The Whispering Dead (Gravekeeper, #1)

by Darcy Coates

“Eat. You look like Skeletor and that guy from The Machinist had a baby, and that’s not a compliment.”

It must be nice to feel like you belong somewhere. That you’re not inconveniencing other people or taking things you don’t deserve. She snorted a laugh. You’re getting awfully maudlin there, Keira. Time for some rest.

Zoe stood outside the café, her arms crossed and her face a mask of pure disgust. “Keira Jane Doe. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?” “Sorry!” Keira slowed to a halt and pressed a hand to her torso. She’d run from the church, and not even her muscles could save her from breathlessness. “I’ve been here for at least four minutes. That’s, like, equivalent to an entire month of a mayfly’s life.”

Five gray-haired women had co-opted the largest table and were happily talking over each other.

“Who said we’re friends?” “I did, idiot. Eat the damn food.”

“That’s a joke, right?” Zoe snorted. “Please. It’s important to ensure all aspects of your life are as anonymous as possible. Anyone who’s still on the grid when the machines reach sentience is going to have a really, really bad day.”

Zoe looked genuinely pleased. “Anytime. Ready to go through some of my theories?” “Absolutely.” A folder came out of the bag. Zoe managed to squeeze it between the plates and began leafing through. Keira peeked at the turning pages and saw a bizarre mix of arcane symbols, Illuminati eyes, a language that looked suspiciously like Elvish, a map of Madagascar, and blurry photos of what were presumably flying saucers. “I was up researching most of the night,” Zoe said, pausing to linger over a lovingly rendered depiction of a Lovecraftian monstrosity.

“And I’m used to you in the same way that a person gets used to an ax in their head,” Zoe retorted. “Bloody traitorous capitalistic sellout.” “She doesn’t like that I chose to study medicine,” Mason explained. “It’s too mainstream for her taste.” “You may as well have signed up for a class on brainwashing. All they do is spoon-feed you institutionalized lies and teach you how to perpetuate Big Pharma’s monopoly on human suffering.” He nodded gravely. “The whole business of saving lives is exceptionally corrupt. The world would have been a better place if I’d studied UFO phenomena instead.” Zoe snatched the folder off the table and hefted it, as though threatening to beat him with it. “Behave, plague monger, or I’ll evict you from the meeting.”

“It always seems a waste to cook just for myself,” Adage said as he pried the pie out of its tin. “But I really do love food, so I tend to go all out when I have a guest. If the Lord hadn’t called me to his ministry, I think I should have liked to be a chef.” Keira took the empty pie tin from Adage and began stacking the mess by the sink so it didn’t take up so much counter space. “Why not do both? Become a TV chef who recites sermons while preparing food. Call it the Cooking Church.” “I could see that working. ‘Add a pinch of salt, just as you are to be the salt of the earth.’ And then I could recommend accompanying communion wines.” “You’re onto something now.”

Generations of suffering, fear, and pain hit her like a punch and dropped her to her knees. Keira retched, doubling over, but her body wasn’t trying to expel food. It was trying to purge itself of the echoes of past lives.

Silence filled the room. Keira let her eyes rove over the decorations. Unable to tolerate the silence, she cleared her throat. “So—” Harry, still staring blandly at the opposite wall, raised a finger to indicate he wanted silence. After a moment, Keira understood why: a door clicked, betraying that Polly had given up eavesdropping at the base of the stairs. Harry let his head loll to one side, his limp, dark hair half covering his eyes. “You live in the graveyard?”

if life gives you a chance for something, you can’t hesitate or wait for a better time. You just have to take a leap of faith while it’s there.”

Putting it off will only make it harder. Keira scuffed her feet over the ground as she tried to find a pleasant way to phrase the announcement. Knock, knock! Who’s there? Not me. I’m outta this place!

“I saw the photos put in as evidence,” Zoe whispered. “And I thought I could guess the scene of death based on them, but wow, a lot’s changed in forty years. Can you believe this used to be a luxury property? They had a dedicated gardener to trim the hedges and stuff. Now it’s like some postapocalyptic-scape, just with plants instead of collapsed buildings.” The metaphor was awkward, but Keira couldn’t argue with it. As the flashlight skimmed over the yard, she saw sprawling shrubs as big as a car, flowers that had spread outside their garden beds, a stone statue of a Grecian woman with both arms lying crumbled at her feet, and a dry water fountain with decades’ worth of leaves in its basin.

“Mason, I am awfully fond of you, but I’ve known Catholics who worry less. We can discuss what’s to be done once she’s awake and can actually have a say in the matter.”

On the other hand, my entire life is based on the idea that having faith is more important than trusting in what we can see.” He sighed, took a sip of the tea, then fixed her with his sharp blue eyes. “You can talk to ghosts, can’t you?”

“Well, I have an offer of my own. Now, to be clear, I cannot afford even a fraction of what your talent would be worth. But I can give you this cottage to live in, dinner with me as often as you would enjoy it, and a modest weekly wage.” Keira blinked. “Sorry, do you mean—?” “I would like you to support Blighty’s spirits in moving on to the next life.” Adage took off his glasses and polished them on the edge of his sweater vest. His eyes looked misty again. “I became a pastor to assist as many souls as possible, and I am proud to say I have given the task everything I have. But my ability to help people ceases the moment they die.” His eyes met hers.

despite the increased risk that came with staying in Blighty, she found she didn’t care. Let them find me if they want. She was no longer friendless, no longer vulnerable.