The Whispering Dead: Gravekeeper Book 1

by Coates, Darcy

  Mason drew his chair closer, then lifted the case onto his lap. He flipped open the lid, revealing a mix of equipment and supplies that could have belonged in a hospital.

  “I thought you weren’t technically a doctor,” she said as he tugged on a pair of gloves.

  His grin was tight. “After about six months of training, my entire extended family decided that I was qualified enough to treat them for free. I’ve learned to be prepared.”

  She laughed, but her mirth was cut off when an antiseptic-doused swap touched the exposed flesh. “Ugh. Could you poke it a little harder, please?”

  “Sorry. I know it hurts.” He looked appropriately contrite but continued dabbing at the cut.

  Keira bit the inside of her cheek and turned toward the fire. She focused on the dancing flame, forcing her whole attention toward it in an attempt to push the pain into the back of her mind.

  “You’re turning out to be a very interesting person.” Mason tossed aside one swab and fished out a new one. “The cut’s clean. There aren’t any jagged edges or tears—just a straight slice through.”

  “Yeah? What does that mean?”

  He arched an eyebrow as he worked. “It rules out a lot of accidental injuries. I’m guessing this was made by either a large shard of glass or a knife. And…it was probably deliberate.” His green eyes flashed up to gauge her reaction.

  She grimaced. “So by process of elimination, I’m probably either a drug lord or a professional assassin.”

  His shoulders shook as he tried not to laugh. “Probably.” After discarding the second swab, Mason tore open a little plastic pack that held a needle. “We’re nearly there.”

  Keira squeezed her eyes closed as the needle cut into her and the thread drew her skin back together. It hurt less than the antiseptic had, but she didn’t want to see her arm being turned into a craft project.

  “Keira?”

  “Hmm?”

  Mason seemed to be speaking carefully. “I hope it’s not rude to ask, but do you have food?”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m fine.” The answer came out automatically. Keira suspected she’d given it hundreds of times before.

  He narrowed his eyes at her, and she knew he’d looked through the cupboards while making tea.

  “Well, I have money. I was planning to go into town a bit later. Buy some supplies.”

  He nodded, but the cautious tone lingered. “Enough money?”

  “Plenty.” Twenty counts as plenty, right?

  Mason looked relieved. “Good. Make sure you eat well. You lost a lot of blood from this, and you’ll need energy to make more. And don’t be afraid of asking for help if money gets tight, okay?”

  “I will,” she lied happily. She knew Mason’s offers came from concern, but her subconscious screamed at the idea of accepting charity. Even staying in Adage’s cottage felt unnatural. Well, I guess that’s a good response. It means I probably wasn’t a thief…or that I was the worst thief ever.

  Mason tied off the sutures and cut the thread. “There. These can come out in a few days. Does it feel okay?”

  She flexed her arm. “Much better now that it’s not flapping open all the time.”

  He made a face and dug a bottle out of his case. “Painkillers,” he explained as he tipped two into a smaller empty bottle and handed it to her. “Take one now and another tonight before bed. I don’t think you’ll need more. You’ve got a pretty high pain threshold.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Not a single scream. Count me impressed.” He made to close the case, but hesitated. “You’re not hurt anywhere else, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She held up her hands reassuringly. “Promise.”

  “Good.” The cheerful, warming smile was back, and he locked his case.

  Keira expected him to get up and leave, but he stayed sitting. One hand came up to rub the back of his neck as his eyes flicked over her. She could feel his gaze touching on all of her vulnerabilities—the unkempt hair, the stitches just below her shoulder, the protruding bones—and desperately hunted for a distraction.

  “More tea?” she asked.

  “Thank you, I’m fine.” He inclined his head to one side. “Keira?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Will you still be here tomorrow?”

  That question didn’t have a simple answer. Sitting by the cottage’s fire, surrounded by well-loved furniture and sipping a hot drink, she’d easily forgotten how uncertain her future was. She took a moment to form her reply. “I…don’t know. It depends on whether my memory comes back. And whether Adage invites me to stay another night.”

