Graveminder

Chapter 30

BYRON FELT THE WALL VANISH AS HE FELL FORWARD ONTO HIS HANDS and knees. He hadn’t done anything differently in the past moment than he had been doing the past couple of hours. There was no sense in questioning it, though: he was free now, and he needed to get to Rebekkah.

He stepped into the gray world of the dead and wished he had a map. Unlike his first trip to the land of the dead, Charlie wasn’t waiting; nor did Byron have his father to lead the way. What he did have was a fearlessness that he hadn’t felt the first time. All that mattered was assuring that his Graveminder— that Rebekkah —was safe.

Byron grabbed hold of the arm of the first person he saw. “Where is Charlie? Mr D? Do you know where he is?”

The man grinned, shook loose of Byron’s hold, and walked away.

“Thanks,” Byron muttered.

He looked around, but the area outside the tunnel seemed deserted. Now what? He’d had a vague sense that the streets weren’t laid out as they had been the first time, which, considering the haphazardness of the rest of what he’d seen, wasn’t entirely unexpected.

Byron followed the man, figuring that any direction was better than none at all.

This part of the dead’s city was desolate. Store windows had “Closed” signs in them; drapes were drawn. No one lingered in the alleys.

“Where is everyone?” Byron asked.

The dead man he followed glanced back, but did not answer. They went around another corner, and then the man held up a hand in a halting gesture. “Stay.”

One shop appeared to be open. Three men sat on chairs outside, as if it were a sidewalk café or pub. It wasn’t. It also wasn’t a nineteenth-century mining town, but two of the three were dressed in cowboy boots, battered hats, and worn jackets.

The third man, in ripped jeans and a faded black concert tee, stood out from his companions. He muttered something to the other men. All three stood.

“Alicia?” one called.

A rough-looking woman in snug jeans and a half-buttoned man’s shirt came to the doorway. A gun holster hung around her lean hips, and a knife long enough to be a sword was strapped to her thigh. She cocked one hip and said, “Come on in, Undertaker.”

“I need to find Charlie,” Byron started.

“And you will, but it’s better for everyone if you stop in here first.” Alicia glanced at the men. “Boys? Go on.”

One man nodded and went to stand at the corner. Another walked off in the opposite direction. The third sat down, propped his boots on the table, and angled his hat so it was tilted over his face.

Byron didn’t know if he was walking into a trap or not. He was more than able to fight, but he wasn’t a fool. He was outnumbered—as well as unsure of the wisdom of fighting several armed men.

He walked over to the doorway and stopped in front of Alicia. “You have me at a disadvantage.”

“In more ways than you can guess, Undertaker, but you’re welcome among us.” Alicia motioned for him to enter the store. She didn’t move out of the doorway, so he had to brush uncomfortably close to her.

Just inside the doorway of the shadowy shop, Byron had to remind himself that he hadn’t stepped into the past. He’d entered a general goods shop. Tins of various foods and supplies sat in rows from floor to ceiling behind the counter. An oversize cash register sat on a wooden ledge that abutted a glass-and-wood cabinet. Inside it, pistols and knives sat alongside pocket watches and lockets.

Alicia leaned against his back. Her chin rested on his shoulder and the butt of one of her pistols dug into his lower back. She whispered in his ear, “You need a few supplies, Undertaker?”

“I don’t know. Do I?”

“Unless you’re smarter than most of your sort are when they start, you do.” She stepped around in front of him as she spoke. Her hand came down flat on the glass cabinet. “Most of the arms we carry here aren’t much compared to what’s over in your world. New arrivals bitch about it.”

“But over here?”

“Over here, sugar, you need to have a few choices.” She squeezed his biceps. “You’re not frail. Always a plus.”

“I boxed for a while,” he admitted.

Alicia nodded. “Nice, but this isn’t always a gentleman’s game. How are you in an alley or a bar?”

Byron shrugged. “I’ve never had reason to know.”

“You will.” Alicia went around the counter and reached down by her feet. “Don’t let misplaced ethics get in the way, Undertaker.” She plunked a worn duffel on the glass cabinet in between them. “The dead don’t have as much to lose as you do—on either side of the gate.”

“Why are you helping me?”

Alicia flashed him a smile that was half challenging, half amused. “You sure I am?”

And as she asked, Byron was sure. He didn’t know who she was, why she was, or much of anything, but he’d grown up hearing his father repeat “trust your instincts” enough times that he was confident in his own gut feelings.

“I am,” he said.

“Good boy.” She unzipped the bag. “Some of this won’t be very useful anymore, but you can replace it with its like over there.”

She pulled out a mason jar filled with a white crystalline substance, a few vials with faded handwritten labels, a Smith & Wesson revolver with a mother-of-pearl grip, a box of bullets, a sheathed six-inch knife.

“What is all of this?”

Alicia stopped mid-movement; her hand still held a tin canister with a stylized cross on it. “What does it look like? Weapons .”

