The twisted dead, p.8
The Twisted Dead, page 8
Daisy waited for her in the middle of the cottage’s living space, huge amber eyes staring up at her imploringly.
“You want some food, huh?” Keira tied her hair back as she crossed to the kitchen. Daisy followed her, tail held high as she emitted faint, squeaky meows.
Keira served her up fresh food, then leaned her back against the counter while she ate a bowl of cereal and waited for her tea to steep. The day was overcast, and the biting cold from the night before had settled in. She’d left Mason’s jacket draped over the back of the fireplace couch and eyed it as chills began to creep through her limbs. He wouldn’t mind, she decided, and slung it over her shoulders, grateful for the way it hung down to her knees.
She made her tea stronger than normal, figuring she could do with whatever minute caffeine it gave her, then headed back outside. The muted light glared off damp gravestones and the low metal fences. She cupped the mug close to her chest for warmth as she squinted into the field of aging, crumbling gravestones.
Her second sight still ached when she pulled on it, but less than before. She guessed it would loosen up with some gentle use. Distant, pale shapes bled into view. None of the spirits were near her cottage that morning but scattered farther throughout the cemetery.
Keira’s boots kicked frosty dew from the grass as she stepped between the graves. She strained to make out the spirits around her, putting names to the ones she knew.
She stopped near the graveyard’s centre. To her left and straight ahead, the forest’s top was barely visible, rising above the mist like a watercolour painting against the grey sky. Shallow tingles prickled across Keira’s skin. A warning that there were spirits nearby. That was exactly what she wanted.
“I need help,” she said, speaking loudly enough that her voice would carry. “I need to practice sending spirits over to the next life. Is there anyone here who is ready to move on, who would be willing to help me?”
Wisps of condensation left her mouth with each word. She watched them coil away from her. Several of the distant spirits watched her, but none made any move to come closer.
Keira swallowed and adjusted her hold on her mug. None of the nearby ghosts were clear enough to see their expressions, only the vague outlines of their faces. The silence stretched.
A chill ran down her spine, like someone had dragged a frozen finger across the bones. She turned and found herself facing a tall, gaunt man. He looked like he was in his forties or fifties and wore plain, dusty farm clothes. One of his eyes was missing, and the lid was sewn shut over where it belonged. His hair might have been combed back during life, but strands had come free and hung across his sunken face.
“Hey,” Keira said, smiling despite herself. “Are you volunteering?”
There was a second’s pause, then he slowly nodded.
“Did you have any unfinished business that you can remember?”
Another pause, then he shook his head.
“That’s good.” Keira wet her lips. She hadn’t thought to ask if any of the graveyard’s denizens were ready to be released from earth before. Apparently, she should have. “Which grave’s yours?”
The man’s gait was slow and rocky as he led her a dozen paces away, to where a modest rectangle extended out of the earth. Keira crouched to read the faded stone. He’d died in 1925, just shy of his fiftieth birthday. “Solomon, huh? It’s nice to meet you. I’m Keira, but I guess you might already know that.”
There wasn’t a reply. Keira was used to it by that point. Still crouched, she glanced up at the man beside her. He stared at the stone, some inscrutable emotion behind the blank, limp expression. Keira tried to guess what it was. Sadness? His slab was simple, no more than a foot high, and less elaborate than some of the others around him. He’d likely lived a modest life. The same could be said for a lot of Blighty’s population around that time.
Keira cleared her throat and let her voice drop. “I could send you over right now if you wanted. But if you don’t mind waiting a few days, I could really use some help practicing how to remove a stubborn ghost.” She hesitated. “Raise one finger if you want to go now. Raise two if you want to help.”
He was still and silent for so long that Keira began to wonder if he’d even heard her, then his hand came up. Two fingers were raised towards the sky.
“Thanks, Solomon,” Keira said. She stood, leaving her mug on the soft ground near the grave. “This means a lot to me.”
