Page 47 of Grave Humor

Eleven

A gallon of ice cream could fix anything.

The absolute darkness freaked me out almost as much as my awareness I was trapped in a mausoleum in the heart of a town where the dead had a habit of getting up when left unattended. Then again, the dead had never done anything to hurt me, not even Gordon; I’d gone into that with some idea of what to expect, although I had underestimated how painful his bite would be. The dead often made decent company, like poor Old Man McGregor.

I hoped the townsfolk did the right thing. Then again, if they didn’t, I would.

Maybe he annoyed most people he crossed paths with, but he deserved better.

I expected the local police would brush off my report, as the old man had caused the coppers more than a few issues over the years. That bothered me, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I believed Eoghan’s claims about Old Man McGregor. He’d lived stubborn, and I saw no reason death would change him.

I shivered, and I wondered if the place had any ventilation, or if Director Hammel left me to face asphyxiation in the dark. All in all, my situation could be worse.

There could have been undead in the musty space with me, or there could have been an open drum of formaldehyde. Direct Hammel could have stuck around, too.

With nothing else to do, I wondered what Director Hammel wanted and why he thought Eoghan could help him—or more accurately, why Director Hammel thought Eoghan’s awakening might aid his cause. How could someone waking up from a long slumber help him? Magic could do just about anything. Magic struggled when it came to renewing someone’s organs, but muscles could be reknit, bones could be healed, and life could be preserved with the right talent and training. Magic’s limitations intrigued me.

Only death conquered all, and it did so with no regard to right, wrong, or those left behind. Death welcomed everyone.

No, death welcomed almost everyone. Eoghan dodged death’s embrace, and his tendency to sleep through the ages began to make a sickening amount of sense. Who wanted to watch the years go by without end?

Could Eoghan be one of the immortals incapable of receiving death’s blessing?

Most feared death. I feared the pain of dying, but death itself opened as many doors as it closed. What waited for me in my next life? If Eoghan’s belief I carried a new soul within me proved to be the truth, I gave myself decent odds of having a better life should I get a second chance.

Assuming I escaped with my life, I’d have to do some research on the nature of souls.

Time dragged, and by the time Director Hammel returned to the mausoleum, I longed for my bed, a honey rock, some time with a new book, and maybe a quart of ice cream. No, I’d go for an entire gallon. A gallon of ice cream could fix anything.

It’d been a long time since I’d had ice cream. Damn. I should’ve gotten some chocolate to go with my honey rocks when I’d gone on a grocery store bender.

“Come on, then,” he ordered. “We don’t have all night.”

My time on the floor hadn’t done my back, knees, or head any favors, and I lurched to my feet with a grimace. I limped the first few steps before straightening and correcting my stride. The stairs led to a miniature catacombs with rows upon rows of burial niches, most of which were opened and the bones lying at rest exposed to the open air. Decayed linens clung to the skeletons, and I gave it a few years before the mold and mildew clinging to everything would erode the dead to nothing.

Several steel caskets, newer but low-end models, rested along one of the walls. “Those are the people who were laid to rest below?”

“Not precisely.”

How many people had died due to Director Hammel’s scheming? “More like that man you killed in the funeral home?”

“That’s closer. Their deaths were necessary. They will receive a proper burial in time. I’ll show you the important bodies. They’re this way.”

One of the shadowy niches proved to be a hallway leading deeper into the catacombs, and even older burials waited. My eyes widened. “How old are these burials?”

I peeked into one of the niches to discover the skeleton clutched a sword and shield, much like the ones Romans were depicted as using.

“I would say some date back as far as the Western Roman Empire. I don’t know how the bodies got here, but when this mausoleum was built, it was built around these catacombs, which are mostly original. I was given strict instructions on how the bodies and the catacombs were to be cared for.”

I gaped at the body, wondering how someone could have gotten from the Roman Empire to Sunset, Alabama. “Was the Western Roman Empire AD or BC?”

“It represents almost a hundred years around 400 AD.”

The shield showed no sign of its age, neither did the sword. A glint of red caught my eye, and I leaned closer. A ruby ring rested around the corpse’s skeletal finger. “Who was he?”

“Nobody important. This way.”

The answer shouldn’t have surprised me, but it did.