Graveminder

turned to Daisha. “Do his eyes—”

“You glow from head to toe, and his eyes shine the same way.” Daisha shook her head. “I don’t know if ... live people see it, though. At the graveyard, no one else seemed to notice the way you shine, so it could be just people like me.”

Rebekkah nodded, and then began to walk the rest of the way to the house. She didn’t feel that tendril guiding her toward the dead as she had previously. Maybe there aren’t any more. She glanced at Daisha. Or maybe she’s so close I can’t feel anyone else.

As they walked, Byron stayed near enough that his mistrust for the dead girl was made quite clear. He didn’t say anything, but he watched Daisha with the sort of studious attention reserved for the dangerous or foolish. Rebekkah couldn’t blame him. Daisha was with them, but that didn’t make her tame.

When we’re done I need to convince her to go to the land of the dead—or take her there by force.

They arrived at the small one-story house. There were no lights on or vehicles in the drive. There was a garage, but the windows were blacked out.

A thick white line cut across the ground in front of the garage doors. Rebekkah bent down to touch it. Her finger brushed it, but didn’t disturb the line.

“Don’t!” Daisha grabbed Rebekkah’s left arm and pulled her away from the white line. “Step away.”

Rebekkah straightened and looked at the white powder on her fingertip. It wasn’t chalk. It felt gritty. With her index finger still raised, she turned toward Daisha—who released her arm and stepped back.

“I think it’s salt,” Byron said. “Alicia mentioned that it’s useful with them. ” He licked his finger, reached down, and dipped it into the powder. He tasted it and then nodded. “It is.”

Rebekkah walked away to follow the line. It stretched unbroken in front of the garage and around both sides, stopping in a small pile that glittered in the sunlight.

Returning to Byron and Daisha, she said, “It extends all the way across the garage. To keep something in or out.”

“I can’t cross it, but”—Daisha smiled with such innocent glee that it was easy to forget that she was a monster—“if someone brushed it out of the way, I could go in.”

Hoping that the barrier was intended to keep the dead out, Rebekkah stepped up to the door and brushed the white line away. If there were others inside, she’d need to stop them from leaving. And take them home. She frowned at the thought of the dead, the Hungry Dead who were supposed to seek the Graveminder, being trapped—and her inability to feel them because of the barrier Cissy had laid down.

“Let’s go.” Rebekkah touched Daisha’s shoulder gently. It wasn’t the hug she suddenly felt compelled to offer, but it was a touch.

Daisha gave Rebekkah a perplexed look and then shrugged. “Sure. You able to open the door from this side or you need me to do it from the other side?”

“I can unlock the door.” Byron walked past them. He pulled a thin black leather case from the inside pocket of his jacket, but instead of opening it, he glanced back at Rebekkah and Daisha. “Out of curiosity, how would you open it?”

Daisha vanished. The air where she’d stood was misty, as if a sudden fog bank had appeared there and only there.

“Daisha?” Rebekkah called.

The front door opened. Daisha leaned on the doorjamb. “Yeah?”

Byron furrowed his brow. “How did you—”

Daisha pointed to herself. “Dead girl.” Then she pointed at the door. “No weather stripping.” She fluttered her hand. “Whoosh. Like a breeze, I’m in.”

“Whoosh?” Byron repeated.

Daisha dissipated into vaporous form and then resolidified. “Whoosh.”

Chapter 51

AT THE THRESHOLD, BYRON GLARED AT DAISHA. REBEKKAH STEPPED past them and went toward the garage.

She pulled open the door and stopped as five people turned their gazes on her in perfect sync. A man who looked to be Maylene’s age sat with a wood-handled cane beside him on the bare cement floor; a woman and a man who looked to be in their twenties were beside the older man. Each of the three was encircled by a ring of salt. Against the opposite wall a boy who was barely old enough to be called a teenager paced the perimeter of his salt circle. The fifth circle held a still, lifeless body: Cissy’s daughter Teresa.

“What has she done?”

Rebekkah walked into the room. As she looked at them, she realized that only Teresa, who was not yet awake, could be buried and given food, drink, and words. The others would need to be escorted to the land of the dead. Like Troy. Like Daisha. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. This was an abomination.

The young boy seemed to be the one who had been awake the longest: he clearly wanted out of his prison. The couple came to their feet as Rebekkah walked by. With arms outstretched over their heads as if they were reaching for handholds, they both leaned on the air that formed a boundary around them. The old man simply stared at her. He didn’t move, but he tracked her.

“Bek?”

She turned. “She did this. This is what she did to Daisha, to Troy.”

Tears were slipping down Rebekkah’s cheeks; she felt them with the objective awareness that she was crying. In the presence of the dead she hadn’t been able to protect, she was lost. They were hers , and she’d been unaware of their passing.

Because Cissy killed them.

“We won’t let her do this to anyone else.” Byron stood by her side, gazing at the dead, neither flinching from, nor oblivious to, their suffering.

“I need to get them out of here.” Rebekkah couldn’t touch or console them. Not here. She could take them to the land of the dead, however; she could break each salt circle, and one by one, she could lead them to where they would be themselves again. “I’m going to free them. I can take them ... not Teresa. She needs to be buried. You can take her and—”

“And when Cissy comes back, she’ll know she’s been exposed. Think, Bek.”

“I can’t leave them like this.” Rebekkah stepped toward the last circle, where her cousin Teresa lay. “Teresa’s recently dead. I will mind her grave, and she’ll never have to suffer, never know . The others ... I need to take them home.”

“Not yet.” Behind her, Byron stood. He didn’t touch her, but he was near enough to stop her if she tried to enter the salt circles.

Instead of looking at Byron, Rebekkah turned her attention to the old man. “He’s recently awakened. It might still be possible to give him what he needs; he might not need to walk through the tunnel. I can take him to the house, give him food and drink.”

Byron put a hand on her shoulder and spun her to face him. “And if we do that, Cissy will run. If you take Teresa’s body, if you take Mr. Sheckly, Cissy will know. Do you want to tell me that you’re willing to save these at the expense of those she’ll kill next?”

“No.” Rebekkah forced herself not to argue, but instinct vied with logic. The dead were trapped, and she needed to get them to their rightful places.

Byron’s voice was firm as he said, “We can’t free them yet.”

She nodded and took his hand in hers as she looked at them. My dead. Mine to protect. The salt circles blocked the threads that should be calling her to them, and them to her, but she’d found them nonetheless. She whispered, “Tonight you’ll go home. This is almost over for you.”

Byron squeezed her hand, and together they went into the house.