Graveminder (24 page)

Chapter 43

D
AISHA RETURNED TO HER FORMER HOME.
T
HE BODIES WERE GONE.
She’d considered keeping them there, but the more she’d eaten, the more she’d remembered—and she wasn’t entirely sure she
wanted
to remember much more. The people she’d met in town had helped her remember, so by the time she’d come to the trailer, she’d remembered so much more than she wished she had.

Leaves in her mouth.

Hands on her throat.

She knew that she had been killed.

She knew that when she woke up, she was stopped from coming home.

To find the shining woman. The Graveminder.

To hear the words, to find nourishment.

Someone had made it impossible for her to come back even though she’d felt the thread that grew from the center of her being, pulling her back to here, to home, to
her
. When she’d awakened, she had known where she was supposed to go.

Breath, drink, and food.

If she’d kept Gail and Paul here, they would’ve woken up in time: that’s why she’d called the tip line to have their bodies removed.
I don’t want them to wake up.
The Graveminder would stop that from happening. Daisha understood that now. She understood most everything: the longer she’d been re-alive, the more she re-knew. The better she was fed, the more she remembered.

She remembered the Cold Man. He was there, too.

And Daisha remembered
her
, the woman.

“Then let them go,” the woman had said. “They’ll fix everything, and when they’re done, we’ll kill them again.”

Daisha remembered the voice, the woman.
She
was why Daisha killed the last Graveminder: she had been sent to do just that.

It was why the woman made me dead.

Chapter 44

N
ICOLAS HAD BECOME MAYOR AFTER THE LAST
G
RAVEMINDER AND
U
N
dertaker were already in place, so the protocol for dealing with the new ones was somewhat unclear to him. He’d never had to answer questions, fill in blanks, or explain anything.

“Sir?”

“Show them in,” he said.

The words were barely out of his mouth when they came into his office. Menace all but radiated from the new Undertaker, but the Graveminder—like her predecessor—was far more sedate. Rebekkah Barrow hadn’t been born in Claysville, nor had she spent her life here. Some unexamined part of him wondered about the life she could have known, about the possibilities among which anyone born outside of town could choose, but he pushed those thoughts away. He was Claysville born and bred, like the generations of men before him. Whittaker men left town only for the acquisition of an education or a spouse.

Nicolas came around the desk and gestured to the sofa and chairs. “Please.”

“We have questions,” the Undertaker said.

His partner put a hand on his wrist. “You know who we are?”

“I do.” Nicolas walked over to the bar in his office. “Drink?”

The Undertaker frowned. “It’s a bit early in the day for that.”

“Alcoholism is a disease; ergo, as with every other disease, Claysville natives are safe from it until we are eighty years old. After that, all protection expires. So ...” Nicolas poured a generous measure in a glass. “Miss Barrow?”

“No, thank you.” She sat on the sofa, and her Undertaker followed her lead.

Nicolas carried his drink over and sat in one of the chairs. “You know about the contract?” he asked. “The ... situation here?”

“Some,” the Graveminder said. “We know there
is
one.”

“And we know that the thing killing people isn’t an animal,” the Undertaker added.

The mayor shook his head. “
That
remains to be seen. It might not be an animal the way that most of us would use that word, but any creature that savages humans ... I’d say ‘animal’ is a fine term. One of my council members was killed. Your grandmother”—he nodded at the Graveminder—“was murdered. I’ve seen enough to say that it was more animal than person.”

The Undertaker didn’t say it, but the slight curve of his lips revealed his accord. The new Graveminder, however, frowned and said, “It’s not their fault. If the dead are minded—”

“The animal doing this obviously was
not
minded, so you find it and you fix it.” Nicolas didn’t raise his voice, but the thought of Bonnie Jean dying made his stomach clench.

“That’s all you’ve got to say? Find the dead and fix it?” The Undertaker scowled. “Do you know what we’ve been through this week? Who we’ve lost? And we’re just to step in and
fix
everything? How about a little help? Information? Sympathy?”

“Byron,” the Graveminder murmured. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it, and then she looked at Nicolas. “What can you tell us?”

