Grave Girl Page 23

  "Huh," Sam replies.

  "There was one," Sparky continues, "who abandoned the oath and sought to profit from his position. He believed that, as a gardener, he'd be perfectly placed to raise the Devil and cut a deal. He was almost successful, but fortunately he was stopped at the last moment. Since then, it has become clear to many of us that this might be a losing battle. We have stopped believing that we can prevent the Devil's resurrection, and we have begun to focus on an attempt to delay the inevitable for as long as possible."

  "And you've been here all that time?" Sam replies.

  "Not all the time," Sparky says. "A long time, certainly."

  "How long's too long?" Sam asks. She waits for an answer. "You're old, huh? More than a hundred? More than a thousand?"

  "It doesn't matter," Sparky says. "Time means less to me these days."

  "And now you're made of stone."

  "It's an interesting change," he replies. "At first, I was quite unsure as to how I'd be able to get about. In fact, I panicked somewhat when the process began. Believe me, it's not pleasant to witness your own body starting to become stone. After a while, however, I got used to it. These days, I can barely remember what it was like to be made of flesh and blood. I don't miss it at all. Life in the cemetery is much calmer, and at least I feel as if I'm contributing something to a worthy cause."

  "I guess helping to save the world is a pretty worthy cause," Sam suggests.

  "Indeed."

  "It'd be a pretty good way to redeem yourself," Sam continues, staring at her reflection. "I mean, if you'd done something bad and you wanted to prove to someone that you could change, that you could be good..."

  "It certainly would," Sparky replies.

  Finally getting the piece of bread out from between her teeth, Sam steps back from the mirror and takes one last look at herself. She's been trying to get a balance between casual and respectable. In the old days, when she went out on the town with Nadia, she'd wear ridiculously glittery dresses that were designed to attract guys. She's never actually been to a date at a restaurant, and although she's got no romantic interest in Fenroc at all, she can't help but worry about how she'll come across.

  "You look very good," Sparky says.

  "I'm sorry about the way I chained you to the cottage," Sam replies, carefully avoiding any acknowledgment of the compliment. "You kind of freaked me out at first with the way you kept moving while I wasn't looking. You could have just told me you were alive, you know. It would've been better than the way you kind of slunk around. Do you realize how creepy that was?"

  "I didn't want to scare you," Sparky replies. "I wasn't quite sure how you'd react if you saw a stone angel knocking on the window."

  "I'm not as jumpy as I look," Sam says. "Anyway, this whole place is pretty terrifying. In case you haven't noticed, there's a dead girl sitting in my kitchen right now. Properly dead. Not just emotionally dead or spiritually dead, but with bits falling off her and actual maggots crawling through her body. I mean, if that's not terrifying, I don't know what is. And then there's..." She pauses as she realizes she was about to use Sparky as another example of the creepy things that exist in the cemetery.

  "It's okay," he replies. "I'm aware that I might not be the most comforting sight. Since I took my stone form, I've tended to hide away and avoid humans. There was an unfortunate incident many years ago when a young boy from the town happened to see me walking among the graves. He ran away screaming, and I hear he has suffered significant mental health problems ever since. As you can imagine, I've tried to be a little more cautious since that incident. In truth, when you first came here, I was a little nervous, and perhaps a little shy."

  Sam raises an eyebrow as she turns to him.

  "I'm here to help," he continues. "That's the job of the stone angels now, at least those of us who adhere to the old code. There are, of course, a few who prefer to focus on their own selfish needs. Those are the ones who exist beyond the cemetery walls. They care only about seeking chances to enrich themselves. Some of them even try to strike bargains with dark forces, hoping to gain some benefit. It's a foolish endeavor, of course, but greed knows no boundaries."

  Checking her watch, Sam sees that she's in danger of running late for her 'date'. There's a part of her that doesn't really want to go at all, and that would rather stay here and talk to Sparky and the others. On the other hand, she feels as if maybe Faraday has only told her half the story so far, and she wants to at least find out what Fenroc has to say. While she's aware that she might be wrong, she can't shake the feeling that Fenroc seems like a trustworthy kind of guy, while Faraday comes across as being very jumpy and secretive. If she had to choose to trust one of them, right now she's not sure who she'd pick.

