Graveminder

hit most targets he aimed at. The purpose of strange hobbies he’d shared with his father for years suddenly became obvious: preparation for a career that hadn’t been named until now. Byron was grateful, but the knowledge cast an unpleasant pall over his memories.

Still, the weight of the revolver was comforting. He’d prefer to have it holstered, but he didn’t have a holster and he wasn’t about to shove the revolver in his waistband. That was a pretty gesture in fiction, but in reality, it wasn’t the wisest place to carry a loaded weapon.

“Am I likely to need to be armed every time I come here?” he asked Boyd in a low voice.

“Nah. Transition period’s always a little tense. Folks’ll get used to you,” Boyd said. “You’re new. Some will want to test your mettle.”

“Any punishment if I shoot them?”

“Not unless they take it personal.” Boyd’s tone was dry enough that Byron couldn’t tell if he was joking until he added, “Shoot them right. No pansy-ass wounds. Give them a good scar. Makes for story credit at the bars, you know?”

“ Story credit?” Byron darted a glance at Boyd. “Seriously?”

“Hell, yeah. A man can drink for free if he has a good enough story, and you’re the news, Undertaker. You and the woman. Not a lot new happens here. Same shit, every day.” Boyd ducked into an alcove and pointed across the street. “That’s it. I stop here. I’m not welcome inside his house.”

Despite the beauty of some of the other buildings, Mr. D’s house still stood out like a mansion among rubble. Marble steps, columns, and an enormous door all assured that the house wouldn’t be missed. Above the third floor a rooftop garden held towering trees and plants that draped over the sides. And on the second floor, a long balcony stretched half the length of the building. Standing at the edge of the balcony looking out over the city was Rebekkah.

She’s alive. She’s safe. She’s ... wearing a gown like the dead women in the streets.

Byron frowned. It was one thing to see the residents of the city dressed in the fashions of earlier eras, but seeing Rebekkah looking out of time was unsettling. He’d seen her in dresses, but in the silk-and-gauze dress she was wearing now, she looked as if she belonged in Charlie’s mansion. Her lips were parted as she stared out at the city as if she were a member of a royal family surveying her kingdom.

I’m panicking over her safety, and she’s standing on a balcony looking at the city. Byron wasn’t sure whether this realization made him more or less worried. He did know he didn’t like seeing her looking like she belonged here. She’s not staying. She promised to come back home. He didn’t look away from her as he asked Boyd, “What happens if I’m shot?”

“Here? It’ll hurt. Same as with us. Over there? Normal rules.”

“And Rebekkah?” Byron forced himself to look away from her.

“She can be killed here.” Boyd shrugged. “She’s different.”

“Why?”

Boyd shrugged again. “I don’t make rules. Wasn’t even here when the rules were made. Some things just are.”

Then he turned and ambled off down the street. People moved out of his way as he walked, and Byron had a moment of wondering whether they were afraid of Boyd or simply realized that he wouldn’t veer, so they had to move.

Byron looked back at the house, not entirely sure of the protocol. Is she a prisoner? A guard of stood on either side of the massive doors to Mr. D’s house. Do I knock? There was only one way to find out.

With the revolver still in hand, he crossed the street and ascended the stairs. He didn’t raise the gun, but just as he did when he’d walked through the city, he didn’t make any effort to hide it. The street at the foot of the steps was littered with bullet casings, and a wet gray stain on one step made Byron pause. Blood? The inability to distinguish color in this world was something he’d adjusted to relatively easily, but as he saw the fluid on the step, he realized that it could be any number of things. Without color, the possibilities were harder to narrow in on. Rebekkah is on the balcony. She’s alive. He paused as the absurdity of his thought hit him: he couldn’t be sure she was alive. She can die here.

He ran the rest of the way up the stairs.

The guards both stepped in front of the door in perfect sync. “No.”

“Yes.” Byron lifted the gun and aimed it at one of the guards. “Rebekkah ... the Graveminder is in there, and I’m going in to get her. Now. ”

The guards exchanged a look, but they didn’t move or reply.

“I will shoot,” he assured them. “Open the doors.”

“We have orders,” the guard he’d aimed at said.

The other added, “No one simply walks into his house. You are no exception.”

Byron cocked the hammer. “Are you going to let me in?”

“Mr. D directed that we don’t. That ”—the first guard pointed at the gun—“doesn’t change his orders.”

“I don’t want to shoot.” Byron lowered his gun marginally and reached for the door handle. The guard grabbed his arm.

“But I will ,” he added.

The first bullet entered between the guard’s eyes, and in another instant, another bullet pierced the second guard’s throat. Both men slumped, and Byron hoped that Alicia had been honest when she told him that he wasn’t truly killing the dead men.

Can you kill the already dead?

It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to be turned away at Mr. D’s door. His job was to keep Rebekkah safe, keep her by his side, take her home to the world of the living.

Byron pushed open the door. Mr. D was sitting in a velvet-covered wing-back chair in the middle of a vast foyer. An enormous chandelier dangled high over his head, and for a moment, Byron considered seeing how good his aim still was. Could I break the chain? The idea of sending the crystal monstrosity down atop Mr. D was exceptionally tempting.

Mr. D followed his gaze. “Difficult shot, that one. You want to try it?”

“Where is Rebekkah?”

Mr. D motioned upward. “Top of the stairs. Straight back, big doors, balcony. Can’t miss it.”

“If you hurt her—”

“You’ll do what, boy?” Mr. D flashed his teeth in a smile of sorts. “Go fetch her. I’ve work to tend to. Unless you want to take the shot?”

For a moment, Byron hesitated. He looked back up at the chain holding the chandelier up over Mr. D’s head. Could I? Should I? He looked back at Mr. D and said, “Maybe next time.”

Mr. D’s laughter followed him up the stairs.

Chapter 33

“REBEKKAH?”

She turned from the street and saw Byron striding down the short hallway toward her. She was confused, tired, and scared. Her side stung from the bullet that had grazed her, and her head was so full of worries that she couldn’t even name them all. Yet, in that instant, everything else went on hold.

He stopped at the threshold between the room and the balcony. “Are you okay?”

He studied her as he spoke. There was no tenderness in his expression, and seeing that coldness in his eyes made her shiver.

“I am.” She stepped toward him, suddenly self-conscious in the dress, unsure of him as she hadn’t been when they entered the tunnel, guilty even though she hadn’t done anything more than dine with Charles. “Take me home. Please?”