Nicolas looked directly at them. “The first death was Mrs. Barrow; the most recent death was Bonnie Jean Blue. Why? I don’t know. Bad luck on Bonnie Jean’s part, I suspect. There have been a lot more attacks, but they’ve been ... smoothed over. Not deaths, of course. Those are harder to keep contained. More than a dozen bites, though.” The mayor paused, took a gulp of his whiskey, and then continued. “Folks don’t tie it all together.
Won’t
because of the contract. Unless they’re on the council, they just can’t put it all together. From what I know, it’s always been that way.”

“And there’s no contract here that we can read?” the Graveminder asked.

“No. It’s all passed down verbally. Outsiders might not understand if they were to read it, and ... it’s just not how we do things.” He felt oddly guilty as he spoke, as if he was being disloyal to his position. Claysville was a good town. “We go years without issues. If anyone wakes, Mrs. Barrow always handled it. No one was the wiser.”

“Why?” the Graveminder asked. “
Why
agree to this? Why do people accept living like this?”

And, for a moment, Nicolas let the truths he didn’t usually admit come to the surface. “It’s not like we can leave. The deal the founders made, the people that made it, they’re all long gone. We are here. We are born and die here, and in between those two moments, we try to make the best of the lot we drew.” He walked away and refilled his glass. “It’s not all bad either.”

They didn’t answer, so he continued. “Think about your lives here. No one gets sick. We die, but only from accidents or when we reach an age for it ... or choose to die so as to make room for someone else.”

At that, the Graveminder and Undertaker exchanged looks.

“For most folks, having a baby means waiting until there’s a death. Some families get exemptions.” He looked at them pointedly. “Others earn them by community service, or they can get another person’s allotted birth if the one giving it up has sterilization surgery. We can only support so many bodies. The founders made some rules so we didn’t exhaust our space. They wanted to be sure there was enough space for food and for the resources for those who live here.”

“But that was a long time ago. We can get food and other things from outside town now,” the Graveminder objected.

“Maybe, but there are still only so many jobs. We have some poverty now because we have more people than jobs.” Nicolas gave them a strained smile. “There’s a lot of good, but keeping it good takes managing. Part of that is relying on the resources we have—including you two.”

The Undertaker spoke up then. “I’m not sure I agree with all of that.”

“Why don’t you do your job, and I’ll do mine.” Nicolas looked at each of them. “Unlike the rest of us,
you
are the only ones qualified for your ... unique positions. The rest of us will handle the town. You need to resolve the animal problem.”

The Graveminder stood; she was still holding the Undertaker’s hand in hers, so he stood when she did. For a moment, Nicolas felt a surge of envy. They weren’t ever alone.

Of course, they also had a higher likelihood of violent deaths than anyone else born in Claysville.

It’s not worth the trade-off.

Nicolas stood. “You should also know that you will have no bills. Ever. I doubt that anyone’s thought to tell you, but you don’t pay for anything. Once you become
this
, your needs are”—he waved his hand—“handled, for all intents and purposes. It doesn’t make up for what you are asked to do, but you will have your needs met. And when you’re ready, you don’t need to enter the parenting queue. You are allowed to have as many children as you want, whenever—”

“That’s not going to be an issue,” Rebekkah said firmly.

“Right.” Nicolas gestured toward the door. “I’ll see you at the meeting, but I would appreciate it if you let me know when the animal is contained.”

The Graveminder tensed, but the Undertaker nodded.

And then they were gone.

Chapter 45

A
FTER THEY LEFT THE MAYOR’S OFFICE, THEY DROVE IN SILENCE FOR SEV
eral minutes before Rebekkah smacked her hand on the dash. “Pull over.”

“Here?”

“Now. Please.” She glanced his way. Her eyes weren’t quite silvered, but a ring of unearthly color surrounded her irises.

Byron parked the car, grabbed a gun and other supplies from the glove box, and then got out to join Rebekkah. He shoved the derringer in one pocket and a syringe in the other.

She walked with a purposeful stride; her gaze darted around. They walked for several blocks—toward her house—when Rebekkah stopped and drew a deep breath.

“She’s come to me,” she whispered in that hollowed-out voice.

Byron wanted to look at her, to see her as she became something not of this world, but keeping her safe was his first priority. Keeping alert for any signs of Daisha’s presence, he slipped his hand inside his open jacket and unfastened the catch on his holster. His other hand was in his pocket holding a derringer.

