The remaining man at the door was beside them in an instant. “She appears likely to faint, sir,” he said. “Shall I carry her?”
“I have her, Ward.”
“I don’t faint,” Rebekkah protested.
“Sleep, Rebekkah,” Charles said. “Let go, and sleep now.”
“It’s just a scratch,” someone said.
A voice— Charles’ voice —said, “First the physician, and then find them. This sort of carelessness is unacceptable.”
Then Rebekkah gave in to the darkness. It’s a dream , she rationalized, a very, very bad dream.
WITHIN THE TUNNEL, BYRON HAD ALTERNATED BETWEEN CURSING AND pleading. He’d thrown himself at the transparent barricade that had sprung up between the tunnel’s opening and the gray world of the dead.
“Charlie!” he yelled.
No one came, of course. Byron was pretty certain that the barrier was Charlie’s doing. Whatever he was, he’d seemed to be the only one running the show.
Futilely, Byron punched the wall, and then turned back to explore the tunnel with the scant hope that he might find a clue. The tunnel appeared to be a damp cave now; slick-wet walls with phosphorescent mold of some sort stretched into the gloom behind him. The ground under his feet was a slab of stone, smooth as if formed by a glacier.
When he heard Rebekkah scream from the other side of the barrier, he spun around, clawing at the invisible barrier, scraping his fingertips over it to find an opening of some sort. Nothing helped: he was trapped outside the land of the dead. His choices were to wait or to go back, and going back seemed exceptionally unwise.
WHEN SHE WOKE, REBEKKAH WAS LYING ON A MASSIVE FOUR-POSTER BED. She looked around, but saw nothing beyond the perimeter of the bed, which was hung with thick brocade drapes. Reaching out, she slid the material between two fingers, enjoying the feel of each thread and the weight of the fabric. It’s just a drape. She stroked her fingertips over the material, though—until a laugh made her recoil.
“The fabrics were selected for the pleasure of one of your long-gone predecessors. I’m glad they please you. Although”—Charles pulled back a drape and looked down at her—“I do apologize for the reason you are in my bed. It’s not the reason I would’ve preferred.”
She didn’t look away, nor did she acknowledge the underlying meaning. She wasn’t going to deny that Charles was handsome, or that he’d just saved her from far more injuries than she could fathom. He was tempting in the way that she imagined the devil himself—if there was such a man—would be: polished charm, wicked smiles, and easy arrogance. However, she wasn’t sure what game he was playing, and the idea of looking at a dead man with any sort of lustful thoughts seemed inherently twisted.
Rebekkah smiled at him briefly before saying only, “I am alive and unharmed ... thanks to you.” She winced as she moved. “Mostly unharmed,” she amended.
“I assure you that they will be dealt with, Rebekkah.” Charles’ earlier flirtatious look was replaced with an expression of tenderness. “I do apologize for the scratch. I had the physician clean and bind it.”
Rebekkah reached under the sheet that covered her to feel the bandage that was wrapped around her ribs, covering the tender spot. In doing so, she realized that she was not wearing a shirt over the bandage. “Oh.”
“My physician is not recently deceased.” Charles’ grin was wry. “He refuses to apply newer-style bandages ... The dead are often intractable when it comes to adapting to modernity.”
“So does that mean you were alive in ...” She peered at him, studying his silk tie and matching handkerchief, assessing his well-cut suit, and admitted, “I have no idea when.”
“The Great Depression, 1930s and ’40s ... but no. I have been around far longer than that. I am merely fond of that era.”
Clutching the sheet to her chest, she sat up and realized that her legs were bare, too. “Where are my jeans?”
“Being laundered. There are other clothes here for you.” He looked behind him and made a come-here gesture. A young woman stepped up beside him. “Marie will help you dress.”
Then, before she could ask any questions of him, he bowed and left.
“Would you like to select your dress, miss?” The girl held up a robe.
