Graver Girl (Grave Girl 2)

  Graver Girl

  (Grave Girl 2)

  by Amy Cross

  Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved

  Published by ACBT Books

  First published: October 2014

  This edition: February 2017

  http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome. The author reserves all rights in respect of this work.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Revival

  Part Two

  Ravens

  Part Three

  Reformation

  Part Four

  Resurrection

  Part Five

  Breathe

  Part Six

  From a Dark Sky

  Part Seven

  Into the Grave

  Graver Girl

  (Grave Girl 2)

  Prologue

  “Where is he?” the creature asks, his voice sounding deep and cracked, loaded down with the knowledge that he isn't going to like the answer to his question.

  “I have him here,” the Vassal replies as he makes his way up the black stone steps. Blood drips down all the walls, running out of the hundreds of dead bodies that have been left hanging from the ceiling. Torn and ripped open, their flesh left to fall from their bones like strips of fabric, the bodies are all contorted into shapes of extreme horror, and their faces are filled with terror. Large metal pins have been inserted into their bodies, holding them in place, while the most recent corpses are still dripping blood; some even twitch now and again as they wait for death to claim them.

  “I do not see anyone with you,” the creature says darkly, leaning forward from his dark throne. “I am keen to speak to Fenroc directly and learn what went wrong.”

  “There's not much left of the poor fool,” the Vassal explains. When he reaches the top of the steps, he bows briefly and then holds out his hand to reveal a small, white piece of bone nestled in the palm, with a hint of smoke still rising from the nugget.

  “What,” the creature replies skeptically, “is that?”

  “It's all that our agents could recover of Gabriel Fenroc's corpse,” the Vassal explains. “They located it in a pile of ash that had been tossed into a garbage container. I'm led to believe that it used to be part of his thumb, although we would have to analyze it further in order to be certain.”

  “Then Fenroc failed?”

  “Well...” The Vassal pauses as one of the bodies on the ceiling lets out an anguished moan. “We could always send his thumb to try again, but somehow I doubt we'd get better results.”

  Slowly, the creature lets out a dark hiss of displeasure.

  “With all due respect,” the Vassal continues, “Fenroc was but one man. His history at the cemetery notwithstanding, he had precious little insight into the task. In fact, as I believe I counseled at the time, he was hardly the right person to send. He was too confident, and he believed that he could simply walk into the cemetery and take what he wanted. In fact, he paid so little heed to our instructions, one might even suggest that he went rogue. We're still trying to piece together the precise narrative, but it would seem that he fell into a trap that had been set long ago. Either way, he is now little more than a pile of smoldering ash.”

  The creature reaches out and takes the piece of bone, taking a moment to turn it over and examine it from all sides.

  “The Undertaker was involved, no doubt,” he says after a moment, with anger in his voice, as a pocket of blood bursts on the ceiling, spattering the floor next to the throne.

  “Actually, it would appear that the Undertaker did not interfere on this occasion,” the Vassal replies. “We have no idea why he did not help the new gardener. It's almost as if he trusted her to deal with the situation.”

  “He's not that much of a fool.”

  “And yet he did not make a move. He would surely have done so, had he perceived there to be a threat.” The Vassal pauses for a moment. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, the Undertaker merely recognized that Fenroc was unlikely to succeed. Perhaps he felt that the new gardener, together with some help from the likes of Faraday, would find dispatching Fenroc to be a useful exercise. That, in itself, is proof that Fenroc was not to be taken terribly seriously.”

  “Fenroc was my trusted servant,” the creature replies. “It was anticipated that his approach would suffice, yet clearly that belief was wrong. If we are to free the master from his tomb, we must try something more daring. We must use the full force at our disposal, and we must strike while the opportunity still presents itself. The current gardener of Rippon is a human female. I cannot think of a weaker enemy.”

  “It is notoriously difficult to judge humans,” the Vassal points out. “With most species, it is simply the case that the larger specimens are more dangerous. With humans, on the other hand, one can never make such assumptions. Those who appear strong can turn out to be weak, and those who appear weak can sometimes summon the most remarkable strength.”

  “Even the strongest human faces certain limitations,” the creature sneers, “and a female cannot make herself seem strong, no matter what tricks she might try.”

  “Then why did Fenroc -”

  “Enough of Fenroc,” the voice continues, running a finger across the ring he wears around one of his dark, talon-like fingers. “I never want to hear that name again. He was unable even to defeat a young woman. This time, we will move fast and we will obliterate everything that stands in our way.” Rising from his throne, the creature shuffles to the window and looks out across the vast, dark landscape that surrounds his home. As black and gray clouds roil in the sky above, the creature turns to the Vassal. “There is only one option open to us at this delicate stage. Tell them to leave immediately. I want them to reach Rippon by sunrise.”

  “Who?” the Vassal asks.