His eyes flicked towards her, then glanced away again. Keira had a sense that maybe this was what he’d been missing during life. A sense of purpose. To know that he was helping something larger than just himself.
“Right, here’s what you need to do.” Keira shook her hands out, trying to mentally prepare herself. “I’m going to reach into you and try to unravel your…well, whatever that thing is inside of you that’s tying you to the earth. I need you to try to block me. Don’t let me unravel it if possible. Not yet.”
His one eye glanced at her again in a wordless acknowledgement.
“We might actually slip up and untether you before we mean to. Are you okay with that?”
A slow nod.
“Great. And, uh, if you decide you don’t like this and want to stop, cross your hands, like this.” She mimicked the motion, creating an X with her arms. “I’ll understand what that means.”
A final nod. Keira sucked in a deep breath and set her feet. “Okay. Get ready.”
That last encouragement was as much for herself as for Solomon. She reached forward, aiming for his chest. His body gave no resistance as her fingertips passed through him, but she felt it just the same. It was like dipping her hand into ice.
Keira closed her eyes and focussed. She found Solomon’s thread immediately. It was tangled just to the side of his heart, at the centre of his chest, the threads fizzing and bright and electric. Her sense of it was so perfect that she could see its shape in her mind’s eye…including where a loose end extended from the knot. She found it with her fingertips. Icy-hot electricity zapped through her fingertips. When she’d tried this the night before, the Crispin woman had used the connection to suck Keira’s own energy, but Solomon didn’t try anything similar. Keira felt the energy flow out of her and back into her like a closed loop.
She tightened her hold on the thread and pulled. It refused to untangle. Instead, the knot tightened, becoming stubborn. Keira dug her fingers in tighter, but the more she pulled, the more it refused to budge. She let go and staggered back, releasing a breath.
Solomon swayed slightly. She wondered what that must have felt like for him to have someone reach into his chest and touch his essence.
“You okay?” She doubled over, hands braced on her knees as she collected herself. He nodded once. “Did it hurt at all?” A pause, then a slightly less certain shake of the head. It might not have been painful for him, but it probably wasn’t the most comfortable experience. “Okay. You can still tap out if you want.”
He chewed that over for a moment, then gently shook his head.
“Great.” Keira straightened. “Ready for another round?”
The sun slowly rose and worked its way through the smothering mist as Keira and Solomon practiced in bouts. She’d encountered several hostile spirits before and none of the experiences had been especially fun. Solomon was different. He fought her, but he didn’t try to hurt her.
That didn’t stop it from being exhausting, though. She was already drained from the night before, and every attempt wore her down slightly more. Within an hour she was shaking and sweaty despite the cold morning.
Part of her had hoped there would be a secret trick to unravelling the thread. If one existed, she still hadn’t found it. She’d tried teasing the thread out slowly, pulling it quickly, and picking at it in increments. Occasionally she got a small amount of give but never enough to undo the knot.
“Okay, great,” Keira said, staggering away for what felt like the twentieth time that day. “I think I might need to call it quits for now. How’re you doing?”
Solomon’s features were less distinct than they’d been when they started. She could still make out the gaunt cheeks and wispy hair that drifted across his forehead, but his eyes and mouth had become vague and smudged. The exercise must have been wearing out his energy reserves too. He lifted one hand in a dismissive gesture, but Keira guessed he was about ready to be finished for the day too.
She picked up her cup from beside the grave and staggered to the nearest fence. The wood was rotting, with huge splinters running down its length as it sank into the soft earth, but Keira was still tired enough to risk resting against it as she caught her breath. She’d nearly finished her tea but drained the last cooled dregs then. Its caffeine had fuelled her even less than she’d hoped.
There must be some way around this. Keira frowned at the long weeds around her ankles as she poked at the Dane problem for the hundredth time that morning. Something I’m missing.
