Everhaven: Book One of the Reaper Trilogy Read online

  My fingers drift to the metal piece I always wear around my neck, and I remember the day I found it. I’d snuck out of the house a few days after my father’s death, waited until my mother was asleep and rode my bicycle to the scene of the explosion. It was a long ride, to the far reaches of town, but I made it. I stopped at the top of the low hill maybe fifty yards away from the wreckage, frozen. Though some of the building’s right side was missing, the brick charred a dark coal color, the cleanup crews had already removed all the rubble. For a long time, I just stood at the top of the hill staring, unable to tear my gaze away from the place my father lost his life, until something glinting near my foot caught my eye. Nestled in the grass was a piece of metal about the size of a quarter. Somehow, the metal had fused itself together into an almost perfect circle, smooth and scarred black from the fire. I took it home, put it on a chain, and it’s been with me ever since. A daily reminder of what was lost.

  Of what the Provider failed to protect.

  It’s why I wear the charred metal piece in place of the Provider’s symbol. My mother used to question that a lot, but she gave up long ago when she realized I was never taking it off. Not for anything. My mother, however, takes comfort in knowing that her husband will be with the Provider soon.

  I wish I could feel the same comfort.

  After kneeling in the grass for a while, I look to my watch again. It’s something else I always wear. The worn leather band is much too large for my arm. I had to poke an extra hole just to keep it from sliding down my wrist. But it belonged to my father, and that’s good enough reason for me to not care what it looks like.

  Its silver hands indicate that it’s now ten thirty.

  Exactly five years, five months, three hours, and eleven minutes since I found out about my father’s death.

  But who’s counting? Surely only me. My father has been forgotten. Only the infamy of his crimes lives on in everyone’s treatment of my mother and me.

  Standing on shaky legs, I brush the grass off my knees. When I begin to head toward the front of the cemetery, I notice a figure standing off to the side.

  The gravedigger, Louis Locke. He’s known around town as the “Cemetery Fairy” because he doesn’t talk much, and no one ever really sees him do his job, yet the graves are always dug when they need to be dug and his hands are perpetually covered in dirt.

  The impassive gaze of his dark eyes is locked on me, and I’m suddenly frozen in its beam, my cheeks flushing as though I’ve been caught doing something I’m not supposed to be doing. But that’s just silly. I haven’t done anything wrong. He cocks his head to one side as though observing a science experiment, and it’s becoming unsettling. Desperate to break the tension, I offer a quick wave.

  There’s a long pause, and then he lifts his right arm and gives a single wave in return, followed by a nod of the head. Then he turns away from me and passes through the graveyard’s wrought iron gate, heading out onto the street at a brisk, smooth pace, his strides so fluid it’s almost as though he floats out. My gaze follows him as he turns the corner. I wonder briefly where he’s going, but I know he’ll be back.

  He has a grave to fill in.

  Just as he disappears from view, something rustles from deeper inside the cemetery behind me. An odd sound, like many heavy limbs shuffling through grass. I peer over my shoulder.

  Nothing there. Just a sea of headstones, as silent and unmoving as the occupants beneath them.

  Still, the hairs on the back of my neck begin to prickle, sounding a little alarm bell in my head. Suddenly, I can’t get out of that graveyard quickly enough.

  Nothing to be afraid of in Everhaven, I remind myself. No predators here, no crime. Walking corpses, sure, but they’re harmless. Annoying sometimes, but harmless.

  All my internal assurances don’t stop me from walking my bicycle faster.

  I exit the cemetery’s gates and turn onto the street, quiet now because of curfew. We’ve always had an unspoken curfew—excluding those in jobs that require late night hours, like myself and Louis Locke—though no one has ever explained why. It’s just the way things have always been. We’re just supposed to accept things at face value here, though my father never did. "That was his problem," my mother would say. But I refuse to accept that.

  I’ve just swung my leg over my bicycle when I hear a voice next to me.

  “Rester duties, again?”

