Graveminder (28 page)

Chapter 54

I
T ONLY TOOK A FEW MINUTES.
A
FTERWARD,
D
AISHA CALLED OUT,
“U
N
dertaker?”

On the sofa, Rebekkah closed her eyes. Her wound needed tending, but Daisha didn’t know how to help the Graveminder. All she knew was that she would do whatever she could so the Graveminder could get medical attention, get well, and survive.

“Let me out of here so we can get her to the doctor.” Daisha pointed at the salt line.

Silently, Byron grabbed the container of salt that he’d carried into the living room. He held it poised. “On the count of three. One, two”—he brushed away a salt line—“three.”

She ran forward, and he immediately replaced the line before the others could cross.

Byron stared into Daisha’s eyes and said, “Rebekkah might forget that you’re a monster, but I don’t. You’re still dead even if you aren’t like them,” he muttered, motioning toward the kitchen. “You’re a killer.”

“I am, but she needs to forgive us. It’s who she is.” Daisha lowered her voice. “And you ... I don’t think you are supposed to forgive.”

“I don’t really give a fuck about what we’re
supposed
to do,” he ground out.

She grinned. “Yeah? Me either ... because I suspect I’m not
supposed
to want to help either of you, but I do.”

His mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything.

“Help her up, Undertaker. We have a few dead folk that need taken to that abyss under your home.” Daisha frowned and then walked away. After a quick examination of the mostly barren bathroom, she grabbed a large towel, which she ripped into strips as she walked back to the sofa. She held the improvised bandage out to Byron. “Here.”

He said nothing as he accepted it and gently bound Rebekkah’s leg. Rebekkah, however, caught Daisha’s hand. “Thank you,” she said.

To that, Daisha had no words, so she nodded and watched the Undertaker. After a moment, she realized that she was still holding on to the Graveminder’s hand and immediately dropped it.

“Will you help me for a few more minutes?” Rebekkah asked.

“Yeah.”

“I need to get them to safety before I can do anything else.” Rebekkah pointed to the kitchen, where the dead were waiting. They mostly watched Rebekkah the way lions in a zoo watch small children, as if she were a meal they would consume if only they had a chance. The old man was different. He hadn’t participated in the attack on Cissy either.

“Bek, you
need
to get to the doctor.”

The Graveminder turned her gaze back to her Undertaker. “And I will, after they are taken home.”

The two live people stared at each other as if they could bend the other one by sheer will. Daisha opted to save some time. “I can bring one of them over to the salt line,” she said.

“No.” Byron sighed. “You can’t go across the line, and I’m not going to keep opening the barrier. Let’s get this over with so we can get you to help. I can go in and grab one.”

“You go in, and they’ll eat you alive.” Daisha glanced at him for a moment, and then she looked at Rebekkah. “I trust you not to trap me if you tell me you won’t.”

“I won’t,” Rebekkah promised.

“So he”—Daisha looked at Byron—“can put me in and then I’ll bring one over to the wall. There’s enough salt to draw new lines. I trust you.”

The Undertaker pursed his lips, but Daisha knew her plan made more sense. Byron removed the salt long enough for her to go in. Once she was in the kitchen, she grabbed the dead woman. Byron injected what seemed to be saline into her, and she went limp. While Daisha stood holding the dead woman, Byron walked over to the couch, lifted Rebekkah, and carried her to the doorway.

Cautiously, they removed the now-floating dead woman from the kitchen, and the four of them went to the truck.

Silently, they drove to the funeral home. Once he parked there, Byron carried Rebekkah into the building. The dead woman drifted alongside Rebekkah.

Daisha refused to even enter the place. She waited outside, watching for them to return.

When the Graveminder returned a short while later, she was limping, but she was walking on her own.

“What happened?” Daisha asked.

Byron said nothing, but Rebekkah said calmly, “It’s healing.”

At that, Daisha decided that it might be better to drop this line of questioning, so she simply nodded and climbed back into the truck. They repeated the process until each of the dead were escorted into the abyss. Each time, Rebekkah’s injury seemed to have healed more.

When they returned to the funeral home with the last of the Hungry Dead, Byron went inside. Still holding the last dead man’s hand, Rebekkah stayed outside. The Graveminder said nothing, and Daisha wasn’t eager to hasten the inevitable moment of confrontation.

Together they stood in the quiet. The rest of the town slept, unaware. They had no idea that Daisha existed, that she’d been murdered by a dead man, that she had taken lives. As she’d been tearing flesh from living bodies, they had looked away.

It could stay that way. If she let me, I could stay here.

Daisha crossed her arms over her chest as if that would stop the shivers that threatened to overwhelm her. She didn’t look at Rebekkah—but she didn’t vanish either. Rebekkah was exhausted, alone, and trusting.

