Graveminder (19 page)

“Why?”

Boyd shrugged again. “I don’t make rules. Wasn’t even here when the rules were made. Some things just are.”

Then he turned and ambled off down the street. People moved out of his way as he walked, and Byron had a moment of wondering whether they were afraid of Boyd or simply realized that he wouldn’t veer, so they had to move.

Byron looked back at the house, not entirely sure of the protocol.
Is she a prisoner?
A guard of stood on either side of the massive doors to Mr. D’s house.
Do I knock?
There was only one way to find out.

With the revolver still in hand, he crossed the street and ascended the stairs. He didn’t raise the gun, but just as he did when he’d walked through the city, he didn’t make any effort to hide it. The street at the foot of the steps was littered with bullet casings, and a wet gray stain on one step made Byron pause.
Blood?
The inability to distinguish color in this world was something he’d adjusted to relatively easily, but as he saw the fluid on the step, he realized that it could be any number of things. Without color, the possibilities were harder to narrow in on.
Rebekkah is on the balcony. She’s alive.
He paused as the absurdity of his thought hit him: he couldn’t be sure she was alive.
She can die here.

He ran the rest of the way up the stairs.

The guards both stepped in front of the door in perfect sync. “No.”

“Yes.” Byron lifted the gun and aimed it at one of the guards. “Rebekkah ... the Graveminder is in there, and I’m going in to get her.
Now.
”

The guards exchanged a look, but they didn’t move or reply.

“I
will
shoot,” he assured them. “Open the doors.”

“We have orders,” the guard he’d aimed at said.

The other added, “No one simply walks into his house. You are no exception.”

Byron cocked the hammer. “Are you going to let me in?”

“Mr. D directed that we don’t.
That
”—the first guard pointed at the gun—“doesn’t change his orders.”

“I don’t want to shoot.” Byron lowered his gun marginally and reached for the door handle. The guard grabbed his arm.

“But I
will
,” he added.

The first bullet entered between the guard’s eyes, and in another instant, another bullet pierced the second guard’s throat. Both men slumped, and Byron hoped that Alicia had been honest when she told him that he wasn’t truly killing the dead men.

Can you kill the already dead?

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to be turned away at Mr. D’s door. His job was to keep Rebekkah safe, keep her by his side, take her home to the world of the living.

Byron pushed open the door. Mr. D was sitting in a velvet-covered wing-back chair in the middle of a vast foyer. An enormous chandelier dangled high over his head, and for a moment, Byron considered seeing how good his aim still was.
Could I break the chain?
The idea of sending the crystal monstrosity down atop Mr. D was exceptionally tempting.

Mr. D followed his gaze. “Difficult shot, that one. You want to try it?”

“Where is Rebekkah?”

Mr. D motioned upward. “Top of the stairs. Straight back, big doors, balcony. Can’t miss it.”

“If you hurt her—”

“You’ll do what, boy?” Mr. D flashed his teeth in a smile of sorts. “Go fetch her. I’ve work to tend to. Unless you want to take the shot?”

For a moment, Byron hesitated. He looked back up at the chain holding the chandelier up over Mr. D’s head.
Could I? Should I?
He looked back at Mr. D and said, “Maybe next time.”

Mr. D’s laughter followed him up the stairs.

Chapter 33

R
EBEKKAH?”

She turned from the street and saw Byron striding down the short hallway toward her. She was confused, tired, and scared. Her side stung from the bullet that had grazed her, and her head was so full of worries that she couldn’t even name them all. Yet, in that instant, everything else went on hold.

He stopped at the threshold between the room and the balcony. “Are you okay?”

He studied her as he spoke. There was no tenderness in his expression, and seeing that coldness in his eyes made her shiver.

“I am.” She stepped toward him, suddenly self-conscious in the dress, unsure of him as she hadn’t been when they entered the tunnel, guilty even though she hadn’t done anything more than dine with Charles. “Take me home. Please?”

“That’s the plan.” Byron’s tone wasn’t any warmer than his gaze.

“Are
you
okay?” she asked.

