“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.”
Chapter 31
D AISHA SAW THE MAN COMING TOWARD HER. HE STUMBLED AS HE walked, not steady on his feet or maybe not sure of where to step. She felt bad for him. Since she’d come home to Claysville, sometimes the ground didn’t feel right under her feet either. She’d felt better since she’d gone to her home, but she still felt a disconnect with the world around her.
The man stopped just in front of her and sniffed.
“Hey.” She jumped backward, out of his reach.
With a sound that might’ve been a word, he reached out and grabbed the back of her neck. His other hand clutched her shoulder at the same time, and he pulled her against him. The hand holding her neck caught in her hair, and he forced her head to the side.
Daisha shoved against him, but he didn’t seem to notice. It was the first time since she woke up that anyone had been unmoved by her touch.
Then he buried his face against her throat and inhaled.
“What are you—” Her words ended in a yelp as he shifted his hold. He shoved his face up against her lips and sniffed again.
“Stop this,” she hissed.
The hand he’d had on the back of her head moved to her jaw, cupping her chin. His other hand shifted from her shoulder to her lower back, holding her securely against him. She could feel his arm like a vise around her side.
Then he squeezed and forced her mouth to stay open. He peered into her mouth and then sniffed.
Daisha couldn’t move away.
For the first time since she woke up dead, she wished she could control that dissipating thing that happened sometimes. Fear. Fear was what she thought caused it, and she was very afraid. Why am I not fading?
She needed to swallow, but couldn’t with her mouth held open like this.
He inhaled, drawing as much breath as he could from between her lips. He didn’t touch her mouth. He just breathed in.
And it hurt like he was pulling things out of her.
She remembered hurt , and in remembering hurt, she remembered what could stop it. She pulled her knee up as fast and as hard as she could.
He gargled and dropped her.
And as soon as he let go of her, she faded into nothingness and was gone.
Chapter 32
P ARTWAY 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 j
ust 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?”