For a moment, Rebekkah stared at Marie. She looked to be about twenty. Her hair was drawn back severely, and her face was without makeup. A sober-looking black high-waisted skirt fell to the floor; a pale gray blouse topped it; and at the collar, a black tie of sorts was fitted around her neck. The tips of plain black shoes showed under the edge of her skirt, and a gray bonnet covered the crown of her head.
“Miss?” The girl hadn’t moved.
Rebekkah swung her feet to the floor, slipped her arms into the robe, and went over to the wardrobe. “I can dress myself.”
Maria followed and opened the massive wardrobe. “Begging your pardon, miss, but I don’t think you understand.”
Rebekkah stared at the clothes. “It’s like a costume shop.”
“Graveminders like texture, miss. The master likes to assure your pleasure if he can ... which he definitely can .” Marie said the last words hurriedly—and with a blush.
As the girl started pulling out the edges of dresses, Rebekkah fought the urge to reach out and stroke them.
Maria continued. “I know they’re not ones you’ve picked, but the seamstresses are on standby. We have your measurements sent to all of them, but there are some lovely gowns here already.” She pulled out the edge of a dark purple skirt. A second sheer layer in pale lavender shifted over the underskirt. “This one would flatter you.”
Rebekkah gave in and took the material in her hand. Tiny jewels were scattered over the underskirt. It took effort not to sigh, but she dropped the material. “I’d like a pair of jeans. I don’t have time for this.”
“I’m sorry, miss,” Marie said. “What about this one?”
With a grimace, Rebekkah shoved her hands into the wardrobe and flicked through the amazing textures of fabrics she’d never be able to afford and some she couldn’t even identify. She settled on a two-layer green dress with sheer sleeves. It covered everything—from shoulder to wrist, from chest to ankle; it had neither a plummeting neckline nor back; and it was loose enough to allow free movement. All told, it seemed to be the plainest, most utilitarian option.
Hurriedly, Rebekkah dropped the robe and stepped into the dress. Marie fastened it, and Rebekkah turned to see herself in the large cheval glass. The dress had looked innocuous in the wardrobe, but when Marie held out the second layer, its innocence vanished. The outer layer of diaphanous material with sheer sleeves tightened just under her breasts. Like the skirt under it, the outer layer fell straight to the floor, where the extra length of material would puddle or trail behind her. As Rebekkah moved, the sheer layer flared to the sides and revealed more of the dark green silk of the dress.
While Rebekkah debated the possibility of finding a more sedate dress, Maria retrieved a pair of comfortable green low-heeled slingbacks that matched the gown—and were Rebekkah’s size.
Like the dresses ... and who knows what else.
She folded the robe and laid it on the foot of the bed. “Can you take me to see Charles?”
“There are ear bobs and—”
“Please?” Rebekkah interrupted.
After a small nod that might’ve been more bow than sign of accord, Marie opened the door and gestured for her to follow. Silently, the girl led her to an immense ballroom. At the far side of it, double doors opened onto a balcony. And standing with his back to her was Charles.
He stepped aside and gestured to a table on the balcony beyond him. “Come. I thought we could dine out here tonight.”
Rebekkah could see two place settings on a linen-draped table. A bottle of wine chilled in a silver bucket, and crystal glasses sat waiting. Arrangements of orchids and verdant plants covered every conceivable space on the balcony; the effect was of a small hothouse gone slightly wild.
“Marie, tell Ward that Ms. Barrow and I are on the east balcony.” Charles pulled out a chair. “Rebekkah?”
Rebekkah crossed the room and stepped onto the balcony. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate what you did, but I’m not here to be your friend.” She took her seat. “I’m here because I had to come.”
“True, but why should that have anything to do with our being friends?” He poured them each a drink.
She accepted her glass. “I was just shot at. My grandmother died. I’m sitting with a dead man. Byron is somewhere out there”—she motioned to the seemingly endless city that sprawled as far as she could see and then looked back at Charles—“and I’m almost certain you know a whole hell of a lot more than you’re saying about all of it. Byron’s father brought him here, and then died . People ... dead people shot at us. Something is attacking people at home and ... I’m here to make sense of what’s going on, not have dinner.”
