Before he could reply, I started walking again—straight to the polluted city and whatever lay within.
I looked back after a few minutes and saw that Ian was following me, his lanky stride the same as my father’s. Both could close