“I will be once we get out of here.” He stood at an angle and watched the hallway he’d just come through and the balcony. He held a white-handled revolver in his right hand and an unfamiliar dingy duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Flecks of blood were spattered on his shirt.

“I have no idea how to find the exit ... to the house or to the world,” she admitted.

“Just stay beside me.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two bullets. Then he opened the cylinder of the old-fashioned revolver in his hand.

She stared as he removed two empty casings and then slid bullets into the two chambers.

He repositioned the strap of the duffel bag on his shoulder. “Stay beside me, okay? If anyone ... if anyone fires at us, you step behind me.”

“But—”

“Over here, bullets are only a threat to you. I’m safe.” He caught her gaze and demanded, “Promise me.”

She nodded.
How had Maylene done this?
It wasn’t anywhere near the sort of life that she could’ve imagined her grandmother living.

Byron walked down the hallway of Charles’ house. The plush carpet under their feet, the elaborate stamped tin ceiling, the murals on the wall, none of it drew Byron’s attention. He paused at the top of a curving staircase Rebekkah didn’t remember.

I was unconscious when I came in.

“Stay with me,” Byron reminded her.

At the foot of the stairs, Charles stood waiting. As she and Byron approached, he stepped forward.

“My lovely Rebekkah, it was a pleasure.” Charles took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I trust that you’ll let me know if anything was unsatisfactory. Our meal? My bed?”

She pulled her hand free of his. “Only you.”

Charles nodded. “Then I shall work harder. The first time together isn’t always one’s
best
performance.” Then he turned his gaze to Byron, who was standing stiffly beside her. “Undertaker.”

Rebekkah had thought Byron’s tone couldn’t have been colder, but it chilled even more as he said, “Charlie. Should I expect an attack on the way to the gate? Or are we safe?”

“I expect that they’ll behave for now, but do try to keep our girl safe. My domain is dangerous.” Charles walked over to the door and opened it. “And don’t leave too many bodies for me to clean up.”

Two men lay sprawled outside on either side of the doorway. Rebekkah gasped and covered her mouth. She looked from the men to Byron and then to Charles.

Expression unreadable, Charles leaned against the doorway. All he said was, “Mind your hem, dear. Blood does stain.”

Byron put a hand on her lower back. “Come on, Bek.”

The Byron she’d known wasn’t someone who walked around shooting people, but as she looked at him now, she thought about the two bullets he’d loaded into the cylinder of the gun.
What happens when the already dead are shot?
Had Byron taken away their afterlives? Were there layers of realities for the dead?

After another glance back at Charles, Rebekkah walked down the marble steps that led to the street. She didn’t want to stay with him, didn’t want to hear the things he told her, didn’t want to be caught in a world where people shot at her. Spent rounds and discharged casings were scattered on the steps and in the street. There were bright drops of red on the stairs as well, and she wondered if it was her blood or Charles’.
Did he bleed?
She tried to remember.
Why didn’t the bullets go
through
him into me?
She stopped midstep and looked back again.

Charles leaned casually against the doorjamb watching them.

“I have more questions,” she said.

The smile that came over his face was beatific. “Of course you do.”

“So—”

“So you’ll come back.” Charles descended the stairs with poise. He didn’t hurry, but each step conveyed an eagerness that made her want to flee.

“You’ll come to my door with your questions and your theories, and I”—he paused and glanced at Byron—“will tell you what you need to know.”

“When they shot at us, why didn’t you get hurt?” Rebekkah pointed at the slumped bodies outside his door. “
They
are hurt.”

“Ahhh, that question you may need to ask your Undertaker.” Charles’ tone held suspicion. “Your partner has secrets of his own. Don’t you, Byron?”

Byron nodded curtly. He visibly scanned the street even as he listened to their conversation. All he said was, “We all do.”

Charles kept a slight distance from them. “True.”

“If Byron shot you, would it hurt?” Rebekkah pressed.

“
All
bullets hurt, Rebekkah.” Charles held her gaze. “They didn’t kill me, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt when they were tearing through my skin.”