“Weapons.”

“Some of what you do is as much instinct as knowledge. You know that, right?” Alicia paused and looked expectantly at him. He nodded once, and she continued. “But sometimes there’s a bit of science to it.”

“Science?”

“There are many purposes for a good blade.” She unsheathed the knife. “Hack a man’s feet off, and he won’t run.” She held it out so the tip was dangerously close to his throat. “You can silence a dead woman for a while with a good cut.”

When Byron didn’t respond, Alicia lifted the gun and aimed into the street. “If you’re a good shot, take the eyes. Can’t see, can’t follow.” She flicked the swing-out cylinder open and then closed. “This is a turn-of-the-century piece, Undertaker.” She laid it on the counter and slid a finger down the pearl grip. “Well cared for. Straight shooter.” Then she looked him in the eye. “I only deal in quality merchandise.”

“Good to know,” Byron said.

She held up the white crystals. “Sea salt. Anchor the dead in solid shape. It makes them easier to drag through the gate.”

Byron held up the vials. “And this?”

“Temporary death. Dosed with top-shelf Haitian zombie powder—the real stuff—and ground corpses, actually. Works great on stopping the hearts of the living. One drop for every fifteen minutes of death.” She held up the bullets. “Now, these are for—”

“Why would I kill the living?”

“Not kill , Undertaker. It’s for pausing. In case you need to get into a morgue to get a Claysville citizen who dies away from home. It shuts your body down. Don’t do it for more than a few hours.”

“Right.” Byron stared at her. “Tell me again why you’re helping me?”

“Don’t think I told you the first time, did I?” She tilted her head and flashed him a grin. “Pay attention. You need to go on over to Charlie’s soon. We can sort out the other things another time.”

“Right.” Byron stared at her. “Another time?”

“Sure. Bring me a few of the guns that we don’t have here yet, and you can buy whatever you want of my time. We’ll do a little business, and then”—she gave him a slow, thorough once-over—“talk.”

He opened his mouth, thought better of the question he was going to ask, and closed it. She was being helpful, and he didn’t want to risk offending her to satisfy his curiosity. On the other hand, that was the second time so far that he’d been blatantly and lasciviously assessed by a stranger, first at the Tip-Top Tavern and now by Alicia.

Alicia laughed. “Go ahead. Ask.”

“Ask what?”

“Yes, that will happen a lot here. There’s only one live man who comes here. You’re easy on the eyes, but even if you weren’t, you’re alive . It makes you tempting.” Alicia licked her lips. “Young. Living. New.”

“I’m not looking for—”

“Oh, I know, shug: your Graveminder’s all you can see, think of, dream of. It’s always like that, but sometimes that don’t work out, so”—she shrugged—“never hurts to throw the invite out there, does it?”

Byron wasn’t sure how to respond, so he did as Alicia had done earlier: he ignored the question. “The bullets?”

She laughed. “Work on the dead. Not permanent-like, but they can knock a body out for a good forty-eight hours. That’s more than enough time for you to get out of here. Aim for the head or heart for the longest incapacitation.”

“Where do I get more of those or the powder if I run out?” He was pretty sure he knew the answer even as he asked.

Alicia spread her hands wide. “Right here.”

“Seller’s market, I’m guessing?”

“You do catch on quick.” Alicia opened the duffel wide and started to settle the jars and vials back inside. “I’m here to help, Undertaker, but even a dead girl’s got to make a living.”

Byron slid the revolver to the side. “And where does Charlie fit into this?”

“The old bastard runs this world, but he isn’t big on global laws. I’m within rights to help you as much as I see fit ... or not. We all are.” Alicia opened the box and handed him a few bullets. “Extras.”

He put the bullets in his pocket. “And you’re not going to tell me why you’re helping unless I buy that answer.”

Alicia put her elbows on the counter behind her and leaned back. The gesture had the—not accidental, Byron was sure—effect of emphasizing her physical assets as well as her apparent flexibility. “Only one thing I’d give you for free, and I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t take it. Least not right now.”

“No,” he admitted. “You’re a beautiful woman, but ... no.”

At a sound in the street, Alicia looked toward the door. One of the cowboy-hat-wearing men ducked inside. “Time for him to move out, boss.”

Alicia straightened up. “Five minutes.”

“Two. Three tops.” The man stepped back outside.

Alicia shoved the knife and the box of bullets into the bag. “Everything else has a fee. Barter.” She held up a hand before he spoke. “Not sex. I’m not asking you to whore yourself. Bring me guns. Boots. Be creative. We’ll sort it out in the ledger.”

“And this?” He put his hand on the duffel.

“Credit.” Alicia zipped it up. “You good for it?”

“I am.” He slung it over his shoulder. “Now I need to know where Charlie is.”

“Boyd will take you most of the way to Charlie’s.” As she spoke, the man, presumably Boyd, came back to the doorway. Alicia looked at him. “See you next trip, Undertaker.”