Graveminder

Chapter 50

THE RIDE TO THE EDGE OF CLAYSVILLE WAS MOSTLY SILENT. THE TRUCK’S radio was stuck on a radio station that seemed to mostly involve angry preaching, and the only CDs in the vehicle were twangy country albums that Daisha tossed out the window with gleeful yells of “Screw you, Paul.”

Rebekkah vacillated between the desire to protect Daisha and feeling anger toward her. Daisha was a victim, and Rebekkah’s job was to protect the dead. It didn’t matter whether they were in-the-grave dead, Hungry Dead, or those already in the land of the dead: they were hers to mind, to care for, and when necessary to take to the land of the dead.

“That way.” The dead girl’s voice was barely a whisper. “To the right there.”

Rebekkah wasn’t sure if it was fear or anger riding in the girl’s voice, but she reached out and squeezed Daisha’s hand. “What she did was wrong. She will answer for it.”

The look Daisha gave her was too brief to interpret. “Turn onto that road.”

On the other side of Rebekkah, Byron remained silent. He followed Daisha’s directions, but he offered no comments on them—or any response to Rebekkah’s remark.

The hilt of the knife Byron wore on his thigh bumped into her, and she glanced down at the holstered gun that he’d handed her when they slid into the truck. Holding it didn’t make her uncomfortable. The idea of using it on her aunt, however, did.

It’s not the first choice.

Byron pulled the truck off the road and into a cover of trees. Given the wooded area and the hour, they were fairly well hidden.

Byron got out of the truck and held out a hand. “I have a light.”

“I can see fine,” Daisha murmured from right beside him and Rebekkah.

Rebekkah hesitated before admitting, “I can, too, but if you ...”

“No.” Byron’s voice was strained. “I didn’t think about it when we were following Troy, but ... I can see okay without a light.”

Rebekkah glanced at him. To her, his eyes gleamed like an animal’s when any light glanced off them. She turned to Daisha. “Do his eyes—”

“You glow from head to toe, and his eyes shine the same way.” Daisha shook her head. “I don’t know if ... live people see it, though. At the graveyard, no one else seemed to notice the way you shine, so it could be just people like me.”

Rebekkah nodded, and then began to walk the rest of the way to the house. She didn’t feel that tendril guiding her toward the dead as she had previously. Maybe there aren’t any more. She glanced at Daisha. Or maybe she’s so close I can’t feel anyone else.

As they walked, Byron stayed near enough that his mistrust for the dead girl was made quite clear. He didn’t say anything, but he watched Daisha with the sort of studious attention reserved for the dangerous or foolish. Rebekkah couldn’t blame him. Daisha was with them, but that didn’t make her tame.

When we’re done I need to convince her to go to the land of the dead—or take her there by force.

They arrived at the small one-story house. There were no lights on or vehicles in the drive. There was a garage, but the windows were blacked out.

A thick white line cut across the ground in front of the garage doors. Rebekkah bent down to touch it. Her finger brushed it, but didn’t disturb the line.

“Don’t!” Daisha grabbed Rebekkah’s left arm and pulled her away from the white line. “Step away.”

Rebekkah straightened and looked at the white powder on her fingertip. It wasn’t chalk. It felt gritty. With her index finger still raised, she turned toward Daisha—who released her arm and stepped back.

“I think it’s salt,” Byron said. “Alicia mentioned that it’s useful with them. ” He licked his finger, reached down, and dipped it into the powder. He tasted it and then nodded. “It is.”

Rebekkah walked away to follow the line. It stretched unbroken in front of the garage and around both sides, stopping in a small pile that glittered in the sunlight.

Returning to Byron and Daisha, she said, “It extends all the way across the garage. To keep something in or out.”

“I can’t cross it, but”—Daisha smiled with such innocent glee that it was easy to forget that she was a monster—“if someone brushed it out of the way, I could go in.”

Hoping that the barrier was intended to keep the dead out, Rebekkah stepped up to the door and brushed the white line away. If there were others inside, she’d need to stop them from leaving. And take them home. She frowned at the thought of the dead, the Hungry Dead who were supposed to seek the Graveminder, being trapped—and her inability to feel them because of the barrier Cissy had laid down.

“Let’s go.” Rebekkah touched Daisha’s shoulder gently. It wasn’t the hug she suddenly felt compelled to offer, but it was a touch.

Daisha gave Rebekkah a perplexed look and then shrugged. “Sure. You able to open the door from this side or you need me to do it from the other side?”

“I can unlock the door.” Byron walked past them. He pulled a thin black leather case from the inside pocket of his jacket, but instead of opening it, he glanced back at Rebekkah and Daisha. “Out of curiosity, how would you open it?”

Daisha vanished. The air where she’d stood was misty, as if a sudden fog bank had appeared there and only there.

“Daisha?” Rebekkah called.

The front door opened. Daisha leaned on the doorjamb. “Yeah?”

Byron furrowed his brow. “How did you—”

Daisha pointed to herself. “Dead girl.” Then she pointed at the door. “No weather stripping.” She fluttered her hand. “Whoosh. Like a breeze, I’m in.”

“Whoosh?” Byron repeated.

Daisha dissipated into vaporous form and then resolidified. “Whoosh.”