What the Dead Know (Into Shadow, #4)

by Nghi Vo

They didn’t think she was Black, but she might have been Native, and God forbid they treat her as a white woman.

“How lucky we are, then, to know what the dead say.” They didn’t, of course they didn’t, but it was a living, and thus better than a dying, as Vasyl would say when he was drunk.

Maybe people didn’t smile in whatever exotic foreign land she came from.

“Strong storms,” Vasyl mused. “What strange things your country admires.”

This part of the country wouldn’t love them, and while she was usually fine with that, now it made her shiver.

“What in the world are you?” he mused, looking her up and down. “Chinese by your looks, but surely your nose is too flat? And your skin is too dark, I shouldn’t wonder . .

“A room of her own,” he said ominously. “One with a lock to it. She goes to the dead, and sometimes, they come to her.”

Hate. Pain. Cold. Dead. Always dead. Dead forever.