by Melissa Marr
Byron stared at the tunnel and then at his father. “Is it a Prohibition tunnel? From a war? From ... I don’t know. What is this? What does it have do with your arm? Were you down here explor—”
“No. It’s the entrance to the land of the dead,” William told him.
“ What did you say?” Byron stared at his father. He must have slipped into some sort of grief-induced dementia or shock or something. “Let’s go upstairs. Maybe we can go for a drive and—”
“Come on.” William beckoned. “I’m not crazy. I know it seems ... I know exactly how odd it seems, but you need to come with me now. The dead don’t get any more patient for having forever at their disposal. Step into the tunnel.”
Byron hesitated. It was probably just an old, unused tunnel, an escape route or something. Tunnels to the dead didn’t exist.
It’s not real. It’s ... Faces appeared in the frosty air; hands stretched out toward his father; and Byron wasn’t sure if they were welcoming or threatening. Terror rose up in him as the ghostly figures hurtled toward his father. Byron stepped into the tunnel and in front of his father. “Dad?”
William leaned close to him and yelled in his ear, “Just stay with me. They aren’t always like this.”
They?
William strode off into the swirling darkness in front of them. Any words he might have said were lost in a gust of wind that came tearing at them. The sheer force of the wind was like teeth sinking into skin, like cold breath on Byron’s neck, like viscous wet things pressed on his lips.
The flickering light didn’t seem touched by the screaming wind, but the air was cold with it. Frost had started to creep over the walls, covering them with a growing white rime.
And then the shrieking wind died as suddenly as it had begun. The hands and voices dissipated, and Byron wondered if he’d imagined them.
Am I hallucinating?
“You wanted answers,” William said in a breath of white air. “You’re about to get a few of them.”
Byron jumped as he heard the slam of a door closing behind him. As it did so, the landscape around them seemed to shift. The already hazy tunnel grew dimmer and then flared with light. An opening, an end to the previously dark tunnel, appeared.
Beside him, his father said only, “Some days the way is long, and some days the way is brief. When it’s quick as today, it means they want to talk now .”
Byron turned quickly as something ran past him and into the shadows along the tunnel walls. “They?”
“The dead, son.” William started walking toward the vague shape of buildings that had become apparent at the end of the tunnel. As they walked, or maybe as time passed, the wooden storefronts became clearer. “This is their world. They’ve been waiting to meet you.”
“The dead?” Byron peered into the darkness of the tunnel to try to see whatever had hidden itself there, but the torch in his father’s hand only illuminated a small space around them. Even if the torch did cast light farther into the tunnel, Byron wasn’t sure that the light would help. Warily, he said, “We’re here to see the dead who want to meet me. ”
“Not all of them,” William murmured. “There are those we can’t meet here. You won’t see your mother. If you have children who die ... or close friends ... or other Undertakers.”
“You are saying that we’re in the land of the dead ... That hell is under our house.” Byron kept his voice low, but the absolute silence in the tunnel made it echo nonetheless.
“Not hell. Not heaven.” William mostly watched the ground in front of them, but he swept his gaze along the walls a few times as if he saw things at the edge of the light, too. “Those are other places maybe, but this is the place we can reach.”
“We?”
“You are the next Undertaker, Byron.” William paused for a moment. His hand tightened on the torch he clutched. Light flickered over his face. “I’d thought of revealing it some other way, but seeing is believing. You need to see, and after ... then we can talk.”
Then William increased his pace, and Byron was left with the choice to follow or to be left alone in the dark.
The dead.
Byron bit back a few words that he was pretty sure weren’t anywhere near the reverence his father had demanded while here. He wasn’t sure what was stranger—that his father was leading him to meet the dead or that he felt betrayed that this had been in his home all of these years. It was one thing to keep a bottle of booze tucked in a hidden nook or to hide a flirtation or a hobby. This was an entire world.
At the end of the tunnel, William stopped. He held his hand behind him, fingers outstretched and flat, in a stilling gesture, and said, “I want you to meet someone.”
He sounded nervous for the first time. A tremor threaded through his voice, and those outstretched fingers seemed poised to tremble. They didn’t, but Byron knew his father well enough to read the signs of worry.
William put the torch into a hole in the wall; it extinguished as soon as he released it. He stepped out of the tunnel and said, “Charlie.”
