It’s the path our dear Maylene chose for you.”

At her grandmother’s name, Rebekkah opened her eyes. “Is she here?”

“She was waiting until William came to meet her.” Mr. D dropped the poppy to the ground. “He joined her yesterday.”

“And now?” Rebekkah felt like her eyes were burning from the tears she didn’t want to let fall. “Can I see her?”

“Even if she
was
here, Graveminders may not see their own dead, girl.” Mr. D patted her hand, which was still clutching his crooked elbow. “You are such predictable creatures.”

She pulled her hand away. “Humans?”

“Graveminders,” he corrected. “Although humans are often predictable as well. Shall we perambulate awhile? Take in a show?” He tipped his hat to a woman who wore nothing more than a pale gray chemise and cascading necklaces and bracelets of diamonds.

Rebekkah watched her walk away. The people on the streets paid her no more attention than anyone else. “I’m not here to ... is she dead?”

“Everyone here is.” Mr. D stopped in front of an immense set of marble steps that swept down from a high arched doorway. “Well, all save you, and your Undertaker, when he finally arrives.”

“Do you know where he is?”

With Rebekkah beside him, Mr. D started up the steps. At the top, two men in uniforms stood, one on either side of a medieval-looking door. The men watched Rebekkah and Mr. D ascend with implacable expressions.

They were only a few steps up when an old-fashioned black roadster with whitewalled tires came careening around the corner. Four men in dark suits stood on the running boards; two others clung half in, half out of the passenger-side windows. In their hands, they had long-barreled guns—aimed at her.

“Guns?” She breathed the word. “They have—”

“Hold very still now, my dear,” he interrupted as he swept her up into his arms and turned his back to the street.

She felt the bullets strike him as he held her aloft, and she screamed. The impact of the bullets as they penetrated his body made her flinch, but he shifted slightly from side to side. In doing so, he seemed to be keeping the bullets from hitting her, and all the while, he held her aloft and continued to ascend the stairs.

Killed in the land of the dead.
She felt hysterical laughter threaten.
I’m going to die here.

Then, as quickly as it started, it ended. She heard the car as it sped off, but she couldn’t see anything. Charles had cradled her against him, and she’d closed her eyes in panic. She opened her eyes and looked up at him now, her eyes wet with sudden tears.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered as Charles lowered her so her feet touched the stairs.

One of the men who had stood at the door was gone. As Rebekkah looked toward the street, she saw him jump into another black roadster, which tore out, presumably following the men who had shot at Charles.

“Mind your step,” Charles instructed as he swept his foot to the side, brushing several bullets away. They tinkled like chimes as they rolled down the stairs.

She stared at him. There was no blood on him, but his suit was in tatters. “Charles?”

A crowd of people paused at the foot of the steps, watching them with varied expressions. The other man at the door hadn’t moved toward them. No one in the crowd seemed alarmed.
Is this normal?
Rebekkah forced herself to treat it as if it were—perhaps doing so would quell the panic still fluttering under her skin. She brushed back her hair and looked directly at the face of the man who had been shot shielding her body from bullets.

“I don’t understand what just happened.” She heard the tremor in her voice, but she tried to ignore it—and the shock that was making her shiver—as she straightened her clothes.

“They shot at us. Why ...” Her shirt was ripped on the side, and when she reached a hand over, she felt that the skin was torn as well. She looked at her hand and saw blood. “Charles?”

Charles looked at her bloodied hand, and then at her side. He wrapped an arm around her waist carefully. “Ward,” he called. “Retrieve a physician.”

The remaining man at the door was beside them in an instant. “She appears likely to faint, sir,” he said. “Shall I carry her?”

“I have her, Ward.”

“I don’t faint,” Rebekkah protested.

“Sleep, Rebekkah,” Charles said. “Let go, and sleep now.”

“It’s just a scratch,” someone said.

A voice—
Charles’
voice
—said, “First the physician, and then find them. This sort of carelessness is unacceptable.”

Then Rebekkah gave in to the darkness.
It’s a dream
, she rationalized,
a very, very bad dream.

W
ITHIN THE TUNNEL
, B
YRON HAD ALTERNATED BETWEEN CURSING AND
pleading. He’d thrown himself at the transparent barricade that had sprung up between the tunnel’s opening and the gray world of the dead.

“Charlie!” he yelled.

No one came, of course. Byron was pretty certain that the barrier was Charlie’s doing. Whatever he was, he’d seemed to be the only one running the show.

Futilely, Byron punched the wall, and then turned back to explore the tunnel with the scant hope that he might find a clue. The tunnel appeared to be a damp cave now; slick-wet walls with phosphorescent mold of some sort stretched into the gloom behind him. The ground under his feet was a slab of stone, smooth as if formed by a glacier.

When he heard Rebekkah scream from the other side of the barrier, he spun around, clawing at the invisible barrier, scraping his fingertips over it to find an opening of some sort. Nothing helped: he was trapped outside the land of the dead. His choices were to wait or to go back, and going back seemed exceptionally unwise.

W
HEN SHE WOKE
, R
EBEKKAH WAS LYING ON A MASSIVE FOUR-POSTER BED.
She looked around, but saw nothing beyond the perimeter of the bed, which was hung with thick brocade drapes. Reaching out, she slid the material between two fingers, enjoying the feel of each thread and the weight of the fabric.
It’s just a drape.
She stroked her fingertips over the material, though—until a laugh made her recoil.

“The fabrics were selected for the pleasure of one of your long-gone predecessors. I’m glad they please you. Although”—Charles pulled back a drape and looked down at her—“I do apologize for the reason you are in my bed. It’s not the reason I would’ve preferred.”