  "It's okay," Sparky says, his body making a dull grinding sound as he steps back from the doorway. "I hope you have a good evening, Sam. We must all take our moments of relaxation wherever we can find them, especially when there is a storm coming."

  "You think there's a storm coming?" Sam asks.

  "I'm afraid so."

  "I won't be late home," Sam says, feeling a little uncomfortable as she heads through to the kitchen and over to the main door. For some reason, however, she can't shake the feeling that this is going to be the least relaxing evening in history.

  Chapter Two

  "Open up!" Mayor Winters shouts as he bangs on the door. "For God's sake, get this door open!"

  As he waits for someone to respond to his pleas, he glances first one way and the other, keen to ensure that he's not being observed. Although it's late and most of Rippon's residents should either be at home or in the cafe, Winters can't afford any slip-ups. He knows it's now or never in terms of his plans, and the slightest mistake could be fatal. Even now, he can feel dark forces starting to close in, and he's quite certain that the town will be under siege before too long.

  "What now?" asks Walter Simpkin as he opens the door. Tired and still not quite awake properly, Simpkin blinks a couple of times as he stares at Winters. "Let me guess," he says with a sigh. "The new gardener's dead, and you need to run a new ad. Are you sure this is worth doing? It's getting ridiculous."

  "Not this time," Winters shouts as he thrusts a cloth sack into Simpkin's arms. "As far as I know, the new gardener is absolutely fine. For now, anyway. Take these. They're yours now. I'm out of here!"

  "What are you talking about?" Simpkin asks, taking a step back. "What's got into you, man?"

  "I'm not sticking around while everything goes to hell," Winters replies, mopping the sweat from his brow. "I've given the best years of my life to this town, Walter, and for what? A load of complaining idiots who've never shown a moment's gratitude in their entire lives! I've worn myself out and I've done terrible things, all in the name of keeping this place safe, but I can't handle it anymore. I quit, and I'm officially declaring, Walter, that you're the new mayor of Rippon."

  "You can't do that!"

  "I can, and I have!" Winters says, stepping away from the door. "Good luck, Walter. You'll need it. Quite apart from any nastiness that might spring up from the depths, the people of this town are a load of moaners and whiners. If it's not one thing, it's another, and even when they have a legitimate grievance, the way they express themselves is downright rude! I'm afraid you'll be a very busy man, Walter, but you're the best person for the job. I'm quite certain that I'm leaving Rippon in the safest possible pair of hands."

  "But I can't be the mayor!" Simpkin protests. "I'm a busy man. I have a business to run, a wife, a family! I don't know the first thing about civic responsibility!"

  "Don't worry," Winters replies. "I've got a feeling you won't need to worry too much. Things are changing, Walter. The world itself is going to be thrust into a new age, and I doubt the old ways are going to be very relevant. You're a smart man, Walter, and you just need to maintain a steady focus and try to keep things on track even though..." He pauses for a moment. "Well, I mean... Even though... Things might be a little dif
ficult around here, Walter, and I'm sorry to leave you in the lurch like this. The only tidbit of comfort I can offer is that there probably won't even be a town left for much longer."

  "Wait, I -" Simpkin starts to say, before Winters turns and runs as fast as he can along the dark street, disappearing quickly into the night.

  "Walter?" a voice calls out from upstairs. "What's all the noise? What's going on down there?"

  Stepping back and pushing the door shut, Simpkin carries the cloth bag through to his kitchen and carefully sets it on the table before untying the top and opening it to reveal not only the mayoral seal, but also the sash, the cap, the gown and the head of the mayoral lance. For a moment, Simpkin is completely overcome as he realizes that enormity of the responsibility that has been placed on his shoulders. As he holds up the mayoral seal, he can't help but imagine himself standing on the steps of the town hall as an adoring crowd gathers in the main square.