  Jumping, I spin as a figure steps into the light of the nearby lamp post. It’s just Marcie Chambers, my best friend. More like an older sister, really.

  She has flawless skin, almond-shaped eyes the color of melted caramel, and delicate features. Pretty, in my opinion. As the baker of the best cupcakes in town, I’m more used to seeing her with an apron around her waist and a smattering of white flour in her dark hair. But tonight she’s more cleaned up, wearing a vibrant, cap-sleeved yellow dress that hugs her curves just right and makes the gold flecks in her eyes stand out even more. How I wish I looked like her. I’m all gangly limbs and impossible hair, with skin so pale I could almost pass for a Ringer.

  Marcie gives a little wave of greeting. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” Her voice is a contradiction to her appearance; where she’s feminine and petite, her tone is low and coarse.

  “How did you know I’d be out tonight?”

  “Well, I knew Mr. Douglass had just passed, and he seemed the restless type so, I did the math.”

  “It’s after curfew,” I point out. It’s a dumb thing to point out. Most people in town just quietly shuffle back to their homes by 10pm, though it’s never been strictly enforced as of yet, and Marcie has never been one to follow the crowd, anyway.

  “It is, but I needed to clear my head after my date with James today.”

  “You mean, you actually said yes?”

  She shrugs. “Options are pretty limited in this town, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I figured it couldn’t hurt, but boy was I wrong. That date was painful, and James certainly isn’t getting any more charming. Or handsome, for that matter.”

  James Marsh is the epitome of awkward, and coming from me, that’s saying something. I could never picture him with Marcie, but there may come a time when she has no choice. She’s twenty-years-old, three years my senior. By law, every resident is required to be married by the age of twenty-one, and if you can’t make the decision on your own, a suitor is picked for you. James Marsh is nineteen-years-old with a massive overbite and a face that’s more freckles than skin, and he’s been after Marcie for ages. He also happens to be the son of Deputy Marsh, who himself isn’t the most pleasant man. I shudder at the thought of being forced to marry anyone, but it will be my reality someday far too soon. Although, my father and mother had been an arranged marriage and, to their credit, they seemed to make things work pretty well. That is, until my father’s crimes created tension between them.

  “You were visiting your father’s grave again, after the ritual. Weren’t you?” Marcie places a hand on my shoulder. “You know I loved your father, too. Like he was my own.”

  “I know.”

  Marcie examines me closer then, taking in my visibly shaken appearance. “Are you all right? You seemed a little jumpy when you first saw me, like you were expecting someone else.”

  I hold up my hands. “I’m fine, I swear.”

  Her eyes narrow a bit, but she doesn’t press further. “Okay. Take care, Abbie. I’ll see you soon.” With a knowing nod, Marcie gives my shoulder one last squeeze, offers a sad smile, and turns to walk home. It’s just then that I realize Marcie never told me why she came to find me in the cemetery. Was she checking up on me or something?

  Still somewhat rattled, I place my feet on the bicycle pedals and ride towards home, appealing to the void inside me to quell all thoughts of arranged marriages and hidden dangers.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next day, I wake up to the smell of pancakes and bacon. My stomach grumbles before my mind is even fully awake. A quick look at my watch reveals it’s nearly ten o’clock, much later than I’m usually allowed to sleep in. Yawning, I rub the crust from my eyes and shuffle downstairs, following the amazing smells coming from the kitchen.

  My mother is humming to herself. I hear it over the sounds of clanging pans and sizzling food. When I enter the kitchen, I pause, gawking. The table is heaped with breakfast goods, like my mother is cooking for the whole town and not just the two of us. There’s a huge stack of pancakes next to a carafe of blueberry syrup, a pitcher of orange juice, a mound of bacon, and a bowl filled with mixed fruit. Mother’s hunched over the stove with her back to me, making scrambled eggs. What’s more, she’s shaking her hips. She’s dancing, something I don’t recall seeing her do since my father’s arrest and definitely haven’t seen her do since his death.