Distant footfalls dragged her out of her reverie. She straightened, squinting against the glare, and saw two figures approaching from the cemetery’s entrance. Two figures carrying…an enormous box? They each held one end, struggling under its weight as they made their way towards her cottage.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” she said to Solomon, but he’d already faded back into the aether. She took a deep breath and turned back to the approaching figures.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Keira recognised the closest figure. Even with his burden, Mason’s long gait was unmistakable. She couldn’t see the person behind him, but as she jogged to meet them halfway, she realised they weren’t carrying a box after all.
“The mattress!” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “I completely forgot.”
“I don’t blame you. The last twenty-four hours haven’t exactly felt real.” Mason was faintly breathless as he adjusted his grip. “I was going to bring it in my car, but it wouldn’t fit. I’m lucky that Harry offered to help me carry it up here.”
“I didn’t offer,” a muffled voice said. “I was volunteered against my will.”
Keira leaned to the side to see around the mattress. Harry’s face was squished against the fabric, crumpling one side of his disaffected glower and smudging the eyeliner he’d so carefully applied. “Hey, Harry. I’m guessing your mother did the volunteering.”
“Just like she volunteered to bring me into this bleak, unfeeling world.” His voice was as empty as his expression.
“Let’s get this inside,” Mason said. “It’s heavier than it looks.”
“Ah…yeah.” Keira moved ahead to open the door. “Sorry, I meant to clean up for it. Can you just lean it against the wardrobe for now?”
Mason dropped his end, then pushed the mattress so it was propped against the wardrobe. Keira’s old mattress was still on the bed, still sooty, with the old sheets and pillow bundled into a pile at its end. She had to admit, the thought of sleeping on the new, squishy-looking mattress was very appealing.
She cast a look towards the mantel clock. It was after midday. The morning had evaporated faster than she’d expected. “Have either of you eaten yet?”
Mason shrugged lightly. “I was going to pick up something on the way home.”
Harry, for his part, had turned towards one of the windows that overlooked the cemetery. He stood as still as a statue, hands limp at his sides, his pale skin and black hair appearing all the starker in the cold light. “What is food except a shallow bid to delay our inevitable demise?”
“I’m taking that as a no.” Keira crossed to the kitchen. “Let me get you something. It’s the least I can do to thank you both for carrying that mattress all the way up the drive.”
Mason joined her in the kitchen, and between the two of them they put together drinks and a plate of sandwiches. Keira was overdue to go shopping; the sandwich bread was slightly stale, but she compensated by layering on extra butter. She made a note to try to get to the general store before it closed. She’d had the same mental note hovering in the back of her head for days.
Harry still hadn’t moved from the window when Keira carried the sandwiches to the table. His sloping shoulders and limp hands betrayed no sense of emotion. She tried to read his expression, but it was hard when his fringe of black hair covered one eye. He was staring into the graveyard with an unnerving intensity, though.
An unsettling thought hit her. Watching him carefully, Keira asked, “Harry, can you see anything out there?”
“Ghosts, you mean?” His inflectionless voice held just a hint of moroseness. “No. But I like to cross my eyes and pretend I can.”
“Oh.” Keira almost laughed. For a second she’d thought that maybe she wasn’t alone and that someone else in Blighty had a gift to see the dead. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that she couldn’t ask her black-clad, melancholic friend for advice. His suggestions were rarely anything she wanted to implement, but it would have at least been something.
“I guess you figured out my secret,” she said, sitting at the table and pulling one of the plates closer to herself.
“Secret?” He finally turned away from the window.
Even knowing that she didn’t need to hide it from him, she still felt awkward putting it into words. “The…ghost thing.”
“Oh. Yes.” He approached the table and slunk into a chair of his own, with Mason taking up the third spot. “I didn’t know it was supposed to be a secret. You live in a graveyard. It just makes sense.”
Mason sent her a faintly sceptical glance. Keira doubted too many people would make the connection as quickly as Harry had.