  Hearing a noise nearby, he turns just in time to see a dark shape flit past the back window. Setting the mayoral seal down, he hurries across the room and looks out into the garden. Seeing nothing, he turns back to look at the mayoral artifacts.

  "Walter?" his wife calls out, making her way down the stairs. "What's going on down there? Who was that at the door?"

  "Oh," Simpkin replies, as a smile breaks across his face. "Nothing much, my dear. I just became mayor of this fine town. That's all."

  Chapter Three

  "Surely you'll have a glass of wine with me, Sam?"

  Before she can turn the offer down, Sam sees that the waiter is approaching the table with an already-opened bottle. She knows she still has time to decline a glass, but she just sits and watches as her glass is filled with a rich, red Shiraz. There's something so tempting about the color, as if Sam can already feel it slipping down her throat. She finds herself momentarily mesmerized by the thought of drinking alcohol for the first time in more than half a year.

  Fenroc sits on the other side of the table, smiling as his glass is topped up by the waiter.

  "I always think dinner requires wine," he says once they're alone again. "It's a sign of civilization, don't you think? Besides, it loosens the tongue a little, and I'm already sensing a little stiffness on your part. If I might be so bold as to inquire, I'd love to know what made you change your mind." He takes a sip from his glass. "Why did you finally agree to come and have dinner with me, Sam? I'd like to think it was my preternatural good looks and my charming personality, but I suspect you have other reasons."

  "A spot opened on my calendar," Sam replies a little awkwardly.

  "I imagine you must be very busy in the cemetery at the moment," Fenroc continues. "The last few nights, I've happened to walk past the gate on my way home, and I always see lights in the cottage, even at two or three in the morning. Are you still entertaining certain guests?"

  "Kind of."

  "I hope you're being careful about who you invite into your home, Sam. Some people, you let 'em though the door, and you can never get rid of the bastards."

  "I'm fine," Sam says cautiously. "Thanks for your concern, though."

  "You're not touching your wine?"

  Sam smiles awkwardly as she looks down at the glass. It's tempting. She hasn't touched alcohol for a long time now, and although there's a part of her that wants to maintain the good behavior, there's another part of her that feels it wouldn't be so wrong to indulge once in a while. After all, her original aim was never to become completely teetotal, but just to cut back and avoid becoming a total alcoholic burn-out by her mid-twenties. Although she's proud of herself for cutting alcohol out completely, she figures she should probably allow herself a drop now and again.

  "Faraday's still in town, I assume," Fenroc adds after a moment.

  "Totally," Sam replies.

  "I know you must tire of hearing me say this," Fenroc continues, "but you really mustn't believe everything that man says. I know what he's like. He spins a good tale, but never without good reason. His mind's always spinning, coming up with scheme after scheme. He's manipulative and dangerous, and he wouldn't be here if he didn't have an agenda."

  "Everyone has an agenda," Sam replies cautiously.

  "True, but in Faraday's case, it's an all-consuming passion. He has his eye on a certain prize, and I'm afraid he'll go to any lengths in order to achieve his goal. He's a desperate man, Sam. Desperate enough to fake his own death and then hang around, watching from the shadows as his successor tried to pick up the slack. I'm sure he talks a good game, but hopefully you have enough insight to realize that the man is very deceptive. There are no lengths to which he would not go if he felt it necessary." He pauses for a moment. "The man is craven. He sees other people as tools, to be used for his own purpose. He'll even kill, if he thinks it would help his cause. I'm worried about you, Sam."

  "That's cute," Sam replies, "but I can handle myself."

  "And the girl," Fenroc continues. "I understand you have a female friend with you. One who perhaps isn't as... alive... as the rest of us."

  "She's fine."

  "There'll be others," Fenroc says, with a hint of darkness in his voice. "Do you seriously think that in that whole cemetery, there's just one person who'll rise from the dead? The rest are going to follow. I don't know why that particular girl has arrived early, but rest assured that within a few days you'll have plenty of company. It's all Faraday's work, of course. I imagine he's decided he needs an army, which would ordinarily be rather difficult for a man of his temperament. Fortunately for him, and unfortunately for everyone else, he's learned a few tricks over the years. The man's obsessed, Sam, and he'll raise all the dead, the world over, if he thinks it'll help him. By the time he's finished, the dead will be living and the living will be dead."

