Chapter 25 #2
Some of it, theoretically, could be traced to Carter’s sudden shift in attitude and behavior.
If someone had asked me last week if Carter and I would be speaking to each other, let alone sleeping together, after he learned I was a member—well, half member—of a nonhuman race with magical powers, I would have laughed.
(In a high-pitched, panicky way, before finding some other place to be.) But still. No.
For someone who was so concerned about the effects a potentially inappropriate relationship might have on our collective future, he is shockingly unworried about the effect dying might have.
So, that’s also part of it, I’m sure.
It’s not, however, until I’m climbing into the minivan, situating myself in the heap of plastic bags, trying to avoid anything with sharp edges, that I finally put my finger on what’s bothering me.
If I didn’t know better, I might think that Devon had interrupted. Deliberately.
That makes me feel as though the two of them have colluded in some way and for reasons I know nothing about.
I do not like that.
When we arrive, the cemetery is dark and quiet. Not unexpected under normal circumstances, but hey, we haven’t seen those around here in a few days, so I’m taking it as a win.
The now-empty houses surrounding the cemetery, both Greek life and otherwise, stare out at us, windows blank, black eyes. The evacuation seems to be complete. Even the two officers previously guarding the road are gone, replaced with flashing orange lights on the barricades, warning of danger.
I free the hood of my sweatshirt from under my coat and pull it up over my hair as we approach the main gate. I have no idea whether dressing in dark colors actually helps or simply guarantees that anyone who sees us knows we’re up to trouble.
The others are dressed in solid black, varying combinations of jeans, sweaters, and jackets.
I never realized how little I owned in that color until tonight—a subconscious attempt to deny stereotype, I suppose.
So, I’m doing my best in black fleece-lined leggings, an oversized dark blue sweatshirt, brown faux fur– lined boots, and a gray puffer coat borrowed from Chessa. Just call me a non-fashion influencer.
“Mary Grace is buried over this way,” Chessa hisses once we’re inside, pointing with the shovel to the far side of the cemetery, where the oldest graves remain. The earth is still torn up in frozen black hunks, like claw marks in the grass, visible in the narrow sweep of her phone flashlight.
An actual flashlight would have been more useful, but apparently none of us thought of that.
“Yeah,” I say. But I can’t seem to make myself move in that direction, even as Chessa leads the way, Devon at her heels with all the bags.
I don’t feel any particular pull toward the mausoleum. Cenotaph, whatever. Just like before, the sense of magic is thicker, for lack of a better term, here in the cemetery in general, but that’s all.
Still, instinct, or maybe the memory of all those blood-red asterisks on Kelleher’s pages, tugs at me. A little nudge somewhere in the vicinity of my chest, but one that can’t be ignored.
I pivot in the opposite direction to head toward the mausoleum. Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I turn on the flashlight to avoid tripping over ancient roots or one of the low-to-the-ground stones.
The mausoleum is in the back corner, close to the wrought iron fence boundary on two sides. Discreet placement, except for the fact that it stands taller than me by a couple of feet.
Mausoleums always look like small, ornate houses to me, and this one is no exception.
The roof is pitched at an angle to keep the snow from settling on the structure.
The building itself is constructed out of a solid gray stone with sparkling flecks, reflecting my light back at me.
Small columns on a little porchlike area stand on either side of the front doors, like guards.
On the triangular pediment above the columns, a Latin phrase is carved—Requiescat in Pace—along with a disconcertingly large eye in a triangle.
The open hole of the pupil seems to be home to either a bird’s nest or a collection of random sticks and dead grass.
On the side closest to me, more words are inscribed, this time in English:
Gone For Now, Never Forgotten
NANCY NGUYEN
LINDA VANG
PATRICIA MCGUIRE
KATHLEEN HAHN
NOVA WEST
The gap between the fourth name and the final one strikes me as odd until I remember that they never found the body of one of the girls. I’m betting that might be Nova West. Maybe her parents were reluctant to add her name at first.
“What are you doing?” Carter asks, coming to a stop next to me, his breath emerging in a white cloud. I hadn’t realized he’d followed me.
“I don’t know,” I say after a moment. “I just think we should start here.”
He nods and turns away. A moment later, he’s leading Chessa and Devon back across the cemetery toward us.
Chessa is grumbling under her breath about this being ridiculous, and who put me in charge, when the grave is obviously better and we should just get started over there. Fair, but she’s also hanging back, moving sideways instead of directly toward the structure.
And that doesn’t strike me as a very Chessa thing to do. An idea flickers in the back of my mind.
“Chessa,” I say.
She looks up sharply, her fingers gripping the shovel so tight her knuckles are going pale. Rather than carrying it in front of her or even over her shoulder, she’s got it locked under one arm, the blade of the shovel pointing out, like she’s ready to use it as a weapon if necessary.
“Do you really feel that the grave is a better option?” I ask.
She opens her mouth to start speaking immediately, and I hold up my hand. “Or is it more that you really don’t like this place?” I point to the mausoleum.
