Page 7 of Grave Expectations

“You may die, but your soul will remain to watch. You will watch as we find your witches, as we hold them all accountable for their crimes. Your body may burn upon the pyre, but your soul will remain. And you will spend eternity staring at the ashes of the very people you tried—and failed—to protect.”

Rosalin blinked several times, her eyes glassy. “Oh,” she said.

It was his pain, yet he wanted to bring her close, to tell her it was fine. Three hundred years was plenty of time to move beyond a few words. Especially when those three hundred years were spent watching the opposite happen.

“So I have remained, and I have watched,” he said, settling for keeping her hand in his. Her blood pulsed across his palm, her magic rubbing against him.

“So you’ve…” she started, her gaze flickering away. His gaze was drawn to her throat as she swallowed, at the vessel that pulsed with her heartbeat. “...been listening?”

“You’re the only person who tried to keep me company,” he said, his other hand moving to her jaw to guide her face back to him. “All these years, I’ve been alone, until ten years ago you stood before my statue and spoke to me. Perhaps this is why you succeeded where all others failed.”

“All I did was trip and fall,” Rosalin said, but she did not look away. She stared into his face, into his eyes.

“Imagine what you could do with intention,” he said.

She stepped back and away, her hand falling from his. It left a hollow in its place, a ravenous void where magic once sat. Her blood sang to him. “I think you’re just a little overwhelmed, social anxiety. Or maybe the whiplash, or something. I have no magic, especially not necromancy. I…” She trailed off, her mouth open as she fought for the right words.

He wanted to move toward her, to bring her closer again. But he was a gentleman, and he’d give her all the distance she needed. “Yet look what you’ve done.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, her teeth working her bottom lip. After several moments she shook her head, looking to him once more. “All I did was bleed.”

“Then that is where we’ll start,” Alaric said.

“We? Start? Hold on, buddy,” Rosalin said, lifting her hands up. “This is a lot. I can just…go get one of my aunts, or my mom or dad. They’ll know what to do. Once they see you, they can take over from here.”

She turned to stomp out of the cemetery. Coldness seeped into Alaric the further she moved, that liminal space tugging at him once more. He couldn’t go back there, he wouldn’t go back there.

He followed her, leaving enough of a gap for propriety.

She glanced over her shoulder, frowning at the threshold of the cemetery. “You’re transparenter. Uh, more transparent? Whatever, you’re harder to see,” she said. He moved closer to her and her eyes widened. “Until you get close to me.”

"Proximity and blood," Alaric considered. "The blood tethers me to you—but something else keeps me solid when you're near. Something in you."

“Oh no, I am so sorry,” she said.

“It is a price I am willing to pay to be seen and heard,” he told her.

“No, but this is awful for you. You’re stuck to me, against your will, until we figure this all out. Nonconsensual!” She pressed her palms against her temples, her eyes wide. “The fucking beloved founder of the town. Oh goddess, what have I done?”

Alaric placed a hand on her shoulder, and for a moment there was warmth. It was fleeting, perhaps a memory from when he was alive. “Please, hear me as I say this. I will keep my distance, so as not to intrude upon your life. Given a choice, I would have happily picked this—as long as you agreed, as well.”

She stared at him with those wide eyes, her hand still pressed against her temples. “You’re just being nice.”

“That runs counter to my reputation,” he said. She raised an eyebrow.

“You died so the town might succeed,” she argued.

“It would have succeeded with or without me. I was a martyr, nothing more.”

Rosalin continued to stare at him for several long moments before lowering her hands. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. But first to my parents, they should know what to do.”

“First,” Alaric said, stepping toward her. Her head tilted back to look up at him. He raised his hand to her temple, sliding his thumb across it. It came away with her sticky blood. “You might want to clean up.”

CHAPTER FOUR

“You don’t see him?” Roz asked, waving to the transparent town founder standing just behind her. Sadie Graves screwed up her face, her nose crinkling as she stared at the space next to Roz.

“No?” her mother asked, then pressed the back of her hand against Roz’s forehead. Roz swatted her hand away. “I’m not sick.”