9. Revenant
nine
Revenant
Liam
My palms are red from hitting the door so hard, the skin stretched and stinging. But I keep banging it anyway, shouting again, “Mr Gravely? Are you all right?”
Last thing I heard was him yelling. At who? I don’t know. A ghost? The same ghost I saw earlier? A new ghost? Zombie Raul?
Jesus, has he been bitten? Is that why he’s gone quiet? Has he had his throat ripped out? Is he dead too? About to wake up and come in here and try to eat the brains out of my skull?
I fling desperate eyes towards the windows again, but it’s no use. These windows don’t open. They’re new, solid glass right to the top, and the only way out is by smashing them. A step I’m very close to taking. In fact, I would have already if not for…
I don’t know. I feel like I can’t abandon Archer. Even if he’s abandoned me, and what the fuck did he do that for?
“Archer!” I shout, slamming my hands on the door again, desperately, pointlessly.
Then, click! The lock. The key turning in this door and no word from Archer and…
My heart is in my throat. Can zombies use locks? Do they know how that stuff works? Are these smart zombies or dumb zombies? Fast or slow? Am I the only thing standing between London and a full-blown zombie apocalypse? Because if that’s the case, London is unequivocally fucked.
The door’s opening before I can get a single thought straight, or vaguely imagine doing anything about this mess I’ve stumbled into.
The door’s opening, and there’s a shuffle of boots against the floor, and every time I watched a zombie film I never imagined I’d be the character just standing here, frozen, too scared to move and about to die. But that’s who I am. This is how I die.
Fast, with a sudden smack, the door completes its movement, and there, in front of me, stands zombie Raul, covered in blood from head to toe, his clothes ripped and his face blank just like a motherfucking zombie.
Oh fuck.
Oh holy fuck.
I’m about to die by zombie.
Until, “What the fuck are you doing in here?” he spits out. Normally. Like a normal person talking.
Do zombies talk? I’ve never seen a zombie talk. But come to think of it, why can’t zombies talk? They have voice boxes.
“What?” I ask stupidly, expecting him to lunge any second and take my throat with him.
“Why are you in here? You’re supposed to be out there helping me, not hiding in here like a fucking mouse. Get out there!”
“What? But…”
My eyes rake over him, head to toe. His hair is matted with blood. It’s all over his face. But the arm—the arm that dripped blood through the broken pieces—it’s whole. Normal through the torn shirt. And his face… It was caved in! Now… not even a bruise to be seen behind the rivers of blood.
“You were dead.” I say it as much as a confirmation to myself as information for him. He was dead. He was. I saw it with my own eyes. “Are you still dead?”
“I’m not fucking dead,” he snipes. “Do I look fucking dead to you?”
“Kind of?”
His eyes squeeze to thin slits.
“Have you actually seen yourself?” But even as I say it, relief takes me over.
Insane, feverish, joyful relief that makes me grin like a maniac, makes a mad laugh crack out of me.
“You’re… Are you not dead? Raul!” I trip forward in my excitement, my hands landing on his arms. “I was so sure you were dead. That whole chandelier, I thought it squashed you flat!”
“What chandelier?” He shoves me off, clearly still the very same guy who refused to shake my hand earlier. “What are you talking about?”
“The one that fell on you! And…” His brow creases. I stall. “Don’t you remember? Oh my god, you probably shouldn’t be standing here. You probably have some kind of head injury. Let’s go sit, and I’ll get you some help.”
“I don’t think I’m the one who needs to sit down, mate.”
“Huh?” My words halt. What is even going on here? A ghost dropped a chandelier on my coworker’s head, and no matter how mad that sounds, I know it for a fact. I saw it. And so did…Archer…
Archer went back.
A new, fresh, and overwhelming wave of anxiety takes me. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here with you?”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, who? Gravely! Where’s Archer?”
“Oh, well, while you’ve been having a little relax in here, I’ve been dealing with some real shit. Now, if you don’t mind?” He stands aside with a sarcastic bow.
Yep, still an asshole.
It takes everything in me not to shove him into the doorframe on my way past, but I follow his suggestion and step out into the hall.
The relative darkness sets me straight back on my guard. Raul’s not dead, and I’m thankful for that. But there was a ghost. I saw an actual fucking ghost, and it’s almost definitely still around here somewhere. But Archer. Where’s…
My gaze falls on a hand, flat and lifeless on the floor. My legs carry me faster than I can process what’s happening.
Archer, in a pool of blood that I’m sure was Raul’s, even if he’s standing over my shoulder now, uselessly shifting from foot to foot as I drop to the floor by Archer’s side.
My hand is slow to touch his cheek. I’m terrified of what I might discover.
What if I touch him and he’s cold? But even before skin meets skin, I feel the warmth radiating from him.
A strange warmth. A tingle almost. And when my palm reaches his face, an odd, pleasant heat thrills through my fingers, all the way up my arm, into my chest, blooming in my own cheek as if he’s just touched me.
It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever felt.
Strange and beautiful, and I don’t want to pull away.
But within seconds, a soft groan comes from deep in his throat, and his head turns.
For the briefest time, he nestles his cheek into my palm, and a new horror strikes me.
Maybe he thinks I’m his partner, whoever that might be. The person who put that ring on his finger.
