Graveminder

Chapter 29

“BYRON?” REBEKKAH TRIED TO FOLLOW HIM, BUT WAS STOPPED BY AN INvisible 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.

WITHIN THE TUNNEL, BYRON 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.

WHEN SHE WOKE, REBEKKAH 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.”

She didn’t look away, nor did she acknowledge the underlying meaning. She wasn’t going to deny that Charles was handsome, or that he’d just saved her from far more injuries than she could fathom. He was tempting in the way that she imagined the devil himself—if there was such a man—would be: polished charm, wicked smiles, and easy arrogance. However, she wasn’t sure what game he was playing, and the idea of looking at a dead man with any sort of lustful thoughts seemed inherently twisted.

Rebekkah smiled at him briefly before saying only, “I am alive and unharmed ... thanks to you.” She winced as she moved. “Mostly unharmed,” she amended.

“I assure you that they will be dealt with, Rebekkah.” Charles’ earlier flirtatious look was replaced with an expression of tenderness. “I do apologize for the scratch. I had the physician clean and bind it.”

Rebekkah reached under the sheet that covered her to feel the bandage that was wrapped around her ribs, covering the tender spot. In doing so, she realized that she was not wearing a shirt over the bandage. “Oh.”

“My physician is not recently deceased.” Charles’ grin was wry. “He refuses to apply newer-style bandages ... The dead are often intractable when it comes to adapting to modernity.”

“So does that mean you were alive in ...” She peered at him, studying his silk tie and matching handkerchief, assessing his well-cut suit, and admitted, “I have no idea when.”

“The Great Depression, 1930s and ’40s ... but no. I have been around far longer than that. I am merely fond of that era.”

Clutching the sheet to her chest, she sat up and realized that her legs were bare, too. “Where are my jeans?”

“Being laundered. There are other clothes here for you.” He looked behind him and made a come-here gesture. A young woman stepped up beside him. “Marie will help you dress.”

Then, before she could ask any questions of him, he bowed and left.

“Would you like to select your dress, miss?” The girl held up a robe.

For a moment, Rebekkah stared at Marie. She looked to be about twenty. Her hair was drawn back severely, and her face was without makeup. A sober-looking black high-waisted skirt fell to the floor; a pale gray blouse topped it; and at the collar, a black tie of sorts was fitted around her neck. The tips of plain black shoes showed under the edge of her skirt, and a gray bonnet covered the crown of her head.

“Miss?” The girl hadn’t moved.

Rebekkah swung her feet to the floor, slipped her arms into the robe, and went over to the wardrobe. “I can dress myself.”

Maria followed and opened the massive wardrobe. “Begging your pardon, miss, but I don’t think you understand.”

Rebekkah stared at the clothes. “It’s like a costume shop.”

“Graveminders like texture, miss. The master likes to assure your pleasure if he can ... which he definitely can .” Marie said the last words hurriedly—and with a blush.

As the girl started pulling out the edges of dresses, Rebekkah fought the urge to reach out and stroke them.

Maria continued. “I know they’re not ones you’ve picked, but the seamstresses are on standby. We have your measurements sent to all of them, but there are some lovely gowns here already.” She pulled out the edge of a dark purple skirt. A second sheer layer in pale lavender shifted over the underskirt. “This one would flatter you.”

Rebekkah gave in and took the material in her hand. Tiny jewels were scattered over the underskirt. It took effort not to sigh, but she dropped the material. “I’d like a pair of jeans. I don’t have time for this.”

“I’m sorry, miss,” Marie said. “What about this one?”

With a grimace, Rebekkah shoved her hands into the wardrobe and flicked through the amazing textures of fabrics she’d never be able to afford and some she couldn’t even identify. She settled on a two-layer green dress with sheer sleeves. It covered everything—from shoulder to wrist, from chest to ankle; it had neither a plummeting neckline nor back; and it was loose enough to allow free movement. All told, it seemed to be the plainest, most utilitarian option.

Hurriedly, Rebekkah dropped the robe and stepped into the dress. Marie fastened it, and Rebekkah turned to see herself in the large cheval glass. The dress had looked innocuous in the wardrobe, but when Marie held out the second layer, its innocence vanished. The outer layer of diaphanous material with sheer sleeves tightened just under her breasts. Like the skirt under it, the outer layer fell straight to the floor, where the extra length of material would puddle or trail behind her. As Rebekkah moved, the sheer layer flared to the sides and revealed more of the dark green silk of the dress.