  “He will.”

  Keira thought she saw something in Mason’s face, but it was gone before she could fully identify it.

  He rose and returned his cup to the sink. “In that case, I’ll come by tomorrow to check your arm.”

  “That would be nice.” She was surprised to realize how much she meant it. “Thank you.”

  He extended his hand.

  She shook it, and this time, it was easier not to squirm at the contact, even when he didn’t immediately release it.

  Mason’s smile extended into his eyes. “Take care, Keira. I’ll see you again soon.”

  Chapter Five

  Starve or get shot at? Keira pulled a face as she stared through the cottage window at the puddles dotting the graveyard. Starve…or get shot at?

  She’d showered once Mason was safely gone. The clothes still felt grimy, but at least her hair no longer looked like a home for small critters. Now, she only needed food.

  Keira’s gut instinct said the strange figures that had chased her wouldn’t stay in the town now that it was daytime, but for all she knew, her gut was an appalling liar. Her brain argued that safety should be paramount, and that all it would take was one moment of lowered guard to get sniped. On the other hand, she was really, really hungry. She’d been standing at the window for close to an hour but hadn’t seen anything more interesting than a small flock of birds fighting over a grub.

  Keira blew a breath out, crossed to the fireplace mantel, and took both the twenty dollars and the photograph. She didn’t know the picture’s significance, but it must have been important to be the only nonpractical thing she’d brought with her. She slipped it into her jacket pocket, zipped it closed, then went back to the door.

  Even if I don’t go to town, I should at least check on Adage. He called Mason, which means he made it through the night alive and unharmed, but I should still say good morning. He might even be able to tell me if any of the men came back—or if it’s normal to see ghosts in his graveyard.

  Keira dug her thumbs into the bridge of her nose. There was too much to think about—too much to worry about—and her mind felt dangerously close to fracturing under the pressure.

  She pushed the cottage’s door open and recoiled at the gust of chilled air. Although the sun had looked bright and generous from her window, the trees blocked much of it from warming the ground, and plumes of condensation rose from Keira’s mouth when she exhaled. She slipped through the opening, shut the door to preserve the warmth for her return, and marched toward the gravestones.

  The mist still hadn’t disappeared, and Keira was starting to believe it was a somewhat permanent fixture in the cemetery. A long, soot-colored stone wall marked the cemetery’s end a hundred meters ahead of her. She glanced to her left, where the ancient markers mingled with twisting trees at the forest’s edge. The sight made her uneasy. Why don’t they stop at the forest? It’s got to be the cemetery’s border, right?

  She stomped her feet to get the blood moving, passed through the open gateway, and turned to her right. The overgrown dirt path led through an arrangement of flowering bushes that divided the graves from the parsonage’s gardens. She kept her pace quick and her eyes constantly moving, wary of both strangers and ethereal figures looming through the fog. Water-stained angels and grim cherubs watched her progress. She tr
ied not to make eye contact with any of the stone figures as she crossed her arms and increased her speed.

  Keira couldn’t tell if she was imagining it, but the pastor’s yard felt warmer than the cemetery. The grass was thicker and neatly cut, and she rolled her shoulders as she returned to the same door she’d beaten against the night before.

  A piece of paper was attached to the wood with peeling sticky tape. Keira bent to read the damp note.

  Dear Keira,

  Thank you for not murdering me in my sleep last night. That was very polite of you.

  I’ve gone to town to make inquiries. Your situation might require some subtlety to keep the news away from unfriendly ears, so I’ll be discreet.

  I asked a young gentleman named Mason Corr to visit you today. He is a medical student, and I’m pleased to say he has a much better bedside manner than our resident doctor. Best of all, he’s free. He may be able to give some answers regarding your memory.

  Let yourself in—the door is unlocked. There’s leftover stew in the kitchen. I should be back early afternoon.

