Vampires Never Get Old - Zoraida Cordova Page 0,27

far to have to jump at the sound of a bell.

Then again, there might be a reward in saving a life. Especially one whose family could afford such a pricey coffin. And with a little bit of cash, maybe Will could afford a new coat, a proper shirt, a pair of trousers without so many stains. The thought makes Will’s heart leap—after all, so often the clothes make the man.

And with a new suit, who knows? He might be able to claim a seat in the lecture hall—something in the front row. Where Will could actually see the dissections instead of the backs of the other boys’ heads. Where he could watch the anatomist uncover the mysteries he wanted so badly to solve: How do bodies work? And why?

Besides, isn’t this the first part of being a doctor? Saving lives?

Still, Will can’t bring himself to move until the bell goes quiet. The clouds close like curtains around the moon, cloaking his trek from the pauper’s graves to the green swale beside the church. Proximity to God, like burial precautions, is just another commodity reserved for the rich. The fresh grave makes a mounded scar on the grass, topped with that little bell tower above the headstone: MAXWELL THADDEUS HAWTHORNE, 1880–1899, BELOVED SON.

Behind his eyes, Will can see the boy. They’d only met once—if you could call it a meeting. Mrs. Hawthorne had brought her son along when she’d come to call on Mrs. Esther; Maxwell had tormented the cat while Will had waited on the two women. Mrs. Esther’s high-pitched call was still worse than Mrs. Hawthorne’s praise—“What a good girl you have!”—but only barely.

Ting a ling, ting a ling. Deliberately, Will averts his eyes from the bell, studying the stone instead. It is surprisingly modest for the scion of the Hawthorne family—but of course it is only temporary. This part of the cemetery is dotted with elaborate statues—the broken columns of lives cut short, the weeping angels of unending grief, the covered urns representing immortality. Whichever Maxwell was meant to have, it would take time to carve. Will the mason return the down payment if the grave’s occupant asks for it himself?

Will stifles a laugh. As though Maxwell Thaddeus Hawthorne would stoop to speaking directly to a tradesman!

At last, the ringing stops. With a grunt, Will swings his shovel off his shoulder, slicing through the earth with the sharp steel blade. The grave is fresh; the soil is soft. It’s a perfect night for grave robbing, dark and bitter, the cold keeping honest folk indoors with their curtains drawn. Keeps down the scent of rot, too. Typically, Will has a strong stomach, but every month or so he’s plagued by ill humors: a twisting cramp in his gut, a sapping of his energy.

Tonight the effects of the catamenia are particularly strong, and it isn’t long before Will is sweating. Still, over the sluggish tide in his belly, the blood in his veins sings as he lifts and turns, lifts and turns. He finds his rhythm to the beat of his heart. He is acutely aware of the sheer strength of the fist-size muscle, clenching as it pumps his blood through vasculature as complex and branching as the roots in the earth. In any dissection it is the heart that fascinates him most. The first organ to develop—the seat of the soul—or so they say, those who believe in souls. The one that tells us what we want—who we are.

Is Maxwell’s heart pounding just as hard? Not with effort, but in fear? Is claustrophobia creeping in along with the terror of mortality? How long has he been waiting? Does he pray as he pulls the rope? Rich or no, Will begins to pity the boy in the box; still, he stops digging each time the bell rings.

Will can tell the exact moment Maxwell Thaddeus Hawthorne hears him: The bell starts jangling as though possessed. Once more, Will takes the opportunity to catch his breath, leaning the shovel against the headstone and pushing his knuckles into the small of his back. Eventually, the cramps ease and the bell stops, and Will takes up the shovel again. But he nearly drops it when he hears the voice in his ear.

“Hurry up!”

Will steadies himself against the edge of the grave; the voice had only come through the air tube.

“Are you there, man? Why have you stopped?”

The tone is even more imperious than the words. For someone who’s been buried alive, young Mr. Hawthorne