Something Strange and Deadly (Something Strange and Deadly #1)(2)

Seconds passed and still I could not seem to breathe. Why hadn’t it attacked?

I watched the window. Was the corpse coming in the office? Were there more Dead? I listened closely but detected no sounds over the somber tolling of the alarm.

Was the corpse really gone?

The stink lingered, so perhaps it was waiting outside the window. A few flies had hitched a ride on the body, and they buzzed around me. I only gave them a cursory swat. I was trapped in here until—

I heard a loud crack like thunder.

My heart jolted, and my whole body jumped with it. What the devil was that?

Then, suddenly, the alarm stopped. I heard voices from within the depot. Living people.

The danger must have passed; I was all right. But I couldn’t stop the shaking in my hands. My whole body felt like jelly.

It took several minutes for my breathing to settle, for my heart to stop its frenzied pounding. It wasn’t until a full five minutes had passed and silence reigned in the depot that I trusted myself to try standing.

My legs wobbled, and I pushed my chin shakily forward. I didn’t want to approach the counter, but I ached to see what the Dead had left behind. A piece of paper, yes, but what was on it?

I inched closer, seeing it was a letter.

I inched closer again until the words of the letter were clear.

My breath hitched, and I grasped the counter for support.

The paper was for me, and it was from my brother.

When I got home, I went straight upstairs, locked myself in my bedroom, and leaned against the door. The fading, yellow stripes on the wallpaper made my eyes waver, so I stared hard at the floorboards.

I needed simplicity. Calm. And above all, I needed time alone before Mama hounded me. The words from Elijah’s letter rang in my mind over and over again. I had scanned the note a thousand times on the walk home and could recite it from memory now.

I can’t come. Trouble in New York has caught up with me. Don’t tell Mama—it will only worry her. And you shouldn’t worry either. If I do what he needs, I can come home.

And that was all it said, except for Elijah scrawled at the bottom. When I flipped it around, it was just dirt-covered blank.

I threw my parasol beside my oak wardrobe and crossed to the window opposite me, giving my bed a wide berth—its beige sheets beckoned to me with promises of protection and escape. I stoutly avoided looking at Elijah’s picture on my bedside table, and I pressed my forehead against the glass; it fogged with my breath.

This could not be happening. This had to be a joke. Or a mistake. Elijah would show up at any minute, his bony face laughing and his spectacles sliding down his nose.

I fingered the pale scar on my left wrist. A hard-earned reminder of our tree-climbing, game-playing days. Surely, surely this was a prank—like the time he convinced me it was a good idea to dress up as ghosts and scare Mama during tea.

My heart dropped into my stomach, and I twisted around to slide to the floor. This couldn’t be a joke. Elijah couldn’t manipulate a corpse.

The reference to trouble in New York—Elijah had mentioned problems in his earlier letters. He had said people were after his research, but I hadn’t understood what he meant. During his travels across Europe, he was always drifting from one museum to the next, and studying old books and ancient artifacts. But theology had never been a topic of much interest to me.

Oh, why hadn’t I paid better attention? I’d been so excited about his return, I’d completely ignored his trouble. And now it had caught up with him in the form of lidless, putrid eyes.

Despite the press of my corset, I hugged my knees to my chest and rolled my head back to the wall. Elijah was right—I couldn’t tell Mama.

My mother seemed tough, but it was all an act. When Father had died six years ago, the grief had almost killed her. The stress of a missing son—of a son who was likely taken by the Dead—would be too much.

I whimpered and squeezed my eyes shut. I had no idea what to do... no idea why this was happening to Elijah. Other than childhood stories and the occasional newspaper article, I had never paid much attention to the Dead. It had never been my problem before, never been my family affected by a ringing casket-bell and rising corpse.

From my pocket, I yanked the crumpled newspaper and roughly unfolded it.

WALKING DEAD STILL RISE IN

LAUREL HILL CEMETERY

Today marks one week since the discovery of the corpse of Frederick Weathers, son of City Councilman Thomas Weathers. Frederick, who had disappeared two days before, was discovered at the International Centennial Exhibition as a walking corpse. His murderer is presumed to be the same person responsible for raising the Dead.

Murder? Oh God—I was going to be sick.

“Eleanor? Let me in!”

I whipped my head up. Mama.

I crushed the newspaper in my fist and shoved it back into my pocket. “Let me in!” she commanded.

“Coming. Coming.” I climbed to my feet and scrambled across the room.

“Why is this locked?” Mama demanded once the door was opened. She didn’t wait for an answer but sailed past me into the room. “Well, where is he?”

I stared wide-eyed. The truth boiled in my throat. I wanted—needed—to tell her, but I knew better.

So I blinked.

“Do not just stand there, Eleanor. I asked you a question.” Mama’s figure was all shoulders and angles, with a mass of curling gray hair on top. And right now she stood puffed up like a triangle, tapering to the ground and demanding authority as if she were President Grant himself.