  Kindly yours,

  J. Adage

  Keira tried the door. As promised, it opened without resistance. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, closing the door again and taking down the note. “Are you trying to get robbed?”

  Blighty had to be a very trusting town. Or perhaps Adage was just an exceptionally trusting person.

  The offer of stew was tempting, but she couldn’t stomach the idea of taking more of his food, especially not when she had money to buy her own. She didn’t know how much a pastor earned, but judging by the secondhand furniture, it wasn’t enough to hand out favors as freely as he seemed inclined to.

  Keira slipped the note under the door, where casual passersby wouldn’t see it, then turned toward the driveway leading down to the clustered houses and shops in the distance. She didn’t want to admit how much the trip frightened her. They’re probably not going to hang around town if they’re still looking for you, she reasoned. And besides, a gunman is hardly likely to shoot at you in broad daylight in front of witnesses.

  Unless they’re crazy. And let’s be honest, if one person wants to shoot another, there’s a good chance at least one of them is somewhat crazy. Fingers crossed it’s not me.

  Keira walked as quickly as she could without breaking into a jog. She’d hoped to get out from under the trees and absorb some of the sun, but vast oaks lined the drive. They were filled with birds she couldn’t see, and the shrill chatter seemed to welcome the clear day.

  The path meandered as it wove around a narrow stream and eventually turned toward town. Keira passed through a thick copse of saplings and found herself at the road, where a large, hand-painted sign nailed to a tree read BLIGHTY CHURCH & BLIGHTY CEMETERY.

  The road continued to her right as it wound into the hills and worked its way toward the next town. To her left was Blighty’s main street, bordered by shops and home businesses. Keira whistled as she gazed over them.

  Blighty had a heavy emphasis on old-world charm. Most of the buildings were stone and had thatched or shingle roofs, with tall, paned windows, like something she would expect to find in a Dickens novel. The shops all had hand-painted signs hung above them, and messy fern baskets were suspended from the eaves. Keira half expected the road to be cobble and had to look down to make sure it was still asphalt. Ahead, a large fountain marked the intersection of two roads, and beyond that, groups of houses grew outward from the town center. Morning was creeping toward noon, and the streets held a smattering of shoppers. Keira joined the flow and tried to blend in.

  The closest shop was a narrow florist, conveniently close to the graveyard. Passing it felt like walking through a cloud of pollen. Keira stretched to look through the window at the bouquets filling the store. A short, pince-nez-wearing woman stood behind the counter, cutting ribbons. She squinted at Keira, one eyebrow raised. Keira ducked her head and kept moving.

  They’ll just think I’m a tourist. A quaint town like this must have hundreds of sightseers come through each year.

  Keira tried to keep her eyes moving over her environment without drawing attention to herself. She could feel the occasional curious glance cast her way, and it sent prickles crawling up her arms and made her palms sweat. She was starting to regret venturing into public so soon.

  The town’s general store occupied one of the corners that bordered the central fountain. The shop needed a new coat of paint, but the door jingled cheerfully as she opened it. Inside seemed dim after walking through the sunlight, and Keira blinked as her eyes adjusted.

  The store wasn’t especially large, but it was filled with a boggling jungle of products. Boxes were stacked up to the ceiling, and shelves were so full that some were nearly overflowing. Keira took one of the wire baskets waiting beside the door and let her feet lead her into the nearest aisle.

  Twenty won’t get me much, she realized as she read some of the prices. Especially as I need more than just food.

  She wove through the maze until she found the personal hygiene section, then picked out the cheapest toothbrush and soap available. The shampoo was expensive, so Keira passed on it and returned to the food section while calculating how much she had left to spend. Her mouth filled with saliva as she saw a lasagna in the freezer. She made to open the door but hesitated.

