Graveminder (29 page)

Chapter 56

F
OR A BRIEF MOMENT,
C
HARLES THOUGHT THAT
R
EBEKKAH HAD AC
cepted his answers, but then she scowled at him. “No.”

“No?” he echoed.

“I just sentenced a woman to die because she wanted to be a Graveminder, but not your ‘servant.’ ” Rebekkah shook her head. “I didn’t sign a contract. I’ve been playing guess-the-rules, and you are withholding information. I
deserve
some answers, Charles.”

There was nothing that said he had to answer, no rule that he must reveal his failings, but he hadn’t lived for eternity without learning how to judge people. His Graveminder would be more sympathetic if she knew the truth. For Charles, that was reason enough.

“Once, almost three hundred years ago, a woman, Abigail, came here. Opened a gate and came to me. A living, vibrant woman had entered my domain. She really was an incredible woman, my Abigail. Spirited like you.” He gave Rebekkah a small smile. “There are other lands of the dead, but this one was still new.”

“Why?”

He waved his hand. “Space issues, mostly. They fill. New ones appear. I took charge of this one, was honored to, really. I’m not the only face of Death, my dear, but in some place before memory, I’d been something else. I know that. Nothingness given shape.”

“Oh.”

“It makes a man”—he offered her a self-deprecating smile—“eager to prove himself, I suppose. I had my new space, new dead, and I was arrogant. I fell for her. I know it sounds silly, but from nothingness to being a
functionary
being can be dizzying. Abigail beguiled me, and so when she asked to visit the other world, I said yes.”

He tried to gauge Rebekkah’s response, but she was silent and hard to read, so he continued. “Once the path was opened, others went back, too. Unlike Abigail, they were dead. They ravaged people, nearly decimated the fledgling town—and Abigail began dragging them back here.

“I cannot go there, could not help her in any useful way, so I made an arrangement with the town.” He took a deep breath, looked directly at Rebekkah. “I could not remove the gateway, but I could give the town other things, safeguards to help keep the world at large safe, protections so they would think that the change, the gateway, was
their
doing. If they’d known Abigail had been at fault for opening the door, they would’ve killed her, and then my dead would have overrun them. I had to protect her.”

“So you lied,” Rebekkah said softly.

“So I made a bargain,” he corrected. “If she died, they would all have died. That world—Claysville—would’ve become an extension of this one eventually.” He didn’t flinch from Rebekkah’s judgment. He simply waited.

“And Abigail?” Rebekkah prompted.

“She found a man, a living man, who protected her.”

“The first Undertaker,” Rebekkah murmured.

Charles nodded. “They helped make the contract with the town. The consequence of which is that there are new Graveminders and Undertakers who follow in their footsteps.”

“Because you made a mistake,” she said softly.

“Because I fell in love,” he admitted.

Chapter 57

R
EBEKKAH KNEW WITHOUT LOOKING BEHIND HER THAT
B
YRON HAD EN
tered the room. Charles’ pleading expression gave way to a wicked grin. “Being loved like that has an appeal, doesn’t it?”

“You know I’ll tell him, don’t you?” she said.

“Of course.” Charles smiled. “But when you’re older than dirt, you do learn to take pleasure where pleasure is offered.”

“No one’s offering.” Byron’s voice was more exhausted than irritated, though. He pulled over a chair, spun it backward, and straddled it.

With a contented look at the two of them, Charles snapped his fingers. Ward appeared with a dusty bottle of Scotch in one hand and glasses in the other. “Drink?”

Byron nodded, and Ward poured.

“Rebekkah?” Byron asked.

“No thanks.” She watched, bemused, as Charles and Byron assessed each other.

“I’ll be back to read the contract,” Byron said.

“Your sort always are,” Charles answered with an odd cadence, as if the conversation were rote.

“I’m not just a sort.” Byron picked up his glass.

Charles lifted his glass. “One always hopes.”

They both emptied their glasses, and then Charles set his glass down, reached across the table, and took Rebekkah’s hand in his. “Until next time, my dear. Please know you are ever welcome.”

“I do know that.”

“Good.” Charles kissed her hand and then stood. He turned his attention to Byron then. “You are welcome to come peruse the contract at your leisure.”

Byron tilted his head, but didn’t rise. “I’m not ever going to like you, am I?”

With a small shrug, Charles said, “Such is the nature of our roles. I will remind Rebekkah of the world she could rule here, and you”—his expression was briefly pitying—“will do all you can to remind her that life is for the living.” He looked then at her. “And we will both try to keep her safe from the dead as she forgets that they are dangerous.”

Ward crossed the room and opened the door. Charles followed. “Unlike Alicia, I don’t keep a ledger. The Scotch is a gift. No strings.”

And then he was gone.

After a quiet moment, Byron stood up. He leaned down and pulled Rebekkah into his arms for a slow kiss, and then said, “Let’s go home.”

Despite everything she knew, Rebekkah still felt a twinge of loss as she left Charles and the land of the dead. Whether she liked it or not, she
did
belong to both worlds. She had no illusions that Charles was
entirely
trustworthy, but she believed him and she trusted him.

Mostly.

Rebekkah didn’t let go of Byron’s hand as he replaced the torch in its wall mount and slid the cabinet across the tunnel. She held on to him as they walked across the storage room and into the hall. He released her hand only long enough to lock the door, and the moment that was done, she took his hand again.

With an easy silence that she’d never known, they ascended the stairs. She accepted his help with her jacket and helmet, and they sped into the night on the Triumph. There was no question as to where they would go—and it occurred to Rebekkah that she’d never seen his apartment, and probably wouldn’t see it until he was leaving it. The funeral home was his home now.
Again.
Just as Maylene’s house was her home now.
Again.
They were both where they needed to be, where they’d been headed for most of their lives.

