Graveminder

The streets, storefronts, and windows were all crowded with people—many of whom were watching them with open curiosity. Byron noticed more than a few guns carried openly, not always in holsters, but he also saw women with children in baby carriages or clutching their skirts. Couples, the men not always in the garb that matched the era of their partners’, talked or in several cases pushed the boundaries of public displays of affection, regardless of the mores of the era their clothes belonged to.

“Been a while since we had a tourist.” Charlie’s voice was laced with obvious amusement.

“He’s not a tourist,” William said. “He belongs here as much as any of us ever do.”

“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Charlie stopped at an intersection and tilted his head, the cigar clamped between his teeth. The street was completely clear. He held up his hand and motioned for them to wait. “Just a moment.”

No more than six heartbeats later, a train tore through the intersection in front of them. It was absolutely soundless; no tracks or rail lined the street; and in moments, it was just a speck in the distance.

Charlie pulled a pocket watch out of his waistcoat, glanced at it, tucked it back into his pocket, and then stepped into the now crowded street. “The way will be clear now.”

“Because a train passed?”

Charlie fixed him with a stare, and then looked at William. “Boy’s not too sharp, is he?”

William smiled, but not in any way that could be mistaken for friendliness. “I suspect he’s more than sharp enough to do the job better than I have. If you’re after picking a fight, Charles, we can do that after we talk.”

After a tense moment, Charlie laughed. “I’ll welcome you any day, old man. Maybe you’ll feel like lingering with us awhile.”

William shook his head. “I go to where Ann is, and I doubt that my wife is here .”

Charlie stopped at a glass door with the words MR. D’S TIP-TOP TAVERN painted on it. He reached out and grabbed the brass bar that served as a door handle, tugged it open, and gestured them inside. As William passed, Byron heard Charlie ask in a low voice, “What about your Graveminder?”

“Don’t.” William lifted a fist as if to strike Charlie.

“Relax, boy.” The menace in Charlie’s voice grew gravel thick. He didn’t flinch, but he grinned around his cigar. “Your Graveminder’s safe enough, but she can’t go on till you get here. Rules are rules.”

Byron stepped in front of his father, hoping to defuse the tension between them. “What’s a Graveminder?”

Between one step and the next, a blur of expressions crossed Charlie’s face—surprise, doubt, and then amusement. “You didn’t tell the boy anything , old man?” He paused and looked straight at William. “And the other one?”

At his side, William’s hand unclenched. “Maylene and I decided to let them have their peace while they could.”

“And now Maylene’s dead.” Charlie whistled.

Byron had just about reached the end of his patience. “Someone want to fill me in?”

“Boy, I wouldn’t want to be in your”—Charlie looked down—“ugly boots for love or money. I would, however, pay dearly to have a good seat for the show. It’s a real shame I’m stuck over here.”

Then he walked past Byron into the shadowed interior of the tavern. It looked well past its prime: faded wallpaper, tattered in places, lined the walls; exposed pipes ran the length of the ceiling; and more than a few of the velvet-covered sofas sagged. The front of the room was taken up by a low stage; on it sat a drum kit and a baby grand piano, the only things in the room that didn’t show signs of wear, age, or neglect. Throughout the room, linen-draped tables were surrounded by high-backed chairs. On each table, a small candle flickered. At the far side of the room were a long wooden bar and a curtained doorway. The curtain, like the tablecloths, was threadbare in places. The place had a sort of tired elegance that spoke of better days. What it didn’t have was a crowd: the entire room was empty save for one waitress and one bartender.

“Ahhh, there’s our table.” Charlie swept his arm forward, gesturing them to the front of the room.

When they reached the table, Byron noticed a placard in the center of the table. It read, in precise calligraphic letters: RESERVED FOR MR. D AND GUESTS .

William glanced at the waitress, who had followed them to the table. “Scotch. Three of them.”

She looked at Charlie. “Mr. D?”

Mr. D? Byron looked at the man who’d escorted them to the club, at the placard in front of them, and at his father.

Charlie— Mr. D —nodded. “From my reserve.”

The waitress glided away.

“And keep them coming,” Charlie called after her. Then he clapped Byron on the shoulder. “You’re going to need them.”

Chapter 19

DAISHA WAS STANDING OUTSIDE THE FUNERAL HOME WHEN SHE FELT AN insistent pull. Inside that building was a yawning mouth stretching open; she hadn’t known it existed until that moment, but she felt it now. It wanted to swallow her whole, take her to wherever that place was that the not-walking dead went, and keep her there forever.

Make me truly dead.

Something like loneliness crept up on her as she stood there trying not to clutch the tree beside her. Once, she’d seen him , the Undertaker, scurry up the tree and shimmy onto one of the branches to get a kite that was all tangled up. He had been a teenager then, and he had dropped to the ground to give the kite back to the kids she was with, not looking at them like they were less because they didn’t have money like his family did, not looking at her like she was something disgusting. He had been a hero that day.

Not yet a monster.

Now he’d kill her if he knew what she was. Now he’d end everything.

Hours passed as she stood trying to ignore the temptation to go into the building, to find the mouth of the hungry abyss inside of it.

She needed something to keep from falling apart. Food. Words. Drink. The things she wanted since she woke up dead were weird, but weird or not, she needed them like she’d once needed air. The blood and flesh weren’t so hard to find, but stories were a little different. She’d never done too well talking to people before she’d died; doing it now was even harder.

There was a woman, though, a stranger. She walked purposefully, as if she knew exactly where to go, as if she knew things. She was only a few years older than Daisha, not even as old as the new Graveminder.

Daisha followed her for a few moments, watched her walk and pause. She stapled papers to poles, and as she went she listened to whatever music pulsed in her earbuds. Daisha could hear the bass, but nothing more.

She approached the woman, stepped in front of her, and said, “I think I’m lost.”

The woman let out a small squeak and yanked out one of her earbuds.

Startled, Daisha stepped away quickly.

“Sorry. I didn’t hear you come up.” The woman blushed. “I probably shouldn’t play the music so loud.”

“Why?”

The woman held up the stack of papers she clutched in one hand. “There’s a, um, wild animal roaming around.”

“Oh.” Daisha looked behind her. “I had no idea.”

“I’m on the town council. We’re trying to alert everyone, but it takes a while.” She smiled self-consciously. “I was going to wait, but I have plans later and ... Sorry. You probably don’t want to hear.” She broke off with a laugh. “I’m pitiful, aren’t I? Nerves.”

“I can help.” Daisha extended a hand. “If there’s an animal out here, I don’t want to be alone either.”

“Thank you.” The woman handed her a few flyers. “I’m Bonnie Jean.”