Like Maylene had been.

“You know you need to go, too,” Rebekkah whispered.

Daisha said nothing. In some foolish part of her mind, she’d half hoped that Rebekkah would let her stay or that there would be some solution to her dilemma that the Graveminder knew. It didn’t make much sense, but neither did being dead and still walking around.

“If you didn’t know it was time, you would’ve left as I was taking the others. You could’ve; I know that, but”—Rebekkah gave her a thoroughly exhausted smile—“you waited.”

Daisha looked away. “It’s not fair. I wanted to
live
and now that I’m
me ...
I don’t want to kill people, but I don’t want to die.”

Gently, Rebekkah touched Daisha’s shoulder. “It’s a beautiful world there ... I wish ... if I were you, I’m not sure what I’d do, but I know that I want to go there. I want to
stay
there.”

It wasn’t the words but the hitch in Rebekkah’s voice that made Daisha look at her.

Rebekkah offered her a small smile. “I can’t stay there yet, but I would if I could. You
can.
There is no time there, no past or present. Every year exists all at once. No food here tastes as good. I don’t know why, but I swear to you that what I saw there is not a world to run from.”

“I’d be dead,” Daisha said.

Rebekkah smiled gently. “You already are.”

“I’m afraid.” Daisha felt a lot less like a monster when Rebekkah looked at her, but she also didn’t want to
end.
The idea of going to Heaven or Hell or wherever that abyss led wasn’t comforting.

“I know.” Rebekkah stepped up beside her and held out a hand. “I wish you were alive, but I can’t do anything about that. I can take you to a world that feels like this world, but where you aren’t condemned to eat flesh or blood.”

Silently Daisha took Rebekkah’s hand, and together they walked downstairs. In the storage room, Byron and the old man stood waiting. A cabinet had been slid back open, and a bright tunnel yawned open in front of them.

Daisha was terrified.

“How do we do this with two of them?” Byron asked.

“Lead us in,” Rebekkah said. “I will hold them, and you will lead us.”

Daisha’s grip on Rebekkah’s hand tightened. “If he’s not sure, why should we go?”

The smile Rebekkah offered curbed Daisha’s unease. “He worries over me. He usually holds my hand when we walk there, but it’ll be fine. You are going where you need to go, and”—she glanced back at the Undertaker—“so am I.”

She reached out to the old man and took his hand. The man looked confused, but he cooperated.

Rebekkah’s gaze took in all three of them as she said, “Trust me.”

“I do, but I think we need to trust your Undertaker, too.” Daisha released Rebekkah’s hand. Then she clasped the old man and the Graveminder’s entwined hands, so both she and the dead man were holding on to Rebekkah’s hand.

With a relieved sigh, the Undertaker stepped into the tunnel. He lifted a light from the wall, and then he reached back to take the Graveminder’s free hand. “Come.”

The Graveminder accepted his hand, and together they entered the tunnel.

Chapter 55

T
HE VOICES OF THE DEAD WHISPERED COMFORTING WORDS TO REBEK
kah as she walked toward their land. The old man had extended his arm to the side, so Daisha was able to walk between and behind them.

Tomorrow she’ll be on to her new ... life. Is it a life when she’s dead?

The words didn’t matter, though. What mattered was that things were going to be set to rights. The Hungry Dead were being led to the place where they belonged, and then Rebekkah would look after the graves of the Claysville dead. She would give them words, drink, and food. She would see to their resting places so that they had no need to awaken. Her town was safe.

They stepped from the tunnel into the land of the dead. This time, Charles was there to greet them.

Not us—
me
.

Byron looked to the side, and Rebekkah surmised that Alicia was waiting as well.

Both the old man and Daisha released her hand. Frantically Rebekkah grasped at Daisha’s hand, but the dead girl pulled away. She didn’t vanish as Troy had.

“You met her after she was already dead,” Charles said. “She’s not
your
dead.”

Daisha stepped protectively in front of Rebekkah. “Who’s the old guy?”

“I am Mr. D, child, and I’ll thank you not to call me old.” Charles pointed at her with a dark wood cane.

The old man bowed to Rebekkah. “Your escort was appreciated, Miss Barrow.” He walked off down the street with a jaunty poise that reminded Rebekkah of the gait of a much younger man.

“What about Daisha?” Rebekkah asked.

With a stern look at the girl standing between them, Charles said, “I suspect she’ll be quite fine, but unless I misread the presence of the
elder
Miss Barrow”—he glanced to where, invisible to Rebekkah, Alicia apparently stood—“the girl will be offered a chance to be swept into the unsavory enterprises of those who enjoy frustrating me.”