  Dancing isn’t really big in Everhaven. But my mother and father would sometimes slow dance, way back when they were still in love. I remember them smiling at each other over a gently skipping record, swaying to the music, the sound of my mother’s low giggle when he’d unexpectedly twirl her.

  My mother threw out all those records long ago.

  “Morning.”

  She whirls around, startled. “Well good morning, sleepyhead! I knew the smell would get you up.”

  She knows me well.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  Mother scrapes the eggs onto a plate, wipes her hands on her pink apron, and smiles at me. It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile in quite some time, actually. Crinkles appear at the corners of her hazel eyes.

  “What occasion do I need other than celebrating my Provider?”

  Sunday—the Provider’s Day, of course. The necklace she always wears confirms her devotion to Him, like most people in town. It’s a small sym
bol on a silver chain—a square representing our “imperfect” souls enclosed in a circle representing the “perfect and eternal” Provider.

  Me? I wear the charred remnants of my father’s accident.

  There was a time when my mother wasn’t nearly as devout as she is now. More devout than my father, certainly. But her devotion to the Provider seemed to double down after my father’s death, whereas mine was halved.

  Death brings out different things in different people, it seems.

  I quietly sigh as my mother walks the egg plate back to the already overcrowded table. “Sit, eat,” she says, gesturing at an empty chair.

  She doesn’t have to ask me twice.

  While I shovel forkfuls of pancake into my mouth (my mother makes the most fluffy, amazing pancakes, and she doesn’t make them nearly often enough), I notice she’s staring at me with expectant eyes and a frozen smile. She’s not eating, just watching me devour my food with her chin resting on her knuckles. Rinsing down a large bite of scrambled eggs with a gulp of orange juice, I set the glass on the table, and look back at my mother with a raised brow.

  “What is it?”

  “I lied before. There may be other cause to celebrate.”

  “Oh?”

  “Guess who was just voted to be a chairperson on the social committee last night?”

  “You?”

  Mother nods so hard it looks like it hurts. “But there’s more. Guess who received approval to do the reading at the next Ceremony?”

  I’d almost forgotten about the Ceremony. I try to contain another sigh, biting my lip hard enough for my teeth to leave an impression. My father often skipped the ceremonies when he could slip out unnoticed, but my mother would always make me stay in spite of my pleading. The ceremonies occur quarterly, and always involve some form of animal slaughter as an offering to the Provider. No matter how many times I see it, I still can barely stomach it. Give me a Ringer, any day.

  Only one town person is chosen every quarter to read at the Ceremony, by committee vote and approval of the Mayor. Being chosen is considered an honor. Definitely something my mother would be extra excited about.

  “That’s great, Mom,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

  “Abigail, I think they’re finally accepting me. It’s just wonderful, being accepted. It’s a beautiful Sunday, isn’t it?”

  I wish I could say the same about being accepted. Though being accepted has never been as important to me as it is to my mom. My father wasn’t popular around Everhaven because he didn’t play by the rules. My mother would always say he had too much imagination. Ever since his death, she’s been working hard to improve our social status.

  Mother opens her mouth to say something else, but she snaps it shut when the doorbell rings. Her eyebrows furrow.

  “Now I wonder who that could be,” she says.

  I follow her to the door. When she swings it open, Sandra Lane’s plastered-on grin greets us. She is the head of the social committee and the biggest busybody in town, and in a place like Everhaven, that’s saying something. She’s wearing her sleek blond hair pulled back in her signature bun. With her A-line, floral print skirt, fitted silk blouse, and Provider’s symbol around her neck, she looks just as put-together as ever. I realize I’m still in my pajamas as Sandra’s eyes survey my appearance with a slim, arched brow. I flush and cross my arms over my chest, feeling completely underdressed in my plain, rumpled nightgown. I haven’t even brushed my hair or my teeth yet.

  “I’m sorry to bother you on the Provider’s Day, Anna,” Sandra says in her much-too-perky voice. “But I heard the good news, and just wanted to personally congratulate you on receiving the Mayor’s approval to read at the ceremony. These are for you.”

