The Whispering Dead (Gravekeeper #1) - Darcy Coates Page 0,13

unkempt hair, the stitches just below her shoulder, the protruding bones—and desperately hunted for a distraction.

“More tea?” she asked.

“Thank you, I’m fine.” He inclined his head to one side. “Keira?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you still be here tomorrow?”

That question didn’t have a simple answer. Sitting by the cottage’s fire, surrounded by well-loved furniture and sipping a hot drink, she’d easily forgotten how uncertain her future was. She took a moment to form her reply. “I…don’t know. It depends on whether my memory comes back. And whether Adage invites me to stay another night.”

“He will.”

Keira thought she saw something in Mason’s face, but it was gone before she could fully identify it.

He rose and returned his cup to the sink. “In that case, I’ll come by tomorrow to check your arm.”

“That would be nice.” She was surprised to realize how much she meant it. “Thank you.”

He extended his hand.

She shook it, and this time, it was easier not to squirm at the contact, even when he didn’t immediately release it.

Mason’s smile extended into his eyes. “Take care, Keira. I’ll see you again soon.”

Chapter Five

Starve or get shot at? Keira pulled a face as she stared through the cottage window at the puddles dotting the graveyard. Starve…or get shot at?

She’d showered once Mason was safely gone. The clothes still felt grimy, but at least her hair no longer looked like a home for small critters. Now, she only needed food.

Keira’s gut instinct said the strange figures that had chased her wouldn’t stay in the town now that it was daytime, but for all she knew, her gut was an appalling liar. Her brain argued that safety should be paramount, and that all it would take was one moment of lowered guard to get sniped. On the other hand, she was really, really hungry. She’d been standing at the window for close to an hour but hadn’t seen anything more interesting than a small flock of birds fighting over a grub.

Keira blew a breath out, crossed to the fireplace mantel, and took both the twenty dollars and the photograph. She didn’t know the picture’s significance, but it must have been important to be the only nonpractical thing she’d brought with her. She slipped it into her jacket pocket, zipped it closed, then went back to the door.

Even if I don’t go to town, I should at least check on Adage. He called Mason, which means he made it through the night alive and unharmed, but I should still say good morning. He might even be able to tell me if any of the men came back—or if it’s normal to see ghosts in his graveyard.

Keira dug her thumbs into the bridge of her nose. There was too much to think about—too much to worry about—and her mind felt dangerously close to fracturing under the pressure.

She pushed the cottage’s door open and recoiled at the gust of chilled air. Although the sun had looked bright and generous from her window, the trees blocked much of it from warming the ground, and plumes of condensation rose from Keira’s mouth when she exhaled. She slipped through the opening, shut the door to preserve the warmth for her return, and marched toward the gravestones.

The mist still hadn’t disappeared, and Keira was starting to believe it was a somewhat permanent fixture in the cemetery. A long, soot-colored stone wall marked the cemetery’s end a hundred meters ahead of her. She glanced to her left, where the ancient markers mingled with twisting trees at the forest’s edge. The sight made her uneasy. Why don’t they stop at the forest? It’s got to be the cemetery’s border, right?

She stomped her feet to get the blood moving, passed through the open gateway, and turned to her right. The overgrown dirt path led through an arrangement of flowering bushes that divided the graves from the parsonage’s gardens. She kept her pace quick and her eyes constantly moving, wary of both strangers and ethereal figures looming through the fog. Water-stained angels and grim cherubs watched her progress. She tried not to make eye contact with any of the stone figures as she crossed her arms and increased her speed.

Keira couldn’t tell if she was imagining it, but the pastor’s yard felt warmer than the cemetery. The grass was thicker and neatly cut, and she rolled her shoulders as she returned to the same door she’d beaten against the night before.

A piece of paper was attached to the wood with peeling sticky tape. Keira bent to read