click as the pastor left. Keira rose, put her own cup in the sink, and went to the window. Adage’s pace was brisk as he returned to the parsonage. The harsh morning chill was abating, and a scattering of visitors had entered the graveyard to pay their respects to friends and family. Keira felt for the muscle, opened her second sight, and inhaled as she saw the congregation of souls. The aloof Victorian woman strode among the guests without looking at them. Two middle-aged spirits sat next to each other, not speaking but seeming to enjoy the company. A young girl darted between gravestones, playing a game of hide-and-seek that only she could participate in. More shapes, still indistinct but no less worthy of care, lingered deeper in the graveyard.
To her left, the older stones gradually merged into the forest. She would need to venture inside the woods eventually, to meet the presence that had filled her with dread on her first day in Blighty.
Then, too, were the men who had hunted her on her first night in town. She didn’t know if they were still searching for her or what they wanted from her, but despite the increased risk that came with staying in Blighty, she found she didn’t care. Let them find me if they want. She was no longer friendless, no longer vulnerable.
Daisy stretched, leaped down from the bed, and sauntered over to Keira. The little cat rubbed against her leg affectionately, then crouched and leaped onto the windowsill. Keira stroked the fur between Daisy’s ears as the cat watched the graveyard with her.
Keira’s heart felt so full, it ached. She owned nothing, not even her own identity, but what she did have was worth far more. She had a home. She had friends.
Most of all, she had a purpose, and she intended to give it everything she had.
Keira’s story continues in Gravekeeper Book 2: The Ravenous Dead. Keep reading for a bonus sample from the first chapter.
Never miss a book. Subscribe to Darcy Coates’ newsletter for new releases: www.darcycoates.com/subscribe
The Ravenous Dead
“You’ve been dead for a long time.”
Keira’s hair stuck to her face, drenched by the thick fog that rolled through the barely-lit landscape. Each word came out as a cloud of condensation as she breathed in the near-freezing air. It was before dawn and Keira struggled to see the ground ahead of her feet.
Gravestones surrounded her. Some were less than a decade old, but others had been there for centuries, giving them time to crack and tilt and sink into the earth. They were all neglected. Weeds and long grass choked the ground between them. Lichen grew across the slabs, blotting out names and dates.
An immense figure lingered to Keira’s left, half-hidden by the heavy mist: a stone-carved angel, its wings sagging and its hands clasped under its chin in supplication. Age had stained it. Lines ran over its draped gown, showing where decades of water had flowed. They created tracks running from its eyes to its chin, as though it wept.
Keira shivered, drawing further into her jacket, her numb fingers clenched in her pockets. She faced a small, square grave marker. The inscription read: Marianne Cobb, 1801-1835.
“It’s a long time to linger after death,” Keira said. Each breath of condensation merged into the mist, swallowed into the mass within seconds.
A shape swayed at the edge of her vision. Keira strained to see it more clearly, but she only caught glimpses. Curling, frayed hair, pinned into a messy arrangement underneath some kind of shawl. Bony hands wringing together. The woman hunched, keeping the gravestone between herself and Keira, her eyes averted.
She was a ghost. A faint one. Gone for a hundred and eighty years, but still present. Still waiting. For what, Keira didn’t know. That was her job, now: to find out.
“I hope it’s not rude to point that out.” Keira tried for a smile and an easy shrug, even as drop of condensation ran down to her chin and dripped onto her jacket. “I’m still new to this. Sorry.”
She thought the spirit tilted towards her a fraction, but it was hard to be sure through the mist. The ghosts seemed to be made up of the same fog that permanently lingered in the graveyard. They were a see-through, vapid white, their eyes turned a heavy, inky black. Every movement was slowed, as though they were trapped underwater. As the spirit’s head moved, so did stray strands of hair—floating behind it, tugged by an invisible current.
“You