  "You really don't like Faraday, do you?" Sam asks.

  "He and I have a certain history. We spent some time together, back in the day, and I'm afraid the experience wasn't entirely positive. From my point of view, anyway."

  "Care to spill?"

  Fenroc smiles uncomfortably. "Care to take a sip of wine?"

  Maintaining eye contact with him, as if she's trying to stare him down, Sam picks up her glass but merely holds it as she tries to decide whether or not to take a drink. With the glass just a few inches from her nose, she's finding it hard to resist the thought of savoring that old familiar taste.

  "Let's just say that Faraday and I used to have the same employer," Fenroc says eventually. "We worked in the same place and we had more or less the same responsibilities, albeit at different times. We certainly had different ideas about how to get the job done."

  "You were both gardeners."

  "Gardeners?" Fenroc pauses. "Did he say that?"

  "He didn't need to. I guessed."

  "You're very intuitive," Fenroc continues. "I don't really know why I was so keen to hide it. Yes, Sam, I was once a gardener. I did the same job that you've been doing, albeit with a little less rigor. I'm afraid my heart wasn't really in the whole thing. Sure, I'd cut the grass, but I'd miss a patch here and there. I was just marking time, really, and collecting my pay packet while I tried to save enough money to get the hell out of Rippon." He pauses as he sips from his wine glass. "It suited me to be in Rippon for a while. You see, when I came here, I was running from something. I'm sure you can understand what that was like."

  "I'm sure I can."

  "Remind me, Sam. What did you say you were running from again?"

  "I didn't."

  "But you're running from something, aren't you?"

  "I think we're straying off the point," Sam says firmly.

  Fenroc smiles. "Maybe you're like me. You're running from someone you hurt. You're running from the thought that you might ever have to see that person again. You're scared that you'll have to face up to what you've done. Then again..." He pauses as he takes another sip of wine. "Maybe there are a few differences between us."

  "Probably," Sam replies, keeping her eyes fixed
on Fenroc as she raises the glass to her lips and takes a sip. As soon as the taste hits her mouth, she knows she's made a mistake, but it's too late to back down now. She swallows a mouthful and immediately feels that old, familiar sensation. It's almost like she's back home with Nadia, sitting in a pub and contemplating a heavy night out. Before everything went wrong.

  Fortunately, at that moment the waiter brings food to the table, so Sam has a brief moment of respite before once again being left alone with Fenroc. So far, she hasn't learned much that she didn't already know, and she's starting to wonder whether this whole evening is just going to be one long tease. She feels as if Fenroc is playing with her, offering no more than a few hints while trying to tease out some information about Faraday and the others.

  "Good wine?" Fenroc asks eventually.

  "Not bad," Sam says. "I'm not really an expert."

  "Is wine not your tipple of choice?"

  "I was always more of a vodka girl," she replies, thinking back to the days when she and Nadia used to line shots up on the bar.

  "You should have said. I can order you a glass -"

  "No!" Sam says firmly. A little too firmly, she realizes after a moment. "I'm fine with wine," she adds, taking another sip. "You're right. I am running from someone. Or at least, trying to avoid them. It's kind of a personal thing. No big mystery. I'm just happier without that person in my life, and he's happier without me."

  "And yet you're still here," Fenroc continues. "I'd have thought most young women in your situation, having discovered the nature of what happens in Rippon, would have turned around and fled. Yet something seems to be keeping you around. Do you have some kind of innate desire to help save the world?"

  "Seems like a worthy occupation," Sam replies, taking another, bigger sip of wine.

  "Or are you trying to prove something? Are you trying to atone for some past sin?" He waits in vain for an answer. "Do you know what's resting beneath this town, Sam? I mean, do you really know. I'm not talking about the fairy-tales that Faraday has undoubtedly told you. I'm talking about the plain, unvarnished truth, about the creature that's waiting for its chance to come back up."