Later, she’d tell him about Charles’ story, but right now, she wanted to set it all aside. The peace she’d sought was hers. She’d felt it today when she rescued the dead, when she saw Daisha off to her new life, and when she’d seen Cissy go to her just end. This was her life, and Byron was meant to be in it.

He always was.

She enjoyed the connection to him, to her town, as they drove. When he stopped at the house, she got off the bike and took off her helmet. “I love you, you know.”

“What?” He stood, holding his helmet.

“I love you,” she repeated. “That doesn’t mean I’m proposing or offering to have kids. I’m not, but I do love you.”

He cupped her cheek with his free hand. His thumb stroked her skin. “Not sure I suggested marriage or kids.”

“Good.” She smiled. “I figured it’s about time I admit the love thing. I’m not sure—”

He kissed her gently before telling her, “I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready for kids. This ... what we are ... I don’t want ...”

“I know.” She thought about the letter Maylene had written, about Cissy’s envy, about Ella’s death. “Me either.”

She took his hand in hers and they went inside. Together they went upstairs and turned out the lights.

R
EBEKKAH AWOKE AS THE SUN WAS RISING AND MADE HER WAY TO THE FIRST
cemetery on her list. She knelt before the stone and planted a small yellow rosebush. Then she brushed the soil from her hands and pulled a small bottle from her bag.

“I’m here now, Maylene,” she whispered. She stroked the top of the stone. “Do you remember when we planted our first garden together? Peas, onions, and rhubarb.” She paused at the memory, letting the sweetness she remembered fill her. “You, me, and Ella ... I miss her. I still miss her. And Jimmy. And you ...”

Rebekkah’s tears rolled down her cheeks. There was no way to erase the ache inside of her, but she took comfort in knowing that Maylene had gone on to another life in another world, where she could be with the rest of her family.

She made the rest of her rounds through the cemetery, stopping to clear debris from stones, pour a bit of drink onto soil, and say her words. It was the first of the cemeteries on her daily agenda, but she didn’t shortchange any of the residents on her list.

She glanced at the brightening sky and tucked her flask into her satchel when she saw him. His jeans were faded and frayed; the backpack he’d slung over his shoulder looked like it had seen better days; and the stubble on his face made it clear that he’d been in a hurry.

“You’re up early,” she said when he reached her side.

Byron kissed her, and then said, “Good morning.”

“Hi.” She wrapped her arms around him and enjoyed being held for a moment. “I figured I’d get to work so we could try going out or ... I mean, I thought ...”

He grinned. “So you wanted to free up your evening for me?”

“Yeah.” She poked him in the chest. “Don’t think that a few rides on the bike or trips to exotic locales with dead folk count as dates. I want the standard stuff, too. Cooking—”

“I planned to cook breakfast, but you weren’t there.” He didn’t add that he panicked when he found her gone, but they’d been down this route enough times that she knew he had.

“I left a note on the table,” she said.

He looked sheepish. “Sure. I know—”

“You didn’t see it.”

“I grabbed a few things and came to find you and ...” His words faded and he took her hands. “You have a habit of running.”

“I
had
a habit of running,” she corrected.

“You sure?”

“I am,” she admitted. “I love you, and you seem crazy enough to love me back, so ... if you still want t—”

He silenced her with a kiss.

Being with Byron had always been right, so much so that she’d never been able to consider anyone else for more than a moment, but admitting the truth of this made her feel the familiar ease as well as a less familiar happiness.

“Okay, then”—she stepped back—“let me get back to work.”

He frowned. “Is there anything that says I can’t come along? Help?”

“No.” She stared at him. “You want to spend the day wandering graveyards?”

“Is that where you’ll be?”

“Well, yes.”

“Unless I get a call, I don’t see why I’d need—or
want
—to be anywhere else.” He laced his fingers with hers. “I’m not going to go to work with you every day, Bek, but once in a while ...” He shrugged.

For a moment, Rebekkah paused, bracing herself for the fear of being trapped, the anxiety of too many threads of entanglement, but the usual panic was absent. For the first time since she’d left Claysville, she knew where she belonged.

Here. With Byron. Minding the dead.

Epilogue

R
EBEKKAH OPENED ANOTHER OF THE JOUR
nals that she’d recovered from Cissy’s house and began to read.

William tells me he saw Alicia again. It’s foolish of me to feel envy, but I do. Graveminders cannot see their own, and I’ve accepted that. As I’ve come to terms with Charles’ games, I’ve realized that some of the rules are for our own protection—not just his. That doesn’t mean I like them. Sometimes I weary of secrets. I grow weary of feeling so alone. It’s tempting to go there, to stay and let myself slip into that world, to let myself see if the vibrancy of the dead remains when I too am one of them.

I can’t.

Yet I stay here knowing that my family has been devastated by the burden that Alicia passed on to my mother. I stay here knowing that she will not answer my questions if I have William carry them to her. I tried sending a letter. It vanished when she touched the envelope.

Does it get easier? Does knowing that you will pass this one to one you love ever not hurt? I have questions. I do what I do. I’m lived my life for this town, and I do so knowing what I do is for the love of my town and my family—even as I know that it will also destroy them. The child I love best, the one I find strongest, will also be the one I contract.

Sometimes I loathe Charles. I loathe Alicia. I loathe my own mother. Yet I will do as I must, and I will hope that my granddaughter will forgive me.

Rebekkah understood that she could’ve written that entry, that she could’ve written so many of the entries in the journals that her grandmother had kept for her. These were the answers that she had been seeking. She was not alone. Even as those who had written these words were gone, they were still here for her in their absence.

Instead of continuing reading the next entry, she turned to the end of the most recent journal and began to write: “Daisha was the first dead girl I met ...”