  Sandra extends her arm to hand over a basket filled with what looks like homemade banana bread.

  “How very thoughtful of you, Sandra. Abigail, isn’t that thoughtful?” Mother accepts the basket and elbows me at the same time.

  “Yes, thank you.” I force a smile on my face as I massage the place on my ribs where her elbow jabbed me.

  “Sandra, why don’t you join us for brunch? I made far too much for just Abigail and me. There’s plenty to go around.”

  “How kind of you!” Sandra’s grin never wavers, and I wonder if her face is just permanently stuck that way. “But I have to be going, I have some celebrating to do of my own. My son joined The Silence yesterday.”

  Jonah joined the Silence? An unexpected shudder makes my shoulders twitch.

  The Silence is the name used for those who decide to dedicate their lives to the Provider, giving over their minds and bodies along with their souls. Their initiation ceremonies are very secretive—only those who become part of The Silence know how it works. And once a person takes a vow to become a Silent, they become nameless, faceless, and soundless. They don’t speak or wear anything other than a gray cloak which conceals any identifying thing about them. They live for one purpose and one purpose only—to become anonymous, unwavering advocates for the Provider, in a constant state of reverence and silent observation.

  It’s a path I can never imagine taking, myself.

  Mother forces the basket handle to the crook of her elbow, freeing her hands so she can clap them together. “Wonderful news! I bet you must be so proud.”

  “So proud. He was always so devout, my Jonah.”

  I tune out the rest of the conversation as Sandra and my mother take turns complimenting and congratulating each other and praising the Provider and talking about how wonderful everything is. I try to smile and nod at the appropriate times and then finally, Sandra’s leaving.

  “Sandra is so sweet, isn’t she?” Mother says as she closes the door and sets the basket of bread down.

  “Sure, Mom.”

  “You know what? You should join the social committee, Abigail. You’re seventeen, that’s old enough to join. Perhaps you’ll get voted to read at one of the ceremonies, too. Wouldn’t that be great?”

  “Great,” I nod. But the last thing I want to do is join the committee with all those fake people who secretly hate me and stand in front of a crowd and read stuff I don’t fully believe in—not the same way everyone else does, anyway.

  “I have to go knit. Fifteen social committee members, fifteen scarves. What do you think?”

  But she doesn’t wait for my response. She’s already reaching for her meticulously arranged knitting needles in the basket next to the plastic-covered armchair. My mother is an obsessive cleaner. She’s always scrubbing, dusting, getting the funk and stench of the Dead out of the house. We have no carpets anymore; only tile flooring, which is easier to clean. Both sofas are also covered in plastic.

  Living in a house with a Rester requires maintenance.

  When she isn’t cleaning or cooking, mother’s always knitting, or crocheting, or doing some other random form of needlework, which she passes out to people in the neighborhood every so often. Now, she sits in her chair and gathers purple yarn in her hands.

  “Why don’t you go clear the table and do dishes,” she says, both of which are my daily chores. “Oh, and take that basket into the kitchen with you, please.” I nod as my mother begins to hum again over the steady clack clack clack of her knitting needles.

  I head into the kitchen with the basket in hand. I set it down on the kitchen counter, but pause before clearing the table. Something inside the basket catches my eye, nestled between two pieces of banana bread.

  Frowning, I grasp it between two fingers, feeling glossy, thick paper. My eyes widen when I realize what it is.

  A brochure for The Silence.

  On the front of the brochure are five words written in white script, floating atop an azure sky.

  Devout

  Reverent

  Loved

  Serene

  Silent

  My over-eager fingers fumble with the brochure to open it, nearly dropping it on the floor in the process. Once I’m able to read the paragraph inside, my stomach flip flops.

  “Only those who are Silent can truly hear His voice. Gain favor with the Provider. Enlist your troubled teen in The Silence now, and bring him or her one step closer to paradise.”