  “Who else? Send the ravens, and tell them to travel in all their forms. Tell them to drag the Devil back here and throw him down before me. I want the Ring of Gomorrah around his neck, and I want chains wrapped around his body. With the Devil at my command, I will face no challengers, no rivals. My will shall be unopposed.”

  “And the gardener?”

  “She's worthless to me. Have her killed. Just bring her head to me so that I can be certain the job was done.”

  “Your majesty...” The Vassal pauses, as if he's reluctant to tell the creature what he's thinking. “It's just... Perhaps this gardener... is... the gardener. You know, the one that has long been foretold?”

  “Impossible. The foretold gardener will be strong and brave, and a fearsome opponent. The current gardener is a young woman who simply fell into the role by accident. She will be destroyed, just as those who came before her were destroyed.” With that, he crushes the fragment of Fenroc's thumb and lets the pieces of bone-dust fall to the floor.

  ***

  “Ruth, are you talking and driving at the same time?”

  “Relax, Mum,” she replies, as the hill of Rippon comes into view up ahead, silhouetted against an unusually bright blanket of stars. “It's not like there's ever any other traffic on this road. And there's only one actual turn to speak of.”

  “There are buses,” her mother reminds her, “and -”

  “I'm just calling to let you know that I'm almost home,” Ruth continues. “Seriously, you worry if I don't call to tell you, and you worry if I do call.”

  “Would it kill you to park up for a moment?”

  “On the side of an unlit country road? Do you actually want me to get murdered?”

  “Just b
e careful,” her mother continues. “Do you know, I read just the other day about a girl who -”

  “Maybe I should get off the phone,” Ruth says with a sigh. “You can tell me this fascinating story when I get home, yeah? If it's really that important, anyway.”

  “All I'm saying -”

  “Gotta go!”

  Cutting the call off, Ruth tosses her phone onto the empty passenger seat. She can't help but smile as she looks at the road ahead, imagining her mother stomping through the house and heading up to her father's office, full of anger at the way the conversation ended. Glancing down for a moment at her lap, she realizes that she forgot to put on her seat-belt, but she's damned if she's going to do it now. She knows it's bad, but there's a part of her that actually enjoys rebelling against -

  “Jesus!” she exclaims suddenly, as a heavy thud hits the roof of her car.

  She looks up for a moment, trying to work out what the hell happened.

  “Nice night for meteorites,” she whispers, returning her gaze to the road.

  Seconds later, there's another thud, this time toward the back of the roof, followed almost immediately by two more hits against one of the rear doors.

  “What the hell?” she mutters, glancing in her rear-view mirror but seeing nothing. “What is this, some kind of -”

  Suddenly something small and dark flashes right in front of the windshield, its beady eyes picked out for a fraction of a second as a set of claws scratch against the glass. Startled, Ruth swerves the car into the other lane before swerving back into position; her heart is racing, and although the windshield isn't damaged, she can't help feeling that she's under attack.

  “Great,” she mutters. “It's like -”

  Before she can finish, another bird strikes the driver's-side door, while a couple more hit the windshield, this time causing a crack to run up the middle. Before she can react, Ruth hears more thuds on the roof, followed by several at the rear of the car. She glances over her shoulder, suddenly aware that it sounds as if the entire vehicle is being bombarded by small dark birds.

  “Okay,” she whispers, turning back to look ahead, “this is -”

  And that's when she realizes that she's already speeding straight into a sharp right turn. She frantically turns the wheel, causing the car to spin to one side as the squealing tires struggle to maintain any kind of grip. With birds still buffeting the car from all angles, Ruth desperately tries to see the road, but the birds quickly manage to smash both her headlights. She turns the wheel again, pitching the car in the opposite direction. Just as she thinks to slam her foot against the brake pedal, the entire vehicle bumps off the side of the road and across a patch of grass before finally slamming headfirst into a large oak tree.

  Without a seat-belt to protect her, Ruth is flung forward with such force that her head smashes against the windshield, immediately splattering the glass with blood. For a fraction of a second, she tries to sit up, before sinking into unconsciousness. All around her, the pitch-black ravens continue to attack the car with their razor-sharp beaks. One of them manages to break through and hops inside before setting about her, pecking all over her body. After a moment, it hops back out and the birds all start to fly away, heading for the nearby town of Rippon and leaving the crumpled, smoking car where it crashed.

  Inside the vehicle, blood slowly starts to dribble from the wound on Ruth's forehead.

  Part One

  Revival

  One

  “So then,” Sam continues, “I got to thinking. What if the voices aren't in my head? What if they're real? I mean, it has to happen sometimes, right? I know when most people hear voices it's because they're losing their minds, but I don't think that's what's happening, not this time. I think there are little voices scurrying around in the shadows, whispering to each other all day and all night, even when I'm trying to sleep.”

  Doctor Burnham stares at her.

  “I don't know if they have bodies,” she continues, “or if they're dispossessed. Maybe they're just little minds, floating about.”