She stilled. The memory of the gunfire and the number of casings on the ground made her wince. She gestured toward the blood on the steps. “You mean ...”

Charles gave her a terse nod.

“And why were they shooting in the first place?” Byron’s words drew Rebekkah’s attention.

“It’s a deadly world, Undertaker, as I’m sure you’re learning.” Then Charles turned back to Rebekkah. “For now, you’d best be going, unless”—he gave her a wistful smile—“you’d like to linger?”

Byron’s gaze snapped to Charles. “No.”

“Maybe next time,” Charles murmured.

“No,” Byron repeated. “Not now. Not then.”

The look that came into Charles’ eyes wasn’t friendly. “That isn’t your choice, Undertaker. You open the gate. You bring her back and forth. That doesn’t mean you make her decisions ... any more than I do.”

“Stop.” A wave of exhaustion washed over Rebekkah. “Can you not do this right now? I’m tired, cold, and sore. We can all argue later, but right now, I need to find Daisha and bring her here before she hurts anyone else.”

“And that, Byron, is why she is the Graveminder. Now that she has come here and become what she is meant to be, her focus is on the mission. They’re all like this eventually. Some”—Charles paused and his voice softened—“are more so from the first. Go to the land of the living, Rebekkah, and find Daisha. The Hungry Dead shouldn’t be this strong this fast. Bring her home.”

Chapter 34

C
HARLES WORRIED ABOUT ALL OF THEM, HIS NOT-ENTIRELY-DEAD-OR-
alive Graveminders. Such was the nature of their arrangement. They were his responsibility, his warriors, and he could do little to protect them. His interference several centuries ago had given them a touch of death, but he couldn’t shelter them from everything.

“You said if I needed help ...”

“I did. I would do anything in my power for you.” Charles pulled his newest Graveminder into an embrace. “
This
, however, I cannot fix.”

“My son is dead, and you—”

“I cannot let the dead return as if they were still alive. That is forbidden.” He brushed his hand over her damp cheek. His Graveminders were among the strongest and most courageous of women, yet like all mortals, they were still so fragile.

She stepped back and looked into Charles’ eyes. “If you don’t help me so he can come back right, I’ll
let
him come back as Hungry Dead.”

“Alicia ...”

“No. I do
everything
asked of me. I am ...
this
,
here”—she made a sweeping gesture at the storefronts along the streets in the land of the dead—“as your Graveminder, without choice. I accepted it. I did as you asked, as my aunt asked when she designated me as her heir. All I ever wanted was a family and ...” Tears started to slide down her cheeks again. “He’s my
son
.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles said.

“No. The rules are that we are safe until eighty years. Brendan was just a child. He was to be safe.”

“Accidents are not within my control. Poverty, accidents, murders, fire, these I cannot stop.” Charles knew that the particulars weren’t all remembered. The contract he had with Claysville wasn’t a written document. They’d been too afraid of outsiders learning of it, of bringing witchcraft persecutions to Claysville.

“I am sorry for your loss.” Charles reached out, but she moved away. He watched her, knew her with the same certainty that he’d known every Graveminder since the first, Abigail. They were strong, not afraid to test the rules that didn’t make sense to them.
Life and Death, all in the hands of these women.
He was only Death. He’d tried to give life back once.

For Abigail.

And the results had been disastrous.

“There has to be something ... Please?”

“I cannot return his life,” Charles told her. “And if you do this thing, you’ll be dead by the next day. I can promise you that. You keep the dead from walking, Alicia. You do not
ever
invite them to return.”

“I hate you.”

“I understand.” He nodded. “If you wish, you can spend eternity taking it out on me, but if you do this, you will be sentencing yourself and your Undertaker to die.”

Despite every bit of common sense, Charles still regretted his choice. Hurting Alicia—hurting any of his Graveminders—wasn’t something he did lightly. If he could’ve given Alicia her child with impunity, he would’ve, but he was bound by rules. He’d broken those rules for Abigail, a mortal who had opened a gate to the land of the dead.

And look where that’s landed us.