Graveminder

Chapter 32

PARTWAY INTO THE MULTICOURSE MEAL, REBEKKAH’S FRUSTRATION HAD reached uncontainable levels. Charles had steadfastly refused to talk about anything of consequence; Byron had not yet arrived; and she herself sat at an elegant table, eating some of the most mouthwateringly good dishes she’d ever tasted.

Wasting time.

“I’m not trying to be difficult, but I don’t know who you are, what this place is. Byron could be in trouble for all I know, and we’re just sitting here.” She gestured around them, and then took a moment to try to quell her emotions. She folded her napkin, concentrating on the square of linen rather than the anger and fear roiling inside her. “You’re asking a lot of me ... and I’m not sure why I should trust you.”

Charles frowned. “My being shot multiple times ought to give you some reason to trust me. That’s not something I would do for just anyone, Rebekkah.”

Ward removed their dishes.

Charles reached out as if to touch her arm. “You are special to me. This world can be yours to rule alongside me if you so desire.”

“No.” Rebekkah pulled away. She shoved back her chair and stepped back from the table. “I’m not going to stay here.”

“Of course, but you are going to come here repeatedly.” Charles came to stand beside her. “I am not asking for your hand, Rebekkah, and I’m most assuredly not asking for your death. I would prefer you alive.”

She stepped away and turned to face the city that sprawled out around them. She could see the tops of buildings stretching as far as her vision allowed. And beyond. Architecture from various cultures and eras clashed and blended. A medieval castle stood not far from a massive glass building. Squat wooden cabins abutted stern brownstones. The only continuity was that the whole of the city was bustling. Throngs of people and various conveyances filled the streets as far as she could see.

Quietly, Charles said, “You are of the dead, Rebekkah Barrow, and thus you are mine .”

Pulling her gaze from the city, she looked over her shoulder as he walked back to the table. She watched him pour the wine.

“When you are here, you will sup at my table, and you will attend the theater at my side. As Graveminder, you can spend as much time as you want here. You simply need to convince your Undertaker to bring you through the tunnel.”

Rebekkah laughed. “Convince Byron to bring me here to see you ?”

Charles held out her glass.

She accepted the drink, but she didn’t lift it to her lips. “I feel the pull ... to it, to you. You know it, so there’s no point in lying. You’ve met how many Graveminders now?”

“Eleven or twelve, depending on if one counts your sister.” Charles sipped his drink. “Ella wanted to be here the moment she crossed through the tunnel. You ... Maylene kept you out of my reach all these years. Typically, I meet the intended Graveminder when she is much younger. You, however, have been a mystery to me.”

The implications in those words—that Maylene had hidden her and that Ella had been here—made Rebekkah shiver. “So Ella ... you’re why she—”

“No, not me,” Charles corrected. “This.” He swept his arm in front of him. “The land of the dead calls to Graveminders. Maylene felt it, Ella felt it, and you, Rebekkah, are trying very hard not to feel it.”

She wanted to run through the city streets, to get lost in the landscape that beckoned from every direction, but she’d traveled enough to know that doing so would be supremely stupid. A person didn’t arrive in a new country—which for all intents and purposes this was—and go haring about without any information, at least not if she wanted to avoid trouble.

And bullets.

“I do, but”—she turned her back on the beguiling city—“I’m not going to be hanging on your arm.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she repeated.

“Yes.” He didn’t look away from her while he took a drink from his glass. “Why refuse the protection, the escort, the guide to a world you don’t know? Am I offensive in some way? Was I too rough when I protected you from the bullets—”

“No.” She sat back down. Rebekkah felt her thread of mistrust twine with guilt. Charles had saved her. He hadn’t picked her, or shot at her, or forced her to come here. In truth, he’d done nothing but protect her and offer her a safe space to rest. And clothes and food and answers. She couldn’t ignore the nagging worries, but she couldn’t ignore facts either. “You saved me. I am indebted to you for that. I don’t mean to insult you ...”

“All is forgiven.” He smiled magnanimously. “I need you to know that while the Undertaker looks after you over there, here you can find respite from the trials of that world.”

“The trials?”

“If you are not good enough, they will eat you alive. Literally, I’m afraid. You’re what stands between the dead and the living. My champion. Theirs, too.” Charles reached out and took her hand. “It’s a trying job, and you are ever welcome to come among your people and rest.”

Silently, Ward stepped out and delivered another dish. A dozen different desserts sat on a circular tray that he placed in the center of the table. Silver knives, spoons, and forks lay beside the luscious-looking treats.

“The boys from earlier will be dealt with, and you will have guards, of course.” Charles released her hand, took one of the knives, and cut into one of the pies. “He always offers far too many desserts; it’s his way of trying to figure out your tastes.”

“Ward?”

“No, dear. Ward is hopeless in the kitchen. He’s my personal guard.” Charles gestured at a cream pie with his fork. “That one is usually quite good.”

“Everyone here seems to know who I am, what I am, and I had no idea. Maylene didn’t ...” Her words dried up. She didn’t know much, if anything, about Charles, yet she was speaking freely as if she trusted him. She pushed away from the table and went to the edge of the balcony again.

This time he came to stand beside her, so they were standing shoulder to shoulder. “Maylene is an amazing woman. She fulfilled her role with the dead with aplomb.” He frowned at a car with a blaring siren that rushed by in the street below. “She had good reasons for not telling you the things you want to know.”

“I’m not seeing how keeping this all a secret was a good idea.” Rebekkah felt disloyal for saying it, but it was true.

“She had her reasons.” Charles put a hand on her forearm. “Did you know your mother had an abortion?”

