Gravediggers (2 page)

She takes one of my hands and puts it under her chin, the butt of my palm resting just at her throat, and then she, whoa, hold on, she takes my other hand, wait, and pulls me right up close to her, wow, and wraps it around her back, by her waist.

What is she. I don't even.

“Push with
this
hand under the chin,” she says, “to keep the mouth away from you. Then, reach around in back and sink your fingers”—she puts her hand on mine, makes a claw, and presses it into her backbone—“in around the spine. Then yank hard, splitting the spine open. That should at the very least drop them and slow them down so you can finish them off. Got it?”

“Aguh,” I say, like a huge doofus.

Thankfully, my dad comes barging in, giving me a good excuse to pull away from Kendra and try to blink away the weird spinning feeling in my head. Bad news is, of course, that Dad's got a basketball in his hands and that crazy grin on his face, which means he's here to try and yank me away from my friends.

“You done yet?” he says, slapping the ball with a hard
ping
. “Come on, Ian, we have work to do. I saw Larry Leider at the gas station yesterday, and he says he's happy to start you if you're back up to the level you were at before you were banned from the team. Says he thinks the time off might have even helped.”

“Dad, we've still got work to do,” I tell him. “There are a couple of shots to get down, and then we have the phone call with our producer.”

His crazy grin turns into a sour frown, and his mustache does this back-and-forth thing it does when he's angry. “You've got to be kidding me,” he says. “Ian, I thought we agreed. You could do your friend's monster movie if you spent some time getting ready for basketball season. It's just around the corner.”

“We won't be long, Mr. Buckley,” says Kendra. “A half hour at most.”

Dad opens his mouth to respond to her, but then his frown falls even further and he cocks an eyebrow, so I know something's up.

“Why are you dressed up like that?” he asks.

“For our monster movie,” I tell him.

“But wait,” he says, turning his eyes, finally, on PJ, the kid who got his sporty son all tied up in the scary movie biz. “Your movie is a wolfman movie. You won't shut up about it. So why's she dressed like a, what's it called, a zombie?”

Hearing him say the word makes the blood freeze in my face and hands, and when I look at PJ he's just standing there, mouth open, like he never knew my dad was listening all the times he talked about his movie in the car, like the fact that Vince Buckley knows the difference between a zombie and a werewolf never crossed his mind, and at a certain point it makes sense, 'cause that's not the kind of guy my dad is. Even Kendra looks frozen in her corpse makeup. None of us know how to get out of this one.

That's when Kendra's phone buzzes and starts playing a hooting owl noise—O'Dea's ring. She pulls it out and glances at the two of us before looking at my dad. “Mr. Buckley, may we have a moment alone?”

Dad crosses his arms. “I'd like to hear what this ‘producer' of yours has to say,” he says. “This whole phone call thing seems a little weird to me—”

“Dad!” I say. “Just give us a sec, okay? I'll be out to shoot hoops in, what, twenty minutes. Geez.”

He harrumphs and finally says, “Ten.” Then he stomps out the door, slamming it behind him.

“Sorry about that, guys,” I tell the other two.

“Not a problem,” says Kendra. She taps her screen and holds out the phone. “Hey, O'Dea, it's us. You're on speaker. How are things going—”

“Kids.”

It's like an electric shock—definitely O'Dea's voice, but not like we've ever heard it before, all scratchy and full of heavy breathing, kind of angry but kind of scared, like she's panicking. O'Dea doesn't panic, she gets all kung-fu Zen and takes everything as it comes. She keeps her eye on the ball. Around me, PJ's brow wrinkles, and Kendra holds the phone a little away from her, like it smells bad.

“O'Dea?” asks Kendra. “It's Kendra. Is everything all right?”

“Listen to me,” she says, surrounded by the noise of crashing branches and loud banging. “Whatever happens, you can't come after me.”

Whoa. The words feel like needles in the back of my neck. PJ's hand goes to his mouth. It's like the room is growing smaller with every second of this phone call.

“What's going on?” I ask.

“No coming after me,” she snaps. “You've got to follow your training. Prepare for whatever comes your way. You three are too important, too talented. I can't have you risking that for me.”

“O'Dea, what's wrong?” says PJ.