“Perhaps I can clarify parts of your confusion. The Undertaker will be here shortly; you have my word on that. Until he arrives, you shall stay here, where I can be certain of your safety. Some of my unrulier citizens shot at you, and they will be dealt with for causing you harm. A dead child is killing people in Claysville—and you, my dear girl, are exhausted and in need of a meal.” He motioned to the man who stood waiting with a tray full of salads and bread, and then he looked back at her. “So we shall eat, and then we shall discuss work.”
Rebekkah waited while the dead man stepped onto the balcony and served their food. Charles stayed silent the entire time, and she felt his gaze on her all the while. His attention felt like an almost physical assessment—and a challenge.
Once the server had returned inside the opulent house, she slid her plate aside. “I was taught to give food and drink to the already dead. I never knew that Maylene did that to keep them from waking, but I do now. So what happens to me if I eat with you?”
“You enjoy yourself, I hope,” Charles replied. “The food here is delicious in a way that you’ll never find over there.”
She folded her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. “Why did those people shoot at us?”
Charles lifted his napkin and dabbed his lips. “They aren’t always obedient. Do know that I’ll be addressing this matter with them.”
“Who were they? Why were they shooting? Why did you keep them from hitting me?”
Charles caught her gaze. “Because you are mine , Rebekkah.”
When she didn’t reply, he broke a piece of bread from the loaf and held it out to her. “Please do eat. The food here is safe for you. My vow on it. Afterward, we shall deal with a few of those questions you’re trying to make sense of. But you must keep your strength up if you’re to go off to battle, right?”
Ignoring his offered food, she lifted her own fork. “Your vow that this is safe and that it has no consequences in any way?”
“My vow. It is only food. Delicious food, of course, fit to serve my lovely new Graveminder, but food nonetheless.” Charles took a bite of the bread he’d offered her. “Not everyone here is civilized, but their sovereign is.”
“Their sovereign?”
“Did I not mention that?” Charles’ eyes widened in feigned shock. “They call me Mr. D, and this, my dear, is my demesne. All that you see is under my control. Only one person”—he smiled at her—“has the ability to truly stand against me ... or beside me.”
Rebekkah wasn’t quite ready to ask what it meant to stand against him. “Who are you? What are you?”
Charles looked at the city behind her, but she was pretty sure that he was looking far beyond the landscape she could see. “I’ve been called many things, in many cultures. The name doesn’t matter—not really. It all means the same thing: they believe in me, and I exist. Death happens. Everywhere, to everyone.”
“Death?” Rebekkah stared at him. “You’re saying that you are Death and that you exist because people believe that Death ... that it ... you exist?”
“No, my dear. Death simply exists .” He swept his hand out in a wide arc. “This exists.” He laid his hand over his chest, where his heart would be if he were truly a man. “ I simply exist ... and you, Graveminder, exist because of me.”
Chapter 30
B YRON FELT THE WALL VANISH AS HE FELL FORWARD ONTO HIS HANDS and knees. He hadn’t done anything differently in the past moment than he had been doing the past couple of hours. There was no sense in questioning it, though: he was free now, and he needed to get to Rebekkah.
He stepped into the gray world of the dead and wished he had a map. Unlike his first trip to the land of the dead, Charlie wasn’t waiting; nor did Byron have his father to lead the way. What he did have was a fearlessness that he hadn’t felt the first time. All that mattered was assuring that his Graveminder— that Rebekkah —was safe.
Byron grabbed hold of the arm of the first person he saw. “Where is Charlie? Mr D? Do you know where he is?”
The man grinned, shook loose of Byron’s hold, and walked away.
“Thanks,” Byron muttered.
He looked around, but the area outside the tunnel seemed deserted. Now what? He’d had a vague sense that the streets weren’t laid out as they had been the first time, which, considering the haphazardness of the rest of what he’d seen, wasn’t entirely unexpected.
Byron followed the man, figuring that any direction was better than none at all.