They stopped at the edge of Rebekkah’s yard. Daisha stood on the porch.

Byron didn’t draw the gun in his shoulder holster, but his hand tensed on the derringer in his jacket pocket.

Could I kill her? What are the rules here?

“You’re dead.” Rebekkah extended her hand as if she’d call Daisha to her. “You came back ... and ...”

Daisha tensed, but she didn’t flee. “I know I’m dead, but I’m not the only one.”

“Daisha? That’s your name, right?”

The dead girl nodded warily.

“I need you to listen to me.” Rebekkah eased closer, not yet at the steps to the porch, but no longer at the edge of the yard. “You need to let me—”

“No, I don’t. Whatever it is, I don’t.” Daisha held out her hand as if to ward off Rebekkah.

Byron couldn’t decide whether it was better to pull out his weapons or wait. If he drew the gun, it would probably spook Daisha, but he wasn’t sure how fast the dead girl was—or if he was quick enough to get to the gun before she was able to attack.

“I wanted to warn you,” the girl murmured.

“Warn me?” Rebekkah asked in gentle voice. “About you?”

“No. Not me.”

“You killed my grandmother.” Rebekkah’s voice didn’t waver. “Here. You killed her here in my home.”

“It wasn’t on purpose. When we wake, we come to the Graveminder. I don’t know why. Maybe you do ... but you
shine
.” Daisha walked to the edge of the porch. “You’re filled with brightness, glowing inside, and I ...” Daisha shook her head. “I
had
to go to her.”

“And now?” Rebekkah stepped onto the first step.

Daisha smiled. “Now I don’t have to see you. I don’t need to come to your door, not ever again. I can leave.”

Byron was near enough to help, but every instinct he wanted to ignore told him that Rebekkah had to touch the dead girl. “Then why are you here?” he asked, drawing Daisha’s attention to him. “If you don’t need to come, why did you?”

It took visible effort for Daisha to look away from Rebekkah and focus on him. She did, though, and then she said, “I’m not sure who he is, but someone else ... like me. He’s going to find you.”

Rebekkah didn’t back away. “You can’t stay in this world. It’s not where you belong.”

“I didn’t ask to be dead.” Daisha frowned like she was trying to remember something. She bit down on her lip. Her hand tightened atop the porch railing.

“Daisha?” Rebekkah drew the girl’s attention back to her. “Can I offer you a meal? Drink? That’s what you need, isn’t it?”

At that, Daisha laughed. “No, not from you. I won’t drink or eat of you ... no.”

Rebekkah put a hand on Daisha’s hand. “I meant regular food, not—”

“Only one chance for that,” Daisha whispered. “I came. I ate. I drank. I listened. She wanted me to ... but I couldn’t get here.
Before
. Before here I couldn’t get here. I felt it, though. I felt
her
calling me home.”

“Maylene?”

Daisha nodded. “Like needing air, but I couldn’t ... Someone stopped me.”

Byron felt cold chills come over him. “When you ... woke up, someone stopped you from coming here?”

“I wanted to. I wanted to find her.” Daisha sounded like a lost child. “I couldn’t come.”

“But you did,” Byron reminded. “Who stopped you?”

“I did come,” Daisha agreed. “But I was too hungry then. It was too late.”

“Who stopped you?” Byron repeated.

A woman screamed somewhere nearby, and at the sound, Daisha jerked her hand away from Rebekkah.

“He’s here.” Daisha’s eyes grew wide. She took several steps backward.

“Who?”
Hand outstretched, Rebekkah stepped toward the dead girl. “Daisha, please!”

But Daisha’s form wavered, and then she was gone as if she’d never been there.

As soon as Daisha had vanished, Byron and Rebekkah started toward the area from where the scream had seemed to come. They were already on their way when they heard a second scream, shriller than the first, and Byron grabbed Rebekkah’s hand, and they began to run faster.

Whatever Rebekkah had expected to see, this wasn’t it. In a narrow alley behind the local thrift shop, there was a clear presence of the Hungry Dead in the street—hanging in the air around a bleeding Amity Blue.