“Just remember what I've told you,” she cries, the banging growing louder. “Don't be scared. You're powerful and dangerous, no matter what happens to me. I'm just your teacher, but you three, you're the chosen ones—”

The banging turns into a crash, and O'Dea screams, straight-up lets loose at the top of her lungs. As my head goes all wobbly and I feel behind me for my bed, the phone lets loose a loud booming noise, and then the scream cuts out just as the phone drops from Kendra's hands and tumbles to the floor. For a few minutes, we're all silent, and my heart pounds and my mouth goes dry and I wonder what could've made the strongest person I know, who spends her days looking after a horde of zombies, scream like that.

Kendra's phone buzzes on the floor. My hand snaps out and grabs it before anyone else's can, and when I see the screen, I can't help but gasp out loud.

“Ian?” asks PJ softly.

The picture message shows O'Dea, her face beaten purple and bloody. She's lying on the ground, chin pulled up. A huge hand in a black leather glove is pressing the blade of a massive hunting knife into her throat.

Stay out of my way
, reads the message,
or the warden dies.

Chapter Two

Kendra

O
'Dea's visage, battered and threatened at the end of a cruel blade, is all I can see out the bus window. Every passing billboard or solitary gas station looks like our Warden brought low. It is what has kept me focused as we've arranged this bizarre ride and made our inexperienced and bumbling phone calls and emails: the thought that our friend and mentor is in mortal danger. Time is of the essence. We must act.

The bus driver, corpulent and unshaven, eyes us warily as Ian, PJ, and I all step out at the hotel's drop-off area, and I am unable to make eye contact with him in fear that such a personal gesture might rouse his suspicion. Thankfully, as we exit the bus, I hear the doors close and the vehicle rumble to life, and soon bus, driver, and worry all wheeze through a roundabout and drift out of sight.

“What time is our return bus?” says PJ softly, his expression one of both exhaustion and determination.

“Nine,” I tell him, calling up our itinerary on my phone. “We arrive back home at ten-twenty.”

“And you're sure she's meeting us here?” asks Ian.

“There's no way to be positive,” I tell him. “The email she sent me was from two days ago, from an internet café in San Juan. For all I know, she was stopped and interrogated at customs. But this is without a doubt the right hotel.”

We trudge our way across the front lot toward an airport hotel, its modern design sleek and pointed, like that of a luxury car. A doorman wishes us a good night as we push through the glass doors and enter the brightly lit lobby, full of soft leather furniture and
lilting
(five! When I get home, I have to strike that off the vocab list for this month) elevator music over the stereo.

At first, all I see is the occasional guest trailed by rolling luggage and the well-dressed clerks behind the check-in desk looking expectantly at us, and then a figure from the lounge area stands and waves. We all blink for a moment, startled by her outfit—the last time we saw Josefina was on an island off Puerto Rico, dressed in cutoffs and a sleeveless T-shirt. To see the sweet-faced girl dressed in pants, a winter jacket, and tight-laced boots is startling.

After she hugs us one after another (let it be noted that PJ's face, frozen in a look of hardened depression since the terrifying phone call from O'Dea, softens considerably, his eyes closing and his nose burying into the girl's shoulder), she waves for us to follow her down a hallway of the hotel, and we scurry along behind her.

“You're not warm in all of that?” asks Ian.

“If anything, I'm still freezing,” says Josefina, shuddering.

“How are the zombie tourists?” asks PJ.

“Sleeping soundly at the bottom of the ocean,” says Josefina. “After we resealed their resting place, we've not seen so much as one trying to crawl onto shore. Even before you arrived, one or two would try to reach the island. Now, nothing.”

“I'm impressed you made it here so swiftly,” I tell her.

“It was surprisingly easy,” she says with a smile. “My yaya has recently been teaching me spells of deception, making people see what you want them to see. My boarding pass was a shop receipt, and my hotel room was charged to a sand dollar.”

“Nice,” says PJ, but part of me cannot help but feel at least somewhat unsettled by the methods we're being forced to employ. As much as Josefina's magical trickery isn't harming anyone—O'Dea thought of it as “Wardening your way” somewhere—it's still, technically, stealing, which is something I feel conflicted about. We three Gravediggers are perhaps no better, having to lie to our parents about going to see a movie together so we could abscond to this airport hotel. Just because we're karmically assigned zombie assassins doesn't mean lying and cheating should become our tools of the trade.

Sorry, Kendra, but you need to get over that. Part of the training O'Dea has given you over the phone is an emphasis on the present, on figuring out, at any given moment, the single best way to destroy your enemy without getting caught up in your own thought process. Right now, your enemy is whatever attacked O'Dea.

