shard of drywall at Skelton’s legs. “I’m keeping your keys, old man. They’re going to disappear. All of them.”
The small, fat man clicked his tongue and cocked his head. “This is the boy?” he asked Skelton. “This is the best you could do?”
William Skelton nodded and pulled at his cigarette. He had chewed the end almost flat.
Cyrus glared at the man in the suit. “Who are you? Did you rip into my wall?”
Peering over his glasses, the little man examined Cyrus’s shorts, his shirt, and finally his face.
“I was getting some clean clothes,” Cyrus said. “It’s been a long day. Why did you wreck my room?”
“You’re sure about this, Billy?” the small man asked.
“About what?” Cyrus asked. The room was chilly with air-conditioning, but William Skelton wiped sweat from his forehead onto the back of his tattooed arm.
“Kid,” he said quietly. “How do you feel about Death?”
“What?” Cyrus took a small step back.
“Death,” Skelton said again. “Dying. How do you feel about it?”
“How do you think I feel about it?” Cyrus asked. “Death sucks. I don’t like it. How do
The old man stared at the end of his cigarette. “People say you can’t run from Death.” He shook his head. “People lie. Running’s all you
Cyrus opened his mouth, but he had nothing to say. The little man was sorting through his wrinkled stacks of paper.
Skelton examined his tattooed hands. They were trembling, but his voice was calm. “You know what happens when you run too long?” He made a fist and looked into Cyrus’s eyes. “Death becomes … a friend, a companion on the road, a destination. Home. Your own bed. The place where your friends are waiting. You stop being afraid. You stop running.” He dropped the stub of his cigarette onto Cyrus’s carpet. “Tonight,” he said, grinding the butt out with his bare foot, “I stop running. Someone else is gonna start.”
Cyrus blinked. Sweat dripped off the man’s nose. His pale face was blotchy, like old dough. “You still look afraid,” Cyrus said. “Your hands are shaking. What’s going on?”
Skelton looked over at his small friend.
“A touch of spunk,” the man said, nodding. “But only a touch. His odds are still terribly low.”
“What does he have to sign?” Skelton asked.
“Him? Nothing.” The small man raised a small selection of the papers. “You’ve signed the appointment already, and I’ve found the paperwork to demonstrate that you have the necessary relationship to do so, though leaving it with me in the first place would have been wiser than hiding all of this in the walls. I can supply the Order notary and testimony of fitness and volition. As a Keeper, I can witness the declaration.” He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small, heavily creased paper card. Unfolding it, he extended it to Cyrus. “Read that aloud, please.”
Cyrus looked down at the slip, and then back up at the strange scene in his room. “What’s going on? Those papers were in my wall?”
“It was my wall first,” Skelton said. “I gave this place to your parents years ago.”
“Just read it,” said the little man. “They haven’t enforced the original oath in generations, but I’d like to cross all the
“It’s the other way around,” Cyrus said.
“We’ll cross and dot both. Read it, please.”
“No thanks,” said Cyrus, backing toward the door. “I’m gonna go now.” He tossed Skelton’s keys onto the bed and felt for the doorknob behind him. “See ya.”
The keys smacked into Cyrus’s chest; Cyrus caught them at his waist. Skelton smiled and shook his head. “Those keys should have been your father’s. It doesn’t right old wrongs, but they’re your burden now, Cyrus Smith. The race is yours. The world is yours. Run until Death’s your friend, and then set those keys in another’s hand. Not before then, hear me? Once you give them, you can’t get them back. And not a soul should know that I’m setting them in yours. I’ve got more to give, but that’s a start.”
Cyrus looked at the little man on the bed, and then back into the empty eyes of Billy Bones.
“Don’t worry about Horace here,” Skelton said. “His family’s kept more secrets than a dozen graveyards. And as for me, well, dead men tell no tales. At least, not usually.”
Horace scraped the stack of papers off his lap, hopped to his feet, and slid the card into Cyrus’s hand.
Skelton nodded. “Now read, boy. We’re doing what we can to make sure you’ll have the help you need.”
Cyrus swallowed and looked at the keys. His hand closed around them, and for the first time, they felt cold and heavy. The old man was crazy, no question. “I don’t want these.”
“Don’t you?” Skelton asked, creasing his forehead. “I’ve seen enough of you to know you’re no coward. You want to walk away? You want to live a life without knowing what those unlock?”
Cyrus looked around his ruined room. He wanted the men to leave. He wanted his wall back.
Exhaling slowly and ignoring the old man’s eyes, he dropped the keys into his pocket and moved quickly across the room toward the warped mirror door to his closet. He could always give the keys back in the morning. In the right kind of mood, he could even throw them into one of the pasture streams. He pulled out a pile of fresh clothes and turned around.
Antigone, wide-eyed, was standing in the doorway.
“What on Earth,” she said, looking at the wall. She turned to the sweating old man, her eyes taking in the tattoos. “I hope Dan has your credit card.”
“The girl, I assume?” The small man straightened his suit. “If both are present, only one needs to declare; the other can offer assent. Are you sure you want both included? You have the right to name two, but I can see definite benefits in selecting only one.”
“Both,” Skelton said. “They’ll need each other.”
“Who are you?” Antigone asked the little man. “What are we talking about?”
Cyrus slipped back to the door and held up the small card. “It’s in another language,” he said.
Antigone took the card from him and squinted at the printed letters. “No, it’s not. ‘Please declare aloud …’ What is this?”
The little man stepped forward. “Excuse me, miss,” he said. “If you don’t mind, the Latin is actually preferable in the current situation. We’re going above and beyond.”
He plucked the card from Antigone’s hands, flipped it over, and returned it.
“Pronunciation isn’t important. Do your best.”
Stepping back, he tucked his thumbs into his vest and waited.
Antigone stared at the words in front of her. “Are you serious? What is this supposed to be? I’m not saying it.” She handed the card back to Cyrus.
Cyrus looked into the tired eyes of William Skelton.
“You really want us to read this?” he asked. The keys were heavier in his mind than in his pocket. Antigone didn’t need to know that he was keeping them. Not yet.
The old man nodded.
“Okay,” Cyrus said. “I’ll read it if you answer our questions.”
After a moment, the old man nodded again.
Cyrus handed his stack of clothes to Antigone. “How do you know Mrs. Eldridge?”
“We were schoolgirls together.”
“Funny,” Antigone said. “Har, har.”
“It’s close enough to the truth,” said Skelton. “Met as kids. Hated each other since.”
Cyrus swallowed. For some reason, his throat was tightening. He didn’t really care about Mrs. Eldridge. “How did you know our parents?”
William Skelton sighed. “For a while, I was their teacher. For a while, I was their friend. I met them before they married. Helped them through some tough times. Made some tough times tougher.” His eyes dropped to the carpet.
“And?” Antigone asked. “What happened?”