Rebekkah looked at him. “No ... a lot of women—”

“She did so because Jimmy didn’t want another daughter born to be this .” He squeezed her wrist. “Ella, his daughter, died because of Maylene. That meant the next Graveminder was destined to be one of his nieces or you ... unless your mother had the baby she carried when Ella died. He asked her to not have the child.”

“You’re saying he knew about all of this.” She thought about Julia’s attitude toward Claysville, her refusal to return to it, her refusal to come to Jimmy’s funeral. “Jimmy knew about the land of the dead?”

“Not many over there can think on what you are, but exceptions are made for the Graveminder’s family. Maylene’s mother was a Graveminder, so she always knew what was coming. Bitty died easy, by the way, came walking through my door when Maylene was ready.” Charles sighed. “Now, there was a woman. Feisty thing. Had no objection to what she was. Didn’t flinch. She stuck a hat pin in a man’s eye once, poor bastard.” Charles paused and then continued, “Your mother lost Ella and her baby that same year. Jimmy lost her as result. He lost everything because of what Maylene was, what you are. He was afraid, and he destroyed himself because of it.”

Tears burned in Rebekkah’s eyes, but she didn’t let them fall. Her whole family had been destroyed because of this, because of being Graveminders: her parents’ marriage, her mother’s sorrow, Jimmy’s death, Ella’s death ... and now Maylene. That knowledge made it difficult to blame Maylene for her secrecy.

“I want you to understand why Maylene didn’t tell you,” Charles said gently. “It was her choice, and I allowed it. However, that means you don’t have time to make sense of this. Afterward, if you survive, this home, my home, is open to you.” He took Rebekkah’s hands in his and forced her to face him. “This world is yours. Over there, your needs will be provided for as well. The town will see to it. It’s part of the agreement we made a couple centuries ago. First, though, you must attend to the unpleasant matters: Daisha needs to be brought here. She was left to walk, and with every passing day, with every swallow of food and drink and every breath she takes from them, she’s growing stronger.”

Rebekkah pulled her hands free of his and wrapped her arms around herself, but she still started shivering. “Daisha? You know the murderer’s name ?”

“Of course I do: I’m Mr D. I know those who are of the dead ... including you. I know you as no one else in either world can.” He reached out to cup her chin.

She stepped back again, putting herself out of reach. “Don’t touch me.”

He paused, hand still outstretched. “You’re being foolish, Rebekkah.”

For a moment they stood motionless, and then he shrugged. “Your other escort is due to be here any moment. I’ll see you next time.”

He walked away and left her standing shivering on his balcony.

BYRON FELT THE WEIGHT OF STRANGERS’ GAZES ON HIM AS HE WALKED through the streets with Boyd. The man hadn’t spoken at all, and truth be told, Byron wasn’t feeling much like talking anyhow. He’d taken the gun Alicia had given him out of the duffel, checked that it was loaded, and carried it openly in his hand.

He was a bit out of practice, but years of target practice with his father left him confident that he’d be able to hit most targets he aimed at. The purpose of strange hobbies he’d shared with his father for years suddenly became obvious: preparation for a career that hadn’t been named until now. Byron was grateful, but the knowledge cast an unpleasant pall over his memories.

Still, the weight of the revolver was comforting. He’d prefer to have it holstered, but he didn’t have a holster and he wasn’t about to shove the revolver in his waistband. That was a pretty gesture in fiction, but in reality, it wasn’t the wisest place to carry a loaded weapon.

“Am I likely to need to be armed every time I come here?” he asked Boyd in a low voice.

“Nah. Transition period’s always a little tense. Folks’ll get used to you,” Boyd said. “You’re new. Some will want to test your mettle.”

“Any punishment if I shoot them?”

“Not unless they take it personal.” Boyd’s tone was dry enough that Byron couldn’t tell if he was joking until he added, “Shoot them right. No pansy-ass wounds. Give them a good scar. Makes for story credit at the bars, you know?”

“ Story credit?” Byron darted a glance at Boyd. “Seriously?”

“Hell, yeah. A man can drink for free if he has a good enough story, and you’re the news, Undertaker. You and the woman. Not a lot new happens here. Same shit, every day.” Boyd ducked into an alcove and pointed across the street. “That’s it. I stop here. I’m not welcome inside his house.”

Despite the beauty of some of the other buildings, Mr. D’s house still stood out like a mansion among rubble. Marble steps, columns, and an enormous door all assured that the house wouldn’t be missed. Above the third floor a rooftop garden held towering trees and plants that draped over the sides. And on the second floor, a long balcony stretched half the length of the building. Standing at the edge of the balcony looking out over the city was Rebekkah.

She’s alive. She’s safe. She’s ... wearing a gown like the dead women in the streets.

Byron frowned. It was one thing to see the residents of the city dressed in the fashions of earlier eras, but seeing Rebekkah looking out of time was unsettling. He’d seen her in dresses, but in the silk-and-gauze dress she was wearing now, she looked as if she belonged in Charlie’s mansion. Her lips were parted as she stared out at the city as if she were a member of a royal family surveying her kingdom.

I’m panicking over her safety, and she’s standing on a balcony looking at the city. Byron wasn’t sure whether this realization made him more or less worried. He did know he didn’t like seeing her looking like she belonged here. She’s not staying. She promised to come back home. He didn’t look away from her as he asked Boyd, “What happens if I’m shot?”

“Here? It’ll hurt. Same as with us. Over there? Normal rules.”

“And Rebekkah?” Byron forced himself to look away from her.

“She can be killed here.” Boyd shrugged. “She’s different.”

“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.