Graveminder

necklaces and bracelets of diamonds.

Rebekkah watched her walk away. The people on the streets paid her no more attention than anyone else. “I’m not here to ... is she dead?”

“Everyone here is.” Mr. D stopped in front of an immense set of marble steps that swept down from a high arched doorway. “Well, all save you, and your Undertaker, when he finally arrives.”

“Do you know where he is?”

With Rebekkah beside him, Mr. D started up the steps. At the top, two men in uniforms stood, one on either side of a medieval-looking door. The men watched Rebekkah and Mr. D ascend with implacable expressions.

They were only a few steps up when an old-fashioned black roadster with whitewalled tires came careening around the corner. Four men in dark suits stood on the running boards; two others clung half in, half out of the passenger-side windows. In their hands, they had long-barreled guns—aimed at her.

“Guns?” She breathed the word. “They have—”

“Hold very still now, my dear,” he interrupted as he swept her up into his arms and turned his back to the street.

She felt the bullets strike him as he held her aloft, and she screamed. The impact of the bullets as they penetrated his body made her flinch, but he shifted slightly from side to side. In doing so, he seemed to be keeping the bullets from hitting her, and all the while, he held her aloft and continued to ascend the stairs.

Killed in the land of the dead. She felt hysterical laughter threaten. I’m going to die here.

Then, as quickly as it started, it ended. She heard the car as it sped off, but she couldn’t see anything. Charles had cradled her against him, and she’d closed her eyes in panic. She opened her eyes and looked up at him now, her eyes wet with sudden tears.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered as Charles lowered her so her feet touched the stairs.

One of the men who had stood at the door was gone. As Rebekkah looked toward the street, she saw him jump into another black roadster, which tore out, presumably following the men who had shot at Charles.

“Mind your step,” Charles instructed as he swept his foot to the side, brushing several bullets away. They tinkled like chimes as they rolled down the stairs.

She stared at him. There was no blood on him, but his suit was in tatters. “Charles?”

A crowd of people paused at the foot of the steps, watching them with varied expressions. The other man at the door hadn’t moved toward them. No one in the crowd seemed alarmed. Is this normal? Rebekkah forced herself to treat it as if it were—perhaps doing so would quell the panic still fluttering under her skin. She brushed back her hair and looked directly at the face of the man who had been shot shielding her body from bullets.

“I don’t understand what just happened.” She heard the tremor in her voice, but she tried to ignore it—and the shock that was making her shiver—as she straightened her clothes.

“They shot at us. Why ...” Her shirt was ripped on the side, and when she reached a hand over, she felt that the skin was torn as well. She looked at her hand and saw blood. “Charles?”

Charles looked at her bloodied hand, and then at her side. He wrapped an arm around her waist carefully. “Ward,” he called. “Retrieve a physician.”

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