After rushing down this hotel hallway, Josefina stops at a conference room and ducks into the open door, placing us in a spacious, well-lit room with a large wooden table in the middle and an intercom and speaker­phone system.

“This is the room where I was told to meet you,” says Josefina. “From what rumors I've overheard, it seems that O'Dea's kidnapping is part of a larger problem.”

“Do all Wardens' Council meetings take place in hotel conference rooms?” I ask, a little skeptical.

“It's a tradition,” says Josefina. “When gathering in nature, Warden meetings were often ambushed by those who thought they were holding an ‘unholy Sabbath.' Hotels provide layers of security to keep anyone from infiltrating our ranks. And there is often free coffee.”

“How much do you know about what's going on?” asks PJ, sitting down at the table and leaning forward on his elbows like a successful businessman.

“Very little,” says Josefina. “When I contacted the Council, they informed me that they would be sending someone out to area forty-seven to see what happened.”

“Area forty-seven?” I ask.

“That's the number of O'Dea's area of cursed earth,” says Josefina. “Each area has a number. Isla Hambrienta and the surrounding sea is area one-oh-two. Wardens never use them, except when talking to the Council.”

“Do you think they'll help her?” asks Ian, kneading his hands. “I mean, they have to, right? That's their job.”

“Not quite,” says Josefina. “What you must understand is that the Council is very official. All they care about is containment, keeping the balance pure. For Council members to even appear here means our situation is serious—”

The door swings open, and in enter three women and a man. The first is skinny, a redhead with pale skin wearing a yellow coat that tapers in at her waist. The second is a round-faced woman with dark rings under her eyes and a mess of gray hair, wearing a flowing black gown. The third wears jeans and a Slayer T-shirt, with an army cap over her spiky brown hair and sharp hazel eyes. The man is a hotel employee in a bright red shirt, his smile as artificial as the ficus tree in the lobby.

“Huh! Looks like your guests beat you here,” he says. “All right, ladies, you've got your phone equipment, your projector if you need it—anything else?”

“We were told there'd be coffee,” says the second woman in an operatic voice.

“Oooh, we don't do complimentary coffee anymore,” coos the hotel clerk. “Though for five ninety-eight, I can have a pot brought over—”

“This is fine,” says the woman in the jeans. “You can leave now.”

“All right.” The hotel clerk looks at us and flashes a confused smile. “Are these your nieces and nephews, or students, or what, exactly?”

“Leave, please,” says the redhead, and though her voice is soft and melodic, there is an undertone to it that is almost tangible, that crackles in the very air in front of us—magic being utilized. A flick of her hand, and the clerk's eyes go glazed before he silently exits, closing the door behind him.

“Sisters,” Josefina says, bowing her head. “Good evening. May your gardens thrive with life. I am Josefina Pilatón, Warden's apprentice of area one-oh-two.”

“Good evening, sister,” says the redhead, her official tone like the chirping of a bird. “I am Anne Farrow, Warden of area forty-one. This is Sarah Cardille, Warden of area thirty-eight and Warden General of the Midwestern United States, and Blaze Creed, Warden of area fifty.”

“Sister,” mumble the other two Wardens.

“I have brought friends of our cause,” says Josefina, motioning to us. “This is Ian Buck—”

“We are aware of who your guests are, and what they believe themselves to be,” says Sarah Cardille in her booming voice. “They would do well to remember that their presence here is a privilege, and they should not attempt to alter the proceedings of our business.”

The words sting, but are not unexpected. Even Josefina and her grandmother Jeniveve were reticent to know us when we first met. Hard though it is, I swallow my pride and exhale slowly, keeping myself composed. Glancing over, I see PJ doing the same, his eyes closing in a brief moment of meditation. Ian, of course, is not so meditative.

“Excuse me?” says Ian. “Lady, our friend's hurt and you're telling me—”

“Ian!” snaps Josefina as the Wardens sit down, their eyes focused fiercely on my friend. Without comprehending my actions, I reach out and grab Ian's hand in my own, and his look of rage seems to slowly
abate
(a little easy, but why not—one).

“If we may begin,” says Sarah Cardille, clearing her throat and never offering us a seat around the overly lacquered table. “Two days ago, Ms. Pilatón contacted us concerning the possible kidnapping of a Warden, one O'Dea Foree. Ms. Creed, did you visit area forty-seven?”