While Rebekkah debated the possibility of finding a more sedate dress, Maria retrieved a pair of comfortable green low-heeled slingbacks that matched the gown—and were Rebekkah’s size.

Like the dresses ... and who knows what else.

She folded the robe and laid it on the foot of the bed. “Can you take me to see Charles?”

“There are ear bobs and—”

“Please?” Rebekkah interrupted.

After a small nod that might’ve been more bow than sign of accord, Marie opened the door and gestured for her to follow. Silently, the girl led her to an immense ballroom. At the far side of it, double doors opened onto a balcony. And standing with his back to her was Charles.

He stepped aside and gestured to a table on the balcony beyond him. “Come. I thought we could dine out here tonight.”

Rebekkah could see two place settings on a linen-draped table. A bottle of wine chilled in a silver bucket, and crystal glasses sat waiting. Arrangements of orchids and verdant plants covered every conceivable space on the balcony; the effect was of a small hothouse gone slightly wild.

“Marie, tell Ward that Ms. Barrow and I are on the east balcony.” Charles pulled out a chair. “Rebekkah?”

Rebekkah crossed the room and stepped onto the balcony. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you did, but I’m not here to be your friend.” She took her seat. “I’m here because I had to come.”

“True, but why should that have anything to do with our being friends?” He poured them each a drink.

She accepted her glass. “I was just shot at. My grandmother died. I’m sitting with a dead man. Byron is somewhere out there”—she motioned to the seemingly endless city that sprawled as far as she could see and then looked back at Charles—“and I’m almost certain you know a whole hell of a lot more than you’re saying about all of it. Byron’s father brought him here, and then died . People ... dead people shot at us. Something is attacking people at home and ... I’m here to make sense of what’s going on, not have dinner.”

“Perhaps I can clarify parts of your confusion. The Undertaker will be here shortly; you have my word on that. Until he arrives, you shall stay here, where I can be certain of your safety. Some of my unrulier citizens shot at you, and they will be dealt with for causing you harm. A dead child is killing people in Claysville—and you, my dear girl, are exhausted and in need of a meal.” He motioned to the man who stood waiting with a tray full of salads and bread, and then he looked back at her. “So we shall eat, and then we shall discuss work.”

Rebekkah waited while the dead man stepped onto the balcony and served their food. Charles stayed silent the entire time, and she felt his gaze on her all the while. His attention felt like an almost physical assessment—and a challenge.

Once the server had returned inside the opulent house, she slid her plate aside. “I was taught to give food and drink to the already dead. I never knew that Maylene did that to keep them from waking, but I do now. So what happens to me if I eat with you?”

“You enjoy yourself, I hope,” Charles replied. “The food here is delicious in a way that you’ll never find over there.”

She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. “Why did those people shoot at us?”

Charles lifted his napkin and dabbed his lips. “They aren’t always obedient. Do know that I’ll be addressing this matter with them.”

“Who were they? Why were they shooting? Why did you keep them from hitting me?”

Charles caught her gaze. “Because you are mine , Rebekkah.”

When she didn’t reply, he broke a piece of bread from the loaf and held it out to her. “Please do eat. The food here is safe for you. My vow on it. Afterward, we shall deal with a few of those questions you’re trying to make sense of. But you must keep your strength up if you’re to go off to battle, right?”

Ignoring his offered food, she lifted her own fork. “Your vow that this is safe and that it has no consequences in any way?”

“My vow. It is only food. Delicious food, of course, fit to serve my lovely new Graveminder, but food nonetheless.” Charles took a bite of the bread he’d offered her. “Not everyone here is civilized, but their sovereign is.”

“Their sovereign?”

“Did I not mention that?” Charles’ eyes widened in feigned shock. “They call me Mr. D, and this, my dear, is my demesne. All that you see is under my control. Only one person”—he smiled at her—“has the ability to truly stand against me ... or beside me.”

Rebekkah wasn’t quite ready to ask what it meant to stand against him. “Who are you? What are you?”

Charles looked at the city behind her, but she was pretty sure that he was looking far beyond the landscape she could see. “I’ve been called many things, in many cultures. The name doesn’t matter—not really. It all means the same thing: they believe in me, and I exist. Death happens. Everywhere, to everyone.”

“Death?” Rebekkah stared at him. “You’re saying that you are Death and that you exist because people believe that Death ... that it ... you exist?”

“No, my dear. Death simply exists .” He swept his hand out in a wide arc. “This exists.” He laid his hand over his chest, where his heart would be if he were truly a man. “ I simply exist ... and you, Graveminder, exist because of me.”