“Dane invited us to his house last night,” Mason said, taking up one of the sandwiches. “You told him about Keira’s gift, and he wanted to see if she could help.”
“Yes. Dane.” Harry left his food and drink untouched. “I visit him often. Sometimes we play cards. Sometimes we just walk through the empty halls. It is the most fun I may ever have in this lifetime.” He blinked. “He gave me the skull you took. I told him about that. He said he would look for another if I wanted. He’s a good friend.”
“Harry…” She cleared her throat. “I don’t mind with Dane, since he needed help, but I’d be really grateful if you didn’t tell anyone else about the whole ghost thing.”
“Oh.” He turned slowly, his sallow features flat. “I already told my mother.”
“You…did?”
“She thought I was joking.”
“I guess that’s okay, then.” Keira tried to imagine how the sweet, pince-nez wearing florist would react if she learned her son had been telling the truth. Polly Kennard did not strike her as the kind of person prepared to believe in ghosts. She supposed she was lucky that Harry’s penchant for the dramatic and the macabre would help mask her secret if he did slip up. “Just keep it on the down low from now on. I could get in trouble if the wrong person hears about it.”
“I understand.” His gaze was unblinking. “A vow of secrecy. I’ve always wanted to be a part of one. We could cut open our palms and make a blood pact if you like.”
“Oh, uh, I don’t think we need to go that far.”
His shoulders sagged a fraction. “No one ever wants to make a blood pact. We could invoke ancient spirits to hold us to our vow instead. I have some necromancy books at home. But I have to hide them behind my calculus homework; otherwise, my mother finds them and throws them out.”
Keira was fighting against the urge to laugh. “I appreciate your dedication, but I’m cool to just take your word for it.”
He stared into the distance for a second, as though this suggestion didn’t make sense to him. Then he sighed, appearing faintly disappointed, and said, “Very well.”
“Thanks, Harry. And thanks for being cool about all of this. It’s nice to have people I can talk to.”
“I would have thought you’d have plenty of that with the dead. The graves are silent. They will listen for hours.” Harry took up one of the sandwiches and then, without another word, crossed to the door and left.
“Bye” was all Keira could manage as the door clicked closed behind the sallow man. She exhaled and leaned back in her chair. “I guess the dead must seem infinitely patient when you can’t see them. Really, though, a lot of them are kind of prickly.”
Mason chuckled. “Maybe that comes with the territory. I’m pretty sure I’d be in a bad mood too if I’d had to spend a century in a metaphorical waiting room and couldn’t even choose my neighbours.”
“True.” Keira took a deep drink from the mug of tea Mason had made her. The ache still pulsed behind her eyes, but she was also conscious of how time was trickling away from her. Part of her knew it was unreasonable to expect results after half a day, but another part of her felt like every wasted minute was too much.
It was an emotion that was hard to put into words, but she knew Mason, at least, would understand. “I’ve been working with one of the ghosts to figure out how I can get rid of the Crispin spirits. I haven’t made much progress. And…I feel like time might be running out.”
Mason ran his fingers through his deep brown hair, pushing it away from his face. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
She tilted her head towards him, one eyebrow raised.
He rolled his shoulders, looking uncomfortable. “You take responsibility—and guilt—for things too quickly. And I didn’t want to apply more pressure when you were already working as hard as you could. But…I didn’t like the way Dane was speaking last night.”
“Like he was at the end of this tether,” Keira said, knowing exactly what Mason meant. “Like…this is a final effort to fix things. And if this doesn’t work…”
Keira had left her hand on the table, and Mason reached for it. His warm fingers enveloped hers, heavy and solid and intimate all at once.
“You’re not responsible for other people’s choices,” he said, and there was a deep conviction in his words. “Do you hear me, Keira? You can try to help people, and that’s admirable, but you cannot shoulder responsibility if you’re not able to save everyone. No number of lifelines will rescue someone who wants to drown.”