“Yup, I rolled through today,” says Blaze Creed, leaning back in her chair. “Containment's pretty solid, all sigils regularly kept, seals and beacons well placed. Looks like she did a big recent resealing. This O'Dea knew what she was doing. She only has one cursed walking around anyway, hiker with a broken leg, so it's not like her being gone is going to cause a breach.”

“But she
is
missing,” I say. Every eye in the room darts to me. My question hangs in the air like a vapor.

“ . . . yeah,” says Blaze Creed finally. “Nowhere to be found. Her cabin looked like there'd just been an earthquake—furniture everywhere, windows broken. There was some blood, too, on the floor.”

The words bring a sick feeling to my stomach, as though my bile had just turned cold and gelatinous. Not only is O'Dea missing, but she is bleeding. For all I know, she's beyond saving.

“Did it look like an attack by the cursed?” asks Sarah Cardille.

“Nope,” says Blaze. “Too organized. Plus, there were boot prints, fancy ones—Italian designer. That poor cursed hiker wasn't wearing anything like that. If I had to guess, I'd say your idea about Savini might have some legs on it.”

My mind explodes with instant recognition: that name. “Dario Savini?” I ask, sitting forward in my chair.

“We know that creep!” cries out Ian. “He tried to sic a mutant zombie on us on whatever area that is, Josefina's island!”

“He's a maniac and an imitation Gravedigger,” says PJ in a spiteful tone. “Do you think he has O'Dea? Why? Where's he taking her?”

“Ms. Pilatón,” sighs Sarah Cardille, “please remind your guests that their interruptions do nothing to help their friend, and only serve to irritate the Council. They may think they are something more than mere citizens, but I assure you they're not.”

Keep it together, Kendra. Yes, this woman is obnoxious for no reason, and yes she and her cohorts seem unfeeling toward O'Dea's current kidnapped state, but that's no reason to have an episode and endanger your chances of ever helping find her.

Really. It's not
.

Suddenly, I am standing, my hands planted firmly on the table. “My name is Kendra Wright,” I say loudly. “With me are Ian Buckley and PJ Wilson. We are Gravediggers.”

Why do I even try
.

“There are no Gravediggers,” snaps Anne Farrow.

“And who has decided that?” I ask the three witches, doing my best to keep my voice from quivering, though it feels as though I am jamming my finger in an electrical outlet. “You? Your Council? From what I have learned from my friend Warden O'Dea Foree, my role as a Gravedigger is my destiny, which no curse or enchantment can deny. I have felt the power of karma drive me as I fought the breach in area forty-seven by convincing the living dead to tear one another apart. I felt it at area one-oh-two when I struck down hungry zombies in the humid jungle. But now, I must fight for my friend's life. So Wardens, do me the favor of setting aside your reservations and allowing us to save one of your own.”

Absolute silence. The three Wardens stare at me, mouths agape.

“So what you're telling me,” says Sarah Cardille slowly, her dark eyes meeting mine, “is that you took part in two undocumented breaches of containment?”

My adrenaline rush turns sour and clammy. On my one side, Ian slaps a palm to his face; on the other, PJ exhales softly and whispers, “Ho boy.”

“Well,” I say through partly numb lips, “given the circumstances—”

“Enough,” says Cardille, slamming a palm down on the table with a resounding smack. Her smile radiates smug self-satisfaction—she must have been aware of these breaches if she knew who we are.

Which means she played you, Kendra. She made
you
admit them publicly. Step up your game
.

“Let me make something clear to you three children,” continues Cardille. “Had this Council been informed of these breaches when they occurred, your friend Ms. Foree might not even be alive to be kidnapped. We have a time-honored policy of removing the heads of those who fail at their duties as Warden, depending on the extent of their infraction.”

“She ain't lying,” growls Blaze Creed. “We put it in a box, throw it in the river.”

“Perhaps you are what you claim to be,” muses Cardille. “You've certainly brought enough catastrophe, suffering, and consternation to the Wardens you've met, just like Dario Savini's father did some time ago. But we do not recognize Gravediggers. Not anymore. Your help is not needed, nor was it ever.”

“But what about O'Dea?” says PJ, his eyes sparkling brightly. “Our friend is out there in the hands of a man who makes Bruce Campbell look like Shirley Temple. And she's probably hurt. What can we do to help?”