“Amity?” Byron pulled her into his arms. “What happened?”

She held her right arm crossways against her chest so that her hand was against her collarbone. Her black T-shirt was wet and clinging to her.
Blood.

Amity shook almost violently. “In my bag.”

“Got it.” Rebekkah tore open Amity’s bag and upended it. Tiny bottles of alcohol, a water gun, several small plastic bottles of water, a stun gun, and a notebook went clattering onto the sidewalk.

“Holy Water,” Amity gasped. “I don’t want to become like that.”

“You won’t. It’s not conta—”

“Please?” Amity interrupted.

Byron was already twisting a cap off one of the plastic bottles. “Got it.”

He poured the water over the wound. It ran off onto the sidewalk, pinkish tinged, catching a cigarette butt and a leaf.

“Hurry.” Rebekkah glanced at Byron, and then at the crowd of people coming out to watch them. She couldn’t focus on them. Her body felt like it was being pulled to move.

A woman whose name Rebekkah couldn’t remember pushed past the five or six people who were trying to see what had happened. “We called for help. I heard a scream, but Roger thought it was the TV. What do you need me to do?”

“Can you keep everyone back?” When the woman nodded, Byron turned his attention back to Amity. “Did you see ... anything?”

“Troy.” Amity gave them a wry smile. “He wasn’t right. I know that. I saw him before ... and I wrote notes to myself. Sometimes notes help me remember things. Usually.”

With a frown, Amity reached into her jacket pocket. In her hand she clutched a small black notebook. “Here. This is what I know.”

Byron flipped it open. The pages were filled with a scrawl that looked alternately frantic and calm. Words arched across pages as if they’d been slashed onto the paper, and around them tight script was woven into the empty spaces. Some of the writing appeared to be in some sort of code.

“The end. I saw him earlier, and I wrote it down.” Amity stared at Byron as he turned the pages. When he reached the very last page, he turned the notebook toward Amity and Rebekkah.

Silently Rebekkah read the words Amity had written in heavy block print: “TROY. IS. DEAD. TELL BEK.” The words were underlined several times.

The night I saw him.
Rebekkah felt chilled.
He was trying to bite me.

“Amity?” Byron said. “Talk to me.”

Amity still had her head tucked between her upraised knees. Her voice was muffled. “He bit me. Earlier I saw him, and I ran. Maylene said to tell you if anything weird ever happened and she’s gone.” Amity turned her head to the side and looked directly at Rebekkah. “What does it mean? Is he a vampire?”

“No. It just means I need to stop him from hurting anyone,” Rebekkah said. “I will, Amity. I promise.”

“And me? Will I get ... sick?” Amity didn’t look away. “I feel queasy just trying to force myself to keep it in my head ... or maybe because I’m missing a chunk of skin.”

“Or both.” Rebekkah put her hand on the side of Amity’s head and smoothed back the bartender’s hair. “Some things are easier to let yourself forget.”

“I don’t like forgetting. It’s why I keep the journal.” Amity laughed, but it sounded more like a sob.

Byron tucked Amity’s journal in his pocket. “Here comes Chris.”

The sheriff pulled up, a team of EMTs right behind him. Christopher got out of his car and stepped onto the sidewalk.

“What happened?”

Byron didn’t hesitate. “A dog or something got her. We heard her scream, and we found her like this.”

“Joe?” the sheriff yelled. “Another damn dog bite.”

A young EMT took over, and Christopher leveled a glare at Rebekkah and Byron. “I’m hoping this will end soon.”

“Me, too,” Rebekkah told him.

Byron slipped his arm around her. “It will. I’m sure of it.”

The comfort of his assurance was undercut by the way Amity watched them. She didn’t call out, didn’t ask Byron to go with her, but Rebekkah could see that she wanted to do just that.

“Why don’t you go with Amity,” Rebekkah suggested.

Byron gave her a look that conveyed exactly how foolish he thought
that
idea was. “Chris has it under control.”

The sheriff nodded, and Byron went over to Amity and murmured something Rebekkah couldn’t hear—and wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear.

She rubbed her eyes and looked into the street. She could see a smoky trail winding out in front of her. She took a step toward it.

Byron came up behind her.

“I need to follow,” she whispered.