The Adventures of Gravedigger, Volume 2 Read online

  Mitchell waved away the smoke, peering into the box’s stygian interior. There was definitely a figure in there, standing with hands straight down at its sides. He took a quick step back when one of the hands began to twitch, followed quickly by a spasm that rocked the figure from head to toe.

  “He’s waking up,” he warned, reaching for the automatic that was stuck in the waistband of his pants.

  “Get back.” Gravedigger moved quickly past him, brandishing a curved Arabian-style blade in her left hand. Mounted on her right forearm was a small spring-loaded crossbow. With a certain flick of her wrist, she could fire a bolt at her target. In addition to those, she had various other weapons strapped about her red and black bodysuit. The hood and mask she wore hid her face and disguised her voice, giving it an otherworldly quality. Added to the fact that she was a walking arsenal was the strange trace memory she seemed to possess, as if the skills of previous Gravediggers were hers to call upon as needed.

  What really made her dangerous, of course, was the steely determination that she possessed. Charity had been born into poverty and had fallen prey to misfortune again and again – but it had never broken her. Mitchell doubted that anything ever would.

  “Find the others,” she hissed, obviously wondering why he was still there. “There’s going to be trouble and they need to be ready to help the passengers in case you need to evacuate.”

  Mitchell gave a curt nod and ran towards the entryway. He felt only a brief second of regret about leaving her to face the thing in the box. She was a Gravedigger and better suited for such things than he’d ever be.

  Unlike Li and Cedric, Mitchell knew that the thing in the hold had never come from the Sovereign Museum nor was it meant to be taken off the vessel at all. It had been sent here for one reason only: to sow chaos and fear. Pelvin was no more than a patsy, a tool to open the box at the proper time, so that its contents could be unleashed. It was never planned for Pelvin to receive his promised reward.

  GRAVEDIGGER WONDERED EXACTLY when her life had become so surreal.

  Was it when she’d learned that the famous Samantha Grace, the pert blonde beauty from Assistance Unlimited, was her half-sister?

  Or was it when she woke up in her own grave, a mysterious entity known as The Voice offering her a chance of redemption?

  All she knew was that from day to day, things were so bizarre that the extraordinary almost became commonplace.

  For instance, the creature she was now facing was something straight out of an old Gothic horror story or, perhaps, one of those sleazy pulp magazines that she sometimes saw at the newsstand.

  The figure slowly emerged from the confines of the box, his skin looking sallow. It lay tight against the bones of his body, spidery veins visible. His eyes lay deep in their sockets, staring out with bloodshot malevolence. His dark hair hung in dirty clumps along his shoulders. The clothes he wore were of a different age – a dusty black suit with tails, a stiff white shirt, a dark cummerbund and a bow tie. He looked like some sort of hellish Victorian butler.

  “I am on the open seas,” he said, his voice grating like sandpaper. It was dry and obviously painful. His eyes bored into hers before taking in her outlandish attire. “Are you one of my servants?” he asked, his hands clenching into fists even as he made the inquiry.

  Brandishing her weapons, Gravedigger asked, “Do I look like I’m here to welcome you back to the world of the living?”

  “No. You do not.” Slowly, the man adjusted the fit of his jacket. If he felt any fear about Gravedigger’s implied threat, he gave no sign of it. “You know who I am?”

  “Your name is Ira Shelley, born in 1677. You died in 1722 at the age of 45. Resurrected that same year, thanks to the dark magic cast by your followers. You continued your fiendish existence until 1893, when you were badly injured and your body shut down to repair itself.”

  Shelley raised one eyebrow. “You honor me with your careful appraisal of my life.”

  “Honor you? I didn’t mean to do that.”

  “I can sense your disapproval. May I ask what I have done to offend you?”