  Rice, her mind whispered. Potatoes. High calorie and low cost. The idea came from her subconscious, and Keira was hardly surprised. Of course Old Keira would be adept at shopping with pennies. Old Keira probably knew which were the best bushes to sleep under too. She allowed herself the indulgence of a dramatic, longing sigh, then turned away from the lasagna and went in search of the dry goods.

  Her basket was heavy by the time she turned toward the checkout. It was simultaneously reassuring and frightening; the food should last her at least a couple of days, but there wouldn’t be any more until she found a way to earn money.

  I might have my memories by then. There was only one person ahead of her at the checkout, so Keira joined the queue and did her best to fade into the background. Though I’m not sure how much good those memories will do. Adage might be able to help me find some unskilled job around town. I could garden or wash windows for a few dollars…

  When the woman ahead finished paying and took her shopping, Keira stepped forward. She kept her head down as she unloaded the bags of rice, hoping the assistant would let her complete the transaction without any small talk.

  No such luck.

  “You’re new here.” The phrase was said curiously, almost wonderingly, and Keira raised her eyes.

  The lady behind the checkout looked completely at odds with the quaint town. Violently red lipstick and dark eyeliner made her features pop, and her cropped hair was almost unnaturally black. She looked young—about Keira’s age—and her brown eyes were wide and sparkling. “What sort of ghastly bad luck landed you in Blighty?”

  It was exactly the sort of conversation Keira had been trying to avoid. She managed a tight smile. “Just passing through.”

  “No you’re not.” The woman propped her forearms on the bag of rice and bent forward, examining Keira’s face with far more interest than Keira appreciated. “This is Blighty. No one ‘passes through.’ It’s not close to anywhere and doesn’t bridge any other towns, and its only claim to fame is being a miserable hole where dreams go to die.”

  Keira was lost for words. She glanced toward the store’s door, barely six paces away, then looked behind herself. A short queue had formed, but both parties were deliberately facing away, clearly not wanting to get roped into the discussion. She cleared her throat. “Uh…I think it’s a nice town.”

  The sales assistant bent even closer, leaning so far over the counter that she managed to invade Keira’s personal space. One hand came up to tap at her lower lip as she narrowed her eyes. “I saw a dead guy outside my bedroom window last night. Now you, the first stranger I’ve seen in months, are standing in my store barely tw
elve hours later. Don’t expect me to believe that’s a coincidence.”

  “What?” Keira stared at the assistant, then looked back at the other shoppers. They continued to ignore her. Is this a joke? Is she crazy? Did she seriously see a dead person? Does it have anything to do with—

  The assistant’s eyes took on a fanatical glint as she somehow managed to stretch another inch nearer. Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “Give it to me straight. Are we part of a government experiment?”

  This can’t be happening. My life is already too complicated. I’m not getting paid enough to deal with…whatever this is.

  “Okay, okay, I understand.” The woman finally slid back behind her counter and raised both hands reassuringly, though the effect was ruined by a conspiratorial wink. “You don’t want to be overheard. Tell you what, I’ll buy you a coffee, and we can go over this somewhere a bit more private.” She pointed to a faded white name tag stuck to her chest. “Zoe, by the way.”

  “What?” Keira managed again. She felt as though she’d walked into a Picasso painting, where life just didn’t make as much sense as it should.

  “Coffee. Now. I have some questions. You’ll give me answers. C’mon.” Zoe was already pulling off her apron.

  Keira’s brain was doing its best to catch up. She found it hard to believe Zoe had seen an actual dead person at her window the night before—but there had been a genuine ghost outside the groundskeeper’s cottage. She wasn’t in a position to discount anything or reject any potential help, no matter how bizarrely it was packaged. “All right, okay. Coffee. But I need to pay for this first.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure.” Zoe grabbed the basket and riffled through. Before Keira knew what was happening, the other woman was prying the twenty out of her hand and shoving a couple of coins into its place. “That’ll be nineteen fifty-five. Thank you for shopping at Blighty General. Now c’mon. If we’re fast, we can get in before the lunch rush.”

  “But—”