Daisha grinned at something Rebekkah couldn’t hear. “Yeah?”

She hugged Rebekkah suddenly, and as she leaned in, she whispered, “Thank you.”

Rebekkah didn’t let go right away. “You’ll be careful?”

“I’ll be here when you come. You can check on me if you want,” Daisha said.

“Alicia and I have some business to take care of,” Byron started. “We can all walk Daisha over and—”

“I need to talk to Charles,” Rebekkah interrupted. “He owes me some answers.”

“Well then.” Charles tucked Rebekkah’s hand into the crook of his elbow. With his cane, he pointed to a small wooden building only steps from where they stood. “We’ll be at the café.”

Byron caught Charles’ gaze. “Don’t get her shot this time.”

Charles didn’t look away. “Those gentlemen have come to understand the error of their ways.”

Byron looked at Rebekkah, and when she nodded, he walked off with Daisha—and presumably with Alicia, too.

Rebekkah followed Charles across a wood plank walkway, reminiscent of a frontier town. Her footsteps echoed as she walked. “No swinging doors?”

He quirked a brow at her. “That would be overkill, wouldn’t it?”

Without wanting to, she laughed. “You’re never caught off guard, are you?”

Instead of replying, Charles opened the rough planked door and stepped to the side to let her enter. Inside, there were no people. Plain tables were arranged haphazardly throughout the room. At the far end was a small stage with a piano and bench. Thick but worn deep blue velvet drapes were pulled to the sides in front of the stage.

Charles pulled out a chair at the table where a very out-of-place silver tea service waited. Next to it was a tray of sandwiches and cakes. At either side of the table there were folded linen napkins. Despite the contrast with the surroundings, the tea and food seemed perfectly right.

And what I need.

The comfort of hiding away in the darkened building was unexpected but undeniable. The urge to weep was less unexpected. Rebekkah couldn’t say whether it was exhaustion or sorrow or relief, but she simply couldn’t help herself.

Charles didn’t remark on the tears that flowed down her cheeks as he poured their tea. “You asked about names. When my name is known, it is soon forgotten. The word doesn’t stay long in mortal minds.” He leaned back and looked at her. “Not my name, not the place’s name. Knowing it, knowing me, is inevitable. Everyone ‘dances with Mr. D,’ but some mortals—like you—are already half in love with death. It is who you are, and I’ll not make it harder on you by telling you things you don’t need to know. Ask me again when you die. Then I’ll tell you everything, anything, nothing.”

She wondered if it was worth the effort of denying that she was in love with death. Deciding it wasn’t, she said only, “I’m not going to get your real name, then?”

“I’m fond of being called Charles.” He took her hand.

She didn’t pull away. “How much of this did you know? Daisha? Cissy? Maylene’s murder? What about Alicia?”

“I know the dead when they slip out of my reach, and when they are in my reach. I knew of Daisha’s death and her awakening.”

“But Cissy—”

“Wasn’t dead. Her actions weren’t within my sight.” He turned her hand over and peered into her palm as if he could read secrets in it. “I knew of Maylene’s death before you did, but that was because I know of deaths, not because it was something I could stop. I loved her, as I love you and as I loved Alicia and the others who’ve been Graveminders. You’re mine.” His voice was gentle, but the fervent look in his eyes was unnerving. “You look after my children. You care for them, bring them home where they are safe.”

“Your children eat people.” She shuddered. Here, with him, her affection for the dead was lessened. Here, she could feel the horror of what they had done.

“Only when they aren’t cared for,” he pointed out. “You returned them here. Daisha could have gone beyond the town. She was strong enough, but you stopped her.”

“So this means you’re going to act like I’m some adopted mother to every dead person, like I’m den mommy to the dead?” She stood up and paced away from him.

“I’ve not had it phrased thus before, but”—he smiled beatifically—“yes, that works well enough as an answer. Graveminders are sacred. Both here and there, you are prized above all others to me, to our many children.”

“So the bullets on my first visit were a Mother’s Day gift? The lunging, let-me-eat-your-skin thing they do is a hug?” Rebekkah leveled a glare at him. “I don’t think so.”

“Some children can be unruly, I admit. You’ll care for them, though, and I’ll do all I can to care for you.” He gave her a crooked smile and then held out a small plate with tiny sandwiches on it.

“This is all extremely fucked up,” she muttered.

But she reclaimed her seat across from him all the same.

Charles looked content as he lifted a sandwich to his lips.

“What about Alicia?” she asked.

The hand holding the sandwich paused almost imperceptibly before Charles said, “The late Ms. Barrow is a never-ending headache.”

“And?”

“And nothing. There’s nothing else I’m inclined to say.” He took a bite of his sandwich.