  Gravedigger continued to hold off on her instinctual desire to attack him. She wanted to give Mitchell plenty of time to reach the others and get them ready to handle a possible evacuation. “You practiced black magic during your lifetime and your resurrection was the result of human sacrifice – three virgins were killed to bring you back. Since then, you’ve killed how many people to satisfy your dark lusts…?”

  “Over sixty. I can remember each and every one.” Shelley looked down at her, a sly smile forming on his lips. “You seem troubled by the fact that I am kept alive by the sacrifices of others. But it is no different from you – you subsist off the life energies of animals. And what are humans but highly intelligent animals?”

  A feeling of disgust washed over Gravedigger and she knew that this… thing… before her was exactly the sort of beast that The Voice had wanted her to eradicate.

  “Now, if you don’t mind, could you tell me how I ended up in the bowels of this vessel?” Shelley moved past her, taking tentative steps at first but quickly gaining confidence.

  “For the past couple of decades, you’ve been stored in the basement of the old Elks Lodge building. You still have a half dozen followers who get together to drink and have sex in front of your corpse.”

  “How charming,” Shelley murmured and he sounded as if he genuinely meant it.

  “Last week, one of them got the bright idea to sacrifice a virgin in your presence. You started to wake up and so they did another… by this time, they were getting a little frightened since they knew you’d be famished when you awoke. So they booked you passage on this ship and fabricated a cover story, saying you were being transported from one museum to another.”

  “They intended for me to awaken and feed to my heart’s content on this ship’s unfortunate passengers and crew?”

  “That was their idea, yes.”

  “And how did you come to know about all of this?”

  “I was investigating the disappearances of their victims. I found their lair and made them talk… they finally told me what they had done and what they intended to do.”

  “You killed them?” Shelley asked, turning to face her. He seemed to be regarding her with renewed interest.

  Gravedigger nodded. “Oh, yes. Just like I’m going to do with you.”

  Shelley spread his arms. “I’m afraid that won’t be as easy as you think. I have already died and returned. That changes a man.”

  “I know all about resurrection and the changes it brings.” Gravedigger took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’ve waited long enough. Let’s dance, shall we?”

  Before Shelley could respond, Gravedigger had fired off one of her crossbow bolts. It buried itself in the big man’s neck, the point extending out the back of his throat. A black fluid, like the ink from a pen, oozed from the wound but there was no blood.

  Even as Gravedigger swung her blade, intending to decapitate her foe, Shelley was recovering from his surprise. He twisted away from her attack and drove an elbow down atop Gravedigger’s head, knocking her off-balance.

  Shelly reached out and grabbed hold of Gravedigger’s hood, using it to yank her towards him. He then placed a strong hand about her throat, lifting her off the ground. She gasped, unable to breathe, and Shelley said, “All you’ve done is assured that you’ll be my first morsel. But there will be many more to follow. I’ll turn these waters red with the blood of my meals. And then I’ll return to Sovereign City and build my cult anew.” His sunken eyes flashed with a dark fury. “You really are a stupid little cow if you thought you could stop me.” With every word that Shelley said, the dark fluid that leaked out around the crossbow bolt grew thicker.

  Gravedigger was seeing stars appear before her eyes. Thankfully, this wasn’t the first time in her life when she’d been in this position. She’d trained herself to function without oxygen, able to hold her breath as
long as an Olympic swimmer. She raised her weapon and used all that was left of her strength to stab it straight into Shelley’s forehead.

  The big fellow howled in pain and dropped her to the ground. He placed a hand over the injury. He hissed, his voice now filled with anger. “I’m going to cut you open from throat to crotch! I’m going to scoop out your insides with a spoon!”

  Gravedigger scrambled back to her feet. She reached into a small pouch secreted alongside her belt and yanked free a silver vial. She used her thumb to push out the stopper and then poured the clear fluid within onto her sword. The rest of the stuff she flung at Shelley’s head and shoulders.

  The revived figure screamed, his body sizzling wherever the liquid had touched. He looked at her in confusion, the ink-like fluid that was his life’s blood staining his face. “What have you done?” he demanded.