Standing in front of what looked to be a fully functioning mining town was a man who didn’t blend with the crude buildings around him. The man, Charlie presumably, wore a 1930s-style suit complete with silk pocket square, wide-brimmed fedora, and silk tie. Byron suspected that the tie and pocket square matched, but the world had taken on shades of gray: all color had vanished.
“It took you long enough. Shake a leg, son,” Charlie said. “We have places to go and people to see.”
William opened his mouth to reply, but Byron spoke first. “What? Why?”
Charlie stopped and grinned. “Because the alternative isn’t one you’ll like much. You might be set to be the new Undertaker, but he”—the man gestured at William with an unlit cigar—“hasn’t finished his living just yet, so there’s still time to fetch a new one if you are found lacking.”
William put a hand on Byron’s shoulder.
Byron glanced back and could see blood seeping through the sleeve of his father’s suit. The sight of that blood scared Byron more than anything else. “What happened?”
William ignored him. He looked past Byron and said, “I’m not long for the other side, Charlie. You and I both know that the time has come for change.”
Charlie nodded once. A flicker of regret seemed to cross his features, but before it was clearly there, it was gone. The dead man gestured widely with the hand still holding the unlit cigar. “I reserved a table.”
“Dad?” Byron pulled up his father’s sleeve. A blood-soaked bandage covered his wrist. “Shit. We need to get you to the hospital.”
Charlie looked at William’s arm, and then caught William’s gaze. “Do you need a medic?”
“No.” William gently loosened Byron’s grip. “This can wait.”
An inexplicable look passed between William and Charlie; then Charlie nodded. “As you will.”
He turned and walked away into the gray landscape. William motioned for Byron to follow. Byron wanted to take his father and leave this place, but he trusted William, so, reluctantly, he walked after Charlie.
Soot looked different when there were only shades of gray: that was the first realization Byron had as he walked through a city that had neither modernity nor antiquity to distinguish it. As they went farther into its precincts, wooden structures gave way to brick buildings and steel-and-glass structures. Horse-drawn curricles and barouches shared space with bicycles and Model Ts and 1950s Thunderbirds. The costumes varied as much as the conveyances: women in flapper dresses strolled past others who sported punk and belle époque attire. There was something unsettling about the unnatural beauty of these coexisting eras.
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
D AISHA 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.”
“I’ll put one on that pole.” Daisha started to walk toward a light pole.
“Hold up.” The woman followed. “You forgot the stapler.”
“Sorry.” Daisha kept walking until they were in the shadows, until they were farther away from the already empty street.
“It’s okay,” Bonnie Jean said. “If we hurry ... I have a date.”
It’s okay. Daisha heard the words, the permission. It’s okay. Like Maylene. She wants to help.
“Thank you,” Daisha whispered before she accepted Bonnie Jean’s help.
Afterward, Daisha walked through t
he peaceful streets, wishing that Maylene were still alive. She’d tell me stories. Bonnie Jean didn’t tell me anything before she was empty. After a few moments, she’d become motionless while Daisha ate. She didn’t share any words. She wasted her breath on whimpering noises, and then she stopping making any sounds.
Chapter 20
R EBEKKAH SAT AT MAYLENE’S WRITING DESK. SEVERAL PAPERS WERE stacked to the side of the blotter, and a note to “pick up oranges” was scrawled across the topmost paper. Absently, Rebekkah ran her fingertips over the wood of the desk. Maylene had refused to let anyone refinish it, arguing that the pattern of the scratches and wear marks earned from years of use made it uniquely hers. Years leave stories written on every surface , she’d said. The room, Maylene’s bedroom, was filled with stories. The tatting on the pillow shams and on the delicate doilies atop the chest of drawers had been done by Maylene’s great-grandmother. The noticeable chip at the foot of the Tudor four-poster bed was from when Jimmy threw a toy car at it when he was a toddler.
Family.
Sometimes it felt odd to know so much about her stepfather’s family tree and nothing about her biological father’s, but Jimmy had been a part of her life, and her bio-father was just a name on her birth certificate. Jimmy had been the only real father she’d had—even though he hadn’t been in her life more than a few years—and after he died, Maylene had been her closest family. Rebekkah and her mother were close: they talked and visited and got along well enough, but they’d never had the kind of bond Rebekkah and Maylene shared.