This part of the dead’s city was desolate. Store windows had “Closed” signs in them; drapes were drawn. No one lingered in the alleys.
“Where is everyone?” Byron asked.
The dead man he followed glanced back, but did not answer. They went around another corner, and then the man held up a hand in a halting gesture. “Stay.”
One shop appeared to be open. Three men sat on chairs outside, as if it were a sidewalk café or pub. It wasn’t. It also wasn’t a nineteenth-century mining town, but two of the three were dressed in cowboy boots, battered hats, and worn jackets.
The third man, in ripped jeans and a faded black concert tee, stood out from his companions. He muttered something to the other men. All three stood.
“Alicia?” one called.
A rough-looking woman in snug jeans and a half-buttoned man’s shirt came to the doorway. A gun holster hung around her lean hips, and a knife long enough to be a sword was strapped to her thigh. She cocked one hip and said, “Come on in, Undertaker.”
“I need to find Charlie,” Byron started.
“And you will, but it’s better for everyone if you stop in here first.” Alicia glanced at the men. “Boys? Go on.”
One man nodded and went to stand at the corner. Another walked off in the opposite direction. The third sat down, propped his boots on the table, and angled his hat so it was tilted over his face.
Byron didn’t know if he was walking into a trap or not. He was more than able to fight, but he wasn’t a fool. He was outnumbered—as well as unsure of the wisdom of fighting several armed men.
He walked over to the doorway and stopped in front of Alicia. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“In more ways than you can guess, Undertaker, but you’re welcome among us.” Alicia motioned for him to enter the store. She didn’t move out of the doorway, so he had to brush uncomfortably close to her.
Just inside the doorway of the shadowy shop, Byron had to remind himself that he hadn’t stepped into the past. He’d entered a general goods shop. Tins of various foods and supplies sat in rows from floor to ceiling behind the counter. An oversize cash register sat on a wooden ledge that abutted a glass-and-wood cabinet. Inside it, pistols and knives sat alongside pocket watches and lockets.
Alicia leaned against his back. Her chin rested on his shoulder and the butt of one of her pistols dug into his lower back. She whispered in his ear, “You need a few supplies, Undertaker?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
“Unless you’re smarter than most of your sort are wh
en they start, you do.” She stepped around in front of him as she spoke. Her hand came down flat on the glass cabinet. “Most of the arms we carry here aren’t much compared to what’s over in your world. New arrivals bitch about it.”
“But over here?”
“Over here, sugar, you need to have a few choices.” She squeezed his biceps. “You’re not frail. Always a plus.”
“I boxed for a while,” he admitted.
Alicia nodded. “Nice, but this isn’t always a gentleman’s game. How are you in an alley or a bar?”
Byron shrugged. “I’ve never had reason to know.”
“You will.” Alicia went around the counter and reached down by her feet. “Don’t let misplaced ethics get in the way, Undertaker.” She plunked a worn duffel on the glass cabinet in between them. “The dead don’t have as much to lose as you do—on either side of the gate.”
“Why are you helping me?”
Alicia flashed him a smile that was half challenging, half amused. “You sure I am?”
And as she asked, Byron was sure. He didn’t know who she was, why she was, or much of anything, but he’d grown up hearing his father repeat “trust your instincts” enough times that he was confident in his own gut feelings.
“I am,” he said.
“Good boy.” She unzipped the bag. “Some of this won’t be very useful anymore, but you can replace it with its like over there.”
She pulled out a mason jar filled with a white crystalline substance, a few vials with faded handwritten labels, a Smith & Wesson revolver with a mother-of-pearl grip, a box of bullets, a sheathed six-inch knife.
“What is all of this?”
Alicia stopped mid-movement; her hand still held a tin canister with a stylized cross on it. “What does it look like? Weapons .”
“Weapons.”
“Some of what you do is as much instinct as knowledge. You know that, right?” Alicia paused and looked expectantly at him. He nodded once, and she continued. “But sometimes there’s a bit of science to it.”
“Science?”