Chapter 3

Marcus's voice came from behind me. I stubbed out my cigarette and turned to look.

Two men were carrying a red coffin, hauling it laboriously toward the riverbank. I stared for a few seconds, then frowned.

"Why is it red? Is this the most expensive one?"

Marcus, sweat pouring down his face, set the coffin on the ground and nodded, panting. "Positive! It was just finished today. We hit every coffin shop in town and asked around a few times—this is the most expensive one."

I circled the coffin, reached out and rapped the planks. The sound was solid.

I sighed. "All right. It's all fate."

Danny wiped the sweat off his face. "Logan, are you really going to keep questioning it?"

"Mm."

"But... even in daylight it turned out like that."

He glanced over at Jonathan's body as he spoke, his voice dropping noticeably. "I just keep feeling something's wrong with this corpse."

The sky had gone completely dark. Only a few of us were left at the riverbank landing. Jonathan lay there, his face even more blue-gray than in the daylight, the corners of his eyes black, the eyes themselves terribly red.

Marcus hunched his neck. "I feel like something's off too."

I crouched down and reopened the old wooden chest. "So we have to try again."

The way those three sticks of ritual incense snapped in the daytime was too strange, and that bolt of red lightning was no ordinary thing either.

I've been doing corpse-questioning for fourteen years. It's not that I've never met a violent corpse. But usually, the more violent the corpse, the more it means the death was unjust, the resentment with no way out.

Yet here with Jonathan, everything ran the opposite way. It really did feel strange.

As if he had something to say, and something was pressing down hard, refusing to let him say it.

Marcus watched me take out my gear, his face turning grim. "What else do you need?"

"People."

"What?"

I looked at the empty riverbank and answered flatly. "There aren't enough people. Figure something out—round up some of the folks around here just to fill in the numbers. Pay them, beg them, whatever it takes. Bring as many as you can."

Danny pulled a miserable face on the spot. "Ah... Logan, look at the time. Take a good look at Jonathan right now—red eyes, blue-gray face. He's unnerving even in broad daylight, and now there's not even any light out here. If you ask those people to come, they won't dare."

"I know."

I bowed my head over my gear and sighed. "There's no other way. First, I already gave my word. Second, the one lying here is my own brother. I can't help it."

My hands stopped for a moment. I looked up. "Do me this favor."

Marcus didn't say anything more. He gave Danny a pat, and the two of them turned and left.

I sat alone beside Jonathan, the river wind sweeping over me, damp and cold.

Fourteen years apart, and I didn't even know what he liked to eat.

I didn't know what he liked to do, or what his temper was like. He looked like me—seven parts out of ten.

Especially around the brow.

By all rights our family should have had nothing more to do with each other, yet here he was, lying in front of me. That feeling—I couldn't name it.

The thought made me restless. I dug out another cigarette.

I held it between my fingers a long while, then finally tucked it back.

About half an hour later, lights began to appear in the distance, one after another. The folks had come after all.

Not one of them dared come empty-handed—almost everyone carried a lamp, some even carried two.

Once they reached the river they wouldn't go any farther, all standing off at a distance, packed together in a knot.

A few of the more timid ones simply turned their backs, not daring to look at Jonathan's body, rubbing their arms over and over, muttering something under their breath.

My mother had come too. She stood at the very front, her face grim.

When she saw me, she immediately looked away.

I paid her no mind and kept arranging my things.

Then she suddenly turned and asked Oswald, "Dragging us out in the middle of the night—what is he even doing? Oswald, can he really do this? No matter how I look at him, he doesn't seem like a normal person."

Oswald glanced at me and murmured to comfort her. "Don't worry, Logan is very good at this. You know yourself how many people he's cleared over the years. As long as Jonathan really died an unjust death, he'll be able to speak. And once he speaks, there's no mistaking it."

My mother went even paler. "Oswald, the way you say it is downright frightening."

She fixed her stare on me. "Logan—is he a person or a ghost?"

Oswald was caught off guard, then frowned at her. "What kind of thing is that to say? Isn't he your son?"

She said nothing more.

Out of the corner of my eye I caught her look—a look I had seen fourteen years ago.

Loathing, disgust, and fear.

That's how she looked at me back then, too. From beginning to end she believed I was a monster that had crawled out of her belly.

I pulled my attention back. I couldn't be bothered to listen anymore.

My things were about ready.

I sat cross-legged beside Jonathan and took three sticks of ritual incense out of the old wooden chest.

In the daytime this incense had been lit three times and had gone out three times.

This time was strange—the moment the flame touched it, it caught at once.

My hand froze for an instant.

The next second, a wild wind kicked up over the river.

A whooshing howl, and the folks all sucked in a breath together.

The wind came fast and evil, setting all the lanterns around us swaying and swaying.

A few of them cried out in fright, and some had already started edging away to run.

I raised a hand against the wind.

When I looked down again, the incense flame, once red, was slowly turning green.

Danny's eyes lit up instantly. He grabbed Marcus's arm. "It worked! It really worked!"

Marcus shot him a glare at once, and Danny quickly let go and shut his mouth.

I said nothing. I drew out a sheet of yellow paper and gently laid it over Jonathan's face.

Then I took out another sheet and lit it.

The corner of the paper began to blacken, the fire curling slowly upward.

I looked at Jonathan. "Was the dead man wronged?"

All around fell suddenly silent, not a single sound.

Everyone held their breath. A few seconds later, something suddenly sounded in Jonathan's throat.

"Click."

Very faint, and then, "Click, click."

Like something lodged in his throat, or like bone grinding against bone inside.

Oswald's face changed. He quickly pulled my mother forward two steps. "He's about to speak—quick, listen!"

My mother froze in place, her breathing gone shallow.

The paper in my hand was still burning when the clicking suddenly stopped.

The next second, a low, hoarse voice forced itself out, word by word, from beneath that face covered by yellow paper.

"Lo..."

My hand jerked to a stop. The burning paper had already reached my fingertips.

And in my ears was the full name. "Logan."