Graveminder

Chapter 33

“REBEKKAH?”

She turned from the street and saw Byron striding down the short hallway toward her. She was confused, tired, and scared. Her side stung from the bullet that had grazed her, and her head was so full of worries that she couldn’t even name them all. Yet, in that instant, everything else went on hold.

He stopped at the threshold between the room and the balcony. “Are you okay?”

He studied her as he spoke. There was no tenderness in his expression, and seeing that coldness in his eyes made her shiver.

“I am.” She stepped toward him, suddenly self-conscious in the dress, unsure of him as she hadn’t been when they entered the tunnel, guilty even though she hadn’t done anything more than dine with Charles. “Take me home. Please?”

“That’s the plan.” Byron’s tone wasn’t any warmer than his gaze.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“I will be once we get out of here.” He stood at an angle and watched the hallway he’d just come through and the balcony. He held a white-handled revolver in his right hand and an unfamiliar dingy duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Flecks of blood were spattered on his shirt.

“I have no idea how to find the exit ... to the house or to the world,” she admitted.

“Just stay beside me.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out two bullets. Then he opened the cylinder of the old-fashioned revolver in his hand.

She stared as he removed two empty casings and then slid bullets into the two chambers.

He repositioned the strap of the duffel bag on his shoulder. “Stay beside me, okay? If anyone ... if anyone fires at us, you step behind me.”

“But—”

“Over here, bullets are only a threat to you. I’m safe.” He caught her gaze and demanded, “Promise me.”

She nodded. How had Maylene done this? It wasn’t anywhere near the sort of life that she could’ve imagined her grandmother living.

Byron walked down the hallway of Charles’ house. The plush carpet under their feet, the elaborate stamped tin ceiling, the murals on the wall, none of it drew Byron’s attention. He paused at the top of a curving staircase Rebekkah didn’t remember.

I was unconscious when I came in.

“Stay with me,” Byron reminded her.

At the foot of the stairs, Charles stood waiting. As she and Byron approached, he stepped forward.

“My lovely Rebekkah, it was a pleasure.” Charles took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “I trust that you’ll let me know if anything was unsatisfactory. Our meal? My bed?”

She pulled her hand free of his. “Only you.”

Charles nodded. “Then I shall work harder. The first time together isn’t always one’s best performance.” Then he turned his gaze to Byron, who was standing stiffly beside her. “Undertaker.”

Rebekkah had thought Byron’s tone couldn’t have been colder, but it chilled even more as he said, “Charlie. Should I expect an attack on the way to the gate? Or are we safe?”

“I expect that they’ll behave for now, but do try to keep our girl safe. My domain is dangerous.” Charles walked over to the door and opened it. “And don’t leave too many bodies for me to clean up.”

Two men lay sprawled outside on either side of the doorway. Rebekkah gasped and covered her mouth. She looked from the men to Byron and then to Charles.

Expression unreadable, Charles leaned against the doorway. All he said was, “Mind your hem, dear. Blood does stain.”

Byron put a hand on her lower back. “Come on, Bek.”

The Byron she’d known wasn’t someone who walked around shooting people, but as she looked at him now, she thought about the two bullets he’d loaded into the cylinder of the gun. What happens when the already dead are shot? Had Byron taken away their afterlives? Were there layers of realities for the dead?

After another glance back at Charles, Rebekkah walked down the marble steps that led to the street. She didn’t want to stay with him, didn’t want to hear the things he told her, didn’t want to be caught in a world where people shot at her. Spent rounds and discharged casings were scattered on the steps and in the street. There were bright drops of red on the stairs as well, and she wondered if it was her blood or Charles’. Did he bleed? She tried to remember. Why didn’t the bullets go through him into me? She stopped midstep and looked back again.

Charles leaned casually against the doorjamb watching them.

“I have more questions,” she said.

The smile that came over his face was beatific. “Of course you do.”

“So—”

“So you’ll come back.” Charles descended the stairs with poise. He didn’t hurry, but each step conveyed an eagerness that made her want to flee.

“You’ll come to my door with your questions and your theories, and I”—he paused and glanced at Byron—“will tell you what you need to know.”

“When they shot at us, why didn’t you get hurt?” Rebekkah pointed at the slumped bodies outside his door. “ They are hurt.”

“Ahhh, that question you may need to ask your Undertaker.” Charles’ tone held suspicion. “Your partner has secrets of his own. Don’t you, Byron?”

Byron nodded curtly. He visibly scanned the street even as he listened to their conversation. All he said was, “We all do.”

Charles kept a slight distance from them. “True.”

“If Byron shot you, would it hurt?” Rebekkah pressed.

“ All bullets hurt, Rebekkah.” Charles held her gaze. “They didn’t kill me, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt when they were tearing through my skin.”

She stilled. The memory of the gunfire and the number of casings on the ground made her wince. She gestured toward the blood on the steps. “You mean ...”

Charles gave her a terse nod.

“And why were they shooting in the first place?” Byron’s words drew Rebekkah’s attention.

“It’s a deadly world, Undertaker, as I’m sure you’re learning.” Then Charles turned back to Rebekkah. “For now, you’d best be going, unless”—he gave her a wistful smile—“you’d like to linger?”

Byron’s gaze snapped to Charles. “No.”

“Maybe next time,” Charles murmured.

“No,” Byron repeated. “Not now. Not then.”

The look that came into Charles’ eyes wasn’t friendly. “That isn’t your choice, Undertaker. You open the gate. You bring her back and forth. That doesn’t mean you make her decisions ... any more than I do.”

“Stop.” A wave of exhaustion washed over Rebekkah. “Can you not do this right now? I’m tired, cold, and sore. We can all argue later, but right now, I need to find Daisha and bring her here before she hurts anyone else.”

“And that, Byron, is why she is the Graveminder. Now that she has come here and become what she is meant to be, her focus is on the mission. They’re all like this eventually. Some”—Charles paused and his voice softened—“are more so from the first. Go to the land of the living, Rebekkah, and find Daisha. The Hungry Dead shouldn’t be this strong this fast. Bring her home.”