She gives me a hostile look, but to her credit, she pauses to consider the question. “Both, I think. I don’t know.” She hunches her shoulders, less like a shrug and more like a protective gesture. “I just feel like it’s not … right over here. I hated it even when my class came through.”
I glance at Carter for confirmation. “It’s … not pleasant,” he says after a moment, with a faint grimace.
Yahtzee.
That is probably what we’re looking for.
The same magic that is resonating with me might well be tripping danger signals in their brains.
Especially if it’s my father who is behind this.
I don’t think he’s crouched down inside, just waiting to jump out at me.
(I hope.) But he’s connected to this somehow. I’m almost sure of it now.
“Okay.” I nod, more to myself than the others. “Let’s do this.” In a louder voice, I say to Carter and Chessa, “You should step back, out of range.”
“What, are you expecting something to come popping out like an evil jack-in-the-box?” Chessa asks, a nervous laugh belying the defiance in her voice.
I wince at how closely her description matches my earlier thought.
“I don’t know what to expect,” I admit. A crusty old spawn attempting to regenerate? An Old One that somehow got tangled up in my father’s magic? “But I would rather you and Carter not be in the direct pathway of … whatever.”
“Because you don’t think we can help,” she says, hefting the shovel up to her shoulder like an enormous bat. Clearly, this is still about me lying to her, not letting her in on my big secret. Which, it’s a secret for a reason?
I bite back my exasperation. “Because I don’t want you to die, Francesca,” I say flatly.
“And I don’t know if we”—I tip my head toward Devon—“will be able to protect you while also trying not to die ourselves. And while I’m ready to sacrifice myself to keep you safe—gladly, in fact—it’s not my first choice, okay? ”
Whether it’s the use of her full name or the multiple mentions of the D-word, something finally gets through to her. Eyes wide behind her glasses, she nods reluctantly and then retreats to the center of the graveyard, tugging at Carter’s sleeve to bring him with her.
“Keep going.” I point toward the street, where we left the van.
She rolls her eyes but does as I ask, pulling Carter with her.
“You sure about this?” Devon asks, as we approach the mausoleum doors.
I give a strangled laugh. “Are you kidding?”
“Just checking,” he says, with a small smile.
Still, it’s a nice reminder that I’m not alone in this.
As soon as we’re directly in front of the doors—more black wrought iron over wood beneath—I spot our next problem. The rust-spotted hasp of the padlock gleams dully beneath my phone’s flashlight.
“Shit.” Chessa is going to be intolerable after this. “Uh, the hacksaw, please?” I ask Devon. He sets the bags down and pulls the desired implement from within.
“I told you,” Chessa whisper-shouts from the street, as soon as she sees the saw. “Anything that’s rumored to be haunted is going to be locked up to keep stupid kids out. You do not listen to enough true crime, Jocasta.”
Devon and I take turns at the lock until the blade finally breaks through the hasp, and I can twist the padlock free of the wrought iron design holding it in place.
I chuck it off to the side, and then I hand my phone over to Devon and, without giving myself time to hesitate, yank open the doors.
They open with a mighty groan from unused and elderly hinges, and I steel myself, muscles tensed and ready for whatever I might see. Or might come leaping toward my face.
Behind the doors is a vestibule, a space as wide as the mausoleum itself, with built-in flower vases on shelves in the wall.
But it’s empty, clean except for layers of dust and grit and the skeletal remains of a few leaves that worked their way inside at some point. And there’s no sound, no movement within.
Well, fuck.
Then Devon edges up next to me, sweeping the light across the space, and right at the outer edge, toward the darker, narrower crypt portion at the back of the mausoleum, I catch a glimpse of something on the floor, something that doesn’t belong.
A faded green metal body with black pushbutton keys and a cylinder at the top. It takes me several long seconds to recognize what it is.
“Is that a typewriter?” I ask Devon in a whisper that still manages to echo.
“One of the victims’ personal possessions?” he suggests.
A pang strikes my chest, like one of those now-immobile keys. What future had that girl imagined for herself so fiercely that her family would have given her typewriter over as the symbol of the life she was missing?
“Yeah.”
He lifts the light a little higher, sending it deeper into that small space, and I catch the gleam of metal, a sleek gold herringbone necklace laid out on the floor, and then a pair of red leather clogs with stacked soles and a daisy pattern cut into the uppers and …
The shoes shift in the light, toes rubbing together.
“Jesus.” I jump back, colliding with Devon.
His arm jolts, and light sprays upward, revealing … her.
A girl, seated on the floor, knees drawn up to her chest, in the crypt area. Her coppery hair, long and straight, catches the illumination, turning fiery in the darkness, her center part a chalk-white line.
“Holy shit,” Devon whispers.
Squinting, the girl holds up a trembling hand to block the light, but that doesn’t hide the shiny tears tracing down her pale cheeks.
After a second, she lowers her hand, looking up at us, imploring.
“Help me,” she whispers.