  “Just a little water – blessed by Father Nelson of St. Joseph’s Church.”

  Shelley roared like an injured bear, rushing at her with both fists raised. He no longer looked like a lumbering, tentative brute. He had recovered enough vitality to move like a blur and Gravedigger barely rolled aside as he barreled past her.

  Dropping low, Gravedigger swept out with her blade. She caught Shelley in the hamstring, slicing right through it. He toppled over, groaning as he hit the ground. Though his body was no longer the same as a living man’s, it was similar enough that Gravedigger could lay him low.

  “There’s no need for this,” he said, rolling onto his back. His face was contorted with pain but she knew it was temporary – give him a taste of human flesh and he’d be healing up again like the injury had never happened. “We can work together,” he said, forcing himself onto his elbows as he looked up at her. “A woman with your skills… you would be the perfect guide to this new century for me. And I have money hidden away in places where no one would have looked!”

  Gravedigger flipped back her hood and then removed her mask. She shoved it into her belt and allowed Shelley to examine her bare face. It was obvious that he was surprised to see her youth, not to mention her beauty. Her brown hair was pulled back into a tight bun but several curls had spilled free and now danced about her neck.

  “There’s nothing you could offer me that would stay my hand. I’m The Gravedigger, servant to The Voice. I do this not just for my own redemption but because it’s the right thing to do…”

  “You’re not a murderer,” he argued, raising one hand as if he could ward off her blow.

  “I’m not killing you,” she countered. “You killed yourself long ago, when you decided to toss away all that was good and just in your soul. All I’m doing is shoveling the dirt on your grave.”

  Shelley howled in indignation, crying about the unfairness of the situation. He had suffered so much, he said, in the name of his immortality.

  Gravedigger barely heard the words. She raised and lowered her blade again and again, the black fluid that ran through his veins flying into the air. It soaked her uniform and dripped from her face but still she hacked at him, not stopping until his limbs were severed and his body was a ruined mess, barely recognizable as anything human.

  Finally ceasing her assault, Gravedigger backed away, panting from her exertion. When her breathing had finally slowed, she used a cloth to clean her blade. After it was sheathed, she pulled her mask back into place and crept towards the entryway.

  She thought about what she’d said to Shelley – about how she did these things not just for her own personal redemption but because it was the right thing to do. She desperately wanted that to be true. She wanted to feel like a hero and not someone who had changed her life only because she’d been given no other real choice.

  Covered with gore, it was hard to feel particularly heroic.

  She had saved lives, though, no doubt about that. And her friends had never even been called upon to evacuate the ship. They could enjoy the rest of the cruise and take a much-needed vacation.

  Pausing at the door, she looked back at the grim scene she’d left behind.

  “This is the right thing to do,” she said aloud. She repeated the words, more firmly the second time. Confident that she was really starting to feel that way, she pulled the door shut behind her… and vanished into the shadows of the ship.

  Chapter II: The Silver Skull

  It looked like something torn straight from a nightmare – an old house that loomed against the moonlit sky. It was a massive pile of ancient stone, fine woodwork and dark shadows. The impression that it gave was that it was almost a living thing, this isolated mansion known locally as Hendry Hall - a living thing that was just waiting to sink its fangs into the bodies of all those unlucky enough to cross its doorway.

  Hendry Hall was known to all in Sovereign as a cursed place, full of mysteries and death. That description was still applicable now that it belonged to Cedric and was the headquarters for Gravedigger’s war on crime.

  With the rest of the group away onboard the Geischler, the house was empty save for one singularly unusual soul. Mortimer Quinn appeared to be a man in his mid-thirties but he had been born in the year 1761. For most of his life, he’d been an investigator, generally working for The New England Insurance House. It may not have sounded like an exciting vocation but Mortimer had found himself at death’s door on numerous occasions. During one trip into the Appalachian Mountains, he’d located a woman named Mary Owen, only to stumble upon a black bear and her cub while on the way back home. The animal had assaulted him and left him for dead. He’d managed to drag his bleeding form all the way down the side of the mountain and though the scars sometimes terrified the women he took to his bed, he was proud of them. They reflected his tenacious nature, he thought.