  Doctor Burnham stares at her.

  “Because it's not like I'm fragile,” she adds, a little defensively. “I mean, sure, things have been kind of strange lately. There's been a lot on my mind. There's been a lot in my mind. But hearing voices would be a very definite step in the wrong direction. I've been pondering it quite a bit, and I'm pretty sure those voices are really real. For one thing, the things they've been saying just aren't things that I'd normally say at all. For another, they're incredibly annoying, and I don't see why I'd create all these voices just to annoy myself, so I think the most likely explanation is that something else is going on. Still, I thought I should come and get your opinion. Just in case.”

  Doctor Burnham stares at her.

  “So I figure it's pretty simple,” she continues. “Somehow, there are these voices near me all the time, whispering so that I can't quite hear what they're saying, and they follow me everywhere. All day, all night, just whispering in the shadows. Worse, they're whispering about me. And they're really, truly there. It's not me going crazy or anything like that. It's the voices, they just won't leave me alone. They must want something from me, but I have no idea what. Not yet, anyway. I'm thinking of setting a trap for them. I just need to work out what kind of bait to use. Also, I think they might be building little tunnels in the crypt. Nothing too big, just little passageways about six inches in diameter through some of the walls. Why? Good question. I haven't figured it out yet.”

  Doctor Burnham opens his mouth as if to say something, but no words leave his lips. Finally he tilts his head slightly, like a dog.

  Without even thinking about it, Sam reaches up and touches the hilt of the knife that's sticking out the top of her head.

  “What?” she asks eventually. “What are you staring at me like that for?”

  “I'm, uh, glad you came to see me this morning, Samantha,” Doctor Burnham says cautiously, with a tentative smile. “To be honest, I've spotted you about town a few times, and I was... rather expecting you to make an appointment. Better late than never, as they say.”

  “Why were you expecting me?” she asks. “Did you think I looked crazy?”

  “Not exactly,” he replies. “It's the large knife sticking out of your head that concerns me. To be honest, I'm rather at a loss as to how to explain how you could have such a thing and still be walking about. To be blunt, Ms. Marker, it would appear at first glance that you defy medical explanation.”

  “Don't worry about that,” Sam mutters. “I'm used to the knife, it's not a problem.” She leans forward. “I'm here about the voices. And the little tunnels they keep digging in my crypt.”

  “Yes, but -”

  “The voices and the tunnels,” she says again, more firmly this time. “Don't get distracted, doctor. That's what they want. They want us both to be distracted.”

  “They?”

  “The voices that are digging the tunnels. I suppose they must have bodies if they're able to dig.”

  Suddenly the panes of glass in the window start to rattle, and the entire room trembles briefly as a series of huge trucks rumble past the building. Almost too large for the town's narrow streets, the trucks pass just inches from the building.

  “Blasted things,” Doctor Burnham mutters, turning to look at the window. “This is just a small town, the streets weren't built for those huge articulated lorries.” He turns back to Sam. “Some sort of carnival or circus is coming to town. God alone knows what possessed Mayor Simpkin to agree to such a thing. Rippon is a quiet place for quiet people who want to get on with quiet things. I can't imagine that anyone wants to go along to something so vulgar as a circus that has come all the way from the United States of America.”

  He takes a pen and makes some brief notes on Sam's medical record.

  “In the United States of America,” he continues, “they're rather loud. Here in Rippon, we're quiet folk.”

  “I know what you're going t
o say,” Sam replies. “The voices are caused by the giant knife that's stuck in my head. The thing is, I've had a while to get used to the knife now, and I'm pretty sure it's got nothing to do with anything. It's just a big old blade running straight down between the two hemispheres of my brain, and somehow I've... regrown connections or something around the metal. I guess the bits are growing around the blade or something like that. I admit I'm not an expert on human anatomy, but nothing else makes sense, does it? I mean, look at me. I've got a knife in my head and I'm still here.”

  “It certainly is rather miraculous that you're so... perky,” he replies.

  “That's perpetual grace for you,” Sam mutters.

  “I'm sorry?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I do think we should... pay some attention to your situation,” Doctor Burnham tells her. “While it is a blessed relief that the knife has not incapacitated you in any way, we cannot simply ignore its presence.”

  “I'm ignoring it,” Sam replies. “Trust me, ignoring it works.”

  “I'd like to send you to a specialist,” Doctor Burnham continues, opening the top drawer in his desk and taking out a blank form. “I have a colleague in Aldershot who specializes in serious head injuries. I've already told him a little about your case, and he's most interested in meeting you and examining you properly. He proposes a head scan, and some restorative therapy that might include a small invasive procedure. It's his opinion that by studying you, he can not only help you with your problems, but he can also help others. There's also the matter of what might happen to you if the knife moves. Even a fraction of a millimeter could be disastrous. The journey to the hospital would be -”