Page 35 of Grave Expectations

“What other trials are there?” Alaric asked, reaching for the grimoire. Roz caught the smile he hastily suppressed as he grabbed the book and hauled it into his lap. He flipped the page and paused, reading the words.

It took Roz’s tired mind a full twenty seconds before she realized what he was reading. There was no use in pulling the old book away from him, then it would be obvious what she’d been neglecting to tell him.

“Anchoring,” he read, his gaze darting up to her. “Have you read this?”

“A little,” she admitted, leaning over the book. In truth, she’d committed the entire paragraph to memory.

Tethering is a temporary process. Anchoring is permanent. While a tether allows a spirit into this world, it does so under conditions. A tether may be strengthened, but it will fade, and the cumulative cost will be too great. Anchoring is a permanent bond that can only be severed by the death of the living. An anchor brings the living closer to the world of the dead, and the dead closer to the world of the living. Necromancers already live within this realm, so the cost is not as great as a common witch or a human. An anchor means a shorter lifespan, and it means the spirit will age as well. It will be as if the spirit is alive once again.

Beneath, it explained the exact process, which Roz had memorized as well. She chewed her lip as Alaric read the passage once more.

“I’ve heard of this. Once, in passing. A woman lost her husband and begged one of the Graves women to do it. They said it was a myth, that it didn’t work.” He tapped the passage lightly. “They were protecting her.”

Alaric stared at the passage for another long moment before closing the grimoire and putting it back on the table. Roz stood, glad that her legs didn’t give out, and filled a glass with water at the kitchen sink. She took several long swigs, then filled it up again to water the plant on her sill.

It was dead.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Rosalin fell asleep less than five minutes into the movie. It was part of their evening ritual, a sort of normalcy that Alaric never thought he’d experience.

Three hundred years alone, and now this.

He saw the dead plant before Rosalin did. He knew what it meant, that the tether she’d created was temporary. He felt it every day, as his body gravitated back toward that spirit world. He clawed his way back to Rosalin every time, refusing to be dragged away.

But eventually he would. Eventually the tether would run out, and with the curse broken, he could cross over at last. He would not stay and be invisible again, to watch the woman he cared so deeply about mourn him.

That was the hardest part about dying the first time, the heartache left in his wake. No matter how annoying or destructive he’d been in life, no matter how many witches cursed his name, he was part of the reason Pumpkin Hollow remained. When they realized what he’d suffered for them, they wept, built a statue, called him a founder.

The town had each other to lean on. Rosalin would be alone in her misery. He couldn’t watch that.

Unless she anchored you.

He pushed the rogue thought away. He could never ask that of her. He didn’t mind the idea of growing old, or the thought of being attached to her permanently. It was the suggestion that it would shorten her life. Even with the caveat that necromancers did not feel it like a witch might, that wasn’t good enough for him.

He’d rather go back to purgatory than do anything to harm her.

How long would it take? He felt more present than before, his body more solid. He could smell the candle that burned in the corner, taste the lingering bit of her blood on his lip. When he stroked Albie, he could feel the texture of him.

It was almost like being alive again, and it felt amazing. Tomorrow he’d be able to help Rosalin with the cemetery so she might have the evening to do as she pleased. They could walk downtown and look at the decorations for the Pumpkin Festival. They could go to the theater and watch a movie.

But he wanted more than that. He wanted years of Pumpkin Festivals, of first snowfalls, of afternoons in the cemetery. He wanted to fall asleep with her every evening, and wake next to her every morning.

He wanted so many things that he could never have.

Not never.

No, not never. He could have them…but he couldn’t do that to Rosalin. Severed only by death. Anchoring removed his worries about being her invisible lover, of a life of people not believing he existed. Of being ostracized by a town that already kept an arm’s distance.

If they were anchored, he would be real. Visible. Tangible. He would age. He would be just another man.

At the cost of her life.

His thoughts warred with one another. If she was willing, who was he to say no? She could make her own choices, and if she chose him, he’d gladly accept.

She’d only known him a week. He might have known her for years, but he was still a stranger to her. What reason would she have to anchor him? To attach her life to his forever? Pity? He couldn’t have that.

Rosalin stirred, blinking at the television. “How long was I out?” she asked.