  Tall and well formed, Mortimer had the sort of rangy build that men of extreme activity sometimes possessed. He was neither as broad nor as handsome as some but the overall combination of his looks and intelligence were memorable and pleasing to the opposite sex.

  It was during an ill-fated trip to Sovereign in 1793 that he had been confronted with an entity known as the Headless Horseman. The ensuing battle had left Mortimer a dead man until the same Voice that would later resurrect Charity Grace had made him an offer he could not refuse.

  Mortimer had served his time as Gravedigger, successfully redeeming his soul in the process. To his surprise, he’d found his own aging severely retarded. Where others grew old and died, he simply kept… existing. There were a few small signs of the passage of time – a wrinkle or two around the eyes, a stray wisp of silver to his hair – but they were few and far between.

  Eventually, he had returned to the place of his birth, using some of the occult knowledge he’d gained as Gravedigger to ensure his continued wealth. He’d lived in relative solitude, aware that others had been pressed into service to The Voice but never interacting with them… not until Charity.

  He’d happened to catch a brief newspaper mention of Gravedigger and her activities. He’d recognized it immediately, knowing what it meant and curious that this new Gravedigger was a woman, the first female to ever own that title, Mortimer believed.

  Mortimer liked to believe that it wasn’t prurient interest that had led him out of the shadows, eager to confront Charity. He wanted to offer her guidance and protection, a purely gallant response to both her position and her gender.

  Of course, he’d been quite pleased to discover that she was amazingly gorgeous, but what red-blooded male wouldn’t have been?

  All of these thoughts ran through his mind as he sat in the study, his eyes riveted to the flickering flames in the fireplace. He wore the modern fashions, even though they felt strange to him even after all these years. The only outward sign of his age was the somewhat unusual nature of his features. It had been a source of no small amount of amusement to him over the years that the nature of human appearance shifted and altered over time. People simply looked and carried themselves differently than they did in the past. Whether it was the result of increas
ingly better health conditions or simply the evolution of the species, men and women were generally taller and stronger than they had been in the era of Mortimer’s birth.

  So far, the group that surrounded Gravedigger had been slow to embrace Mortimer. He was quite the outsider amongst them and he wasn’t quite sure why that was. He had certainly tried to ingratiate himself into the team but none of them, not even the overly flirtatious Li, had warmed up to him.

  The chiming of the grandfather clock made Mortimer glance up. It was nearly midnight. With a yawn, Mortimer pushed himself out of the chair and finished the last of the brandy that he’d been nursing for the past half hour. The liquid was burning its way down his throat when a sound caught his attention. The heavy brass knockers on the front door clanged against the front entrance again and Mortimer sighed, wondering who would be brave enough to approach the darkness of Hendry Hall at the witching hour.

  He approached and took the time to peer through the slot on the door. Seeing nothing but shadows and fog, Mortimer’s time as a Gravedigger prompted him to take precaution. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small handgun, keeping it hidden as he unlocked the door and opened it.

  To his amazement, there was no one standing there. He had expected to find someone lying in wait for him, having hidden from the peephole’s view, but all that he found was a well-wrapped parcel sitting on the stoop. He picked it up, noting the heavy weight of the thing, and took note that there was no writing on the box at all; nothing to suggest who it was from or even who it was meant for.

  Mortimer closed the door behind him and entered the study, wondering if he should set the box aside for Cedric. The house was technically his, even if everyone treated it as belonging to Charity. If anyone was going to have packages delivered here, it was liable to be the man of the house but the mail service didn’t typically run a midnight delivery shift, did they?