Even if it feels like slipping between cold sheets on a frigid winter’s night, I make myself pull my hand away before he can realise—before he can see it’s only me, some random ghost botherer from Ickenham.
But his hand reaches up, closes over mine, presses it back to his cheek, and that heat throbs through me, in my chest, up and down my arm, in my cheek. His eyes open slowly, fixing on me, amber irises dancing as recognition dawns.
I could die.
He could too, clearly, because he wrenches himself up and away, his whole body reeling with a massive gasp. His face turns shakily, eyes flitting around the room, as if he can’t remember where he is.
“Kraa!” shouts that strange raven. The window’s open now, and it’s just perching there on the ledge, watching Archer.
Archer looks at me again, brow drawing tight. “Are you okay?”
“I’m… Am I?” A laugh bubbles up at the ludicrous question. “I’m fine.” Physically, anyway. Out of everyone in this room, I seem to be the least harmed by whatever has happened here today. “Are you all right? We found you on the floor.”
“I’m all right.” His smile is sudden and wide and not even a bit convincing. “Low blood-sugar, probably. I should eat a cookie or something. Tea?”
Tea? What the fuck, tea?
But he’s already making his way to the kitchen, the palm of one hand pressing into his temple, rubbing it like it hurts.
“Mr Gravely, are you—”
“I’ll have a cup,” says Raul, and it’s then I notice that his hands are shaking. He brings them to his upper arms, rubbing them as if he’s cold, warming himself.
“Are you okay?” I ask him again. And get a sneer for my effort. “You should look in the mirror some time,” I chance.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You just…” I catalogue the river system of dried blood all over him. “You have something on your… everything…” I know that’s inviting another unpleasant comment, but I don’t know what else to tell him. “Are you sure you’re feeling—”
“Bathroom’s at the end of the hall,” Archer calls, his back turned to us as he pours boiling water into a mug.
Raul shakes his head at me with something that looks like disgust. But his teeth chatter, like he really is freezing, and he strides off down the hall.
“Do you mind if I close the window?” I ask Archer, feeling the cool autumn breeze seeping in, worried it’s making Raul worse.
“Yeah, of course,” he says, super casually, his face lost behind an open cupboard door. So I turn to the window, laying eyes on that strange raven.
It makes a weird sort of cooing at me. Weird because it seems deliberate, like it’s talking to me.
Like it seemed to do when it was outside earlier, hanging around near Archer.
“And that’s not a pet?” I call out, approaching the bird, flummoxed that it appears to not be scared at all by my presence.
Archer pokes his head out. “That’s not a pet.”
“All right. It’s… It’s very brave, isn’t it?”
“Kraa!” snaps the raven, and I freeze right there.
“Edgar, be nice!” Archer remonstrates.
“Edgar?” I repeat. The bird coos again, and I take a step closer. “You call it Edgar?”
“I do.”
“But it’s not your bird?”
A laugh floats from the kitchen, fond and rich. “It’s not my bird.”
“But…” Its next soft croak comes with a lowering of its head, like it’s inviting me to pet it. All things considered, this is probably the least weird thing that’s happened to me in the last twenty-four hours, but it’s still very odd. Its feathers look sleek, shiny, and silky, and I can’t resist.
I reach out, slowly, and it tilts the top of its head towards my fingertips.
It’s perfectly entrancing. I won’t pretend I’m not nervous.
The bird is truly enormous. I’ve never seen a raven so big.
But I can’t stop myself, and when I make contact, it’s so warm and soft, and it croaks in a pleased way.
“Hi,” I say to it, and it turns its head, rubbing its beak up the side of my finger.
“He likes you.”
I almost jump. Archer, here beside me suddenly, two hot cups of tea steaming in his hands. I’m thankful when he puts mine down on a side-table because I don’t want to have to stop petting this bird. “Edgar?”
“Edgar Allan Crow.”
I chuckle, despite everything, and trail my finger down his long beak. “But he’s a raven, isn’t he?”
“Well, yes, but the wordplay doesn’t work half as well if it’s ‘Edgar Allan Raven.’ Who’s going to call a bird Edgar Allan Raven?”
I glance up at him, taking in his fond smile at the bird as he strokes a hand over his feathers. “But isn’t it also a raven in the poem, not a crow?”
“Yes, but the point still stands.”
“What even is the difference between a crow and a raven?”
“I have no idea.”
“I’m not sure if I’ve ever actually seen another raven, come to think of it. In real life. Except for at the Tower. Do we have many ravens in England?”
“Liam, I liked you a lot more before this recent interest in ornithology.”
“You liked…” Heat rushes to my face. I’m blushing. Actually blushing, standing a foot away from what may be the most handsome man in all of England.
No, no, don’t do this. He’s being friendly. Probably feels bad about all the… everything.
I don’t really want to turn around. I know there’s blood all over the rug. But just then my head does snap across, because with Raul’s strange recovery, finding Archer on the floor, this strange bird, I’ve missed something. And when my eyes fix on that scarlet mess, I realise what it is.
I search upwards automatically, finding the chandelier. The chandelier in place, hanging out of the ceiling, and there’s no way Archer could have fixed that in the time I was locked in that room. “What—”
“What the hell h-happened?” Raul cuts me off. “W-why am I c-covered in blood?” His teeth are chattering violently, his whole body shaking.
Then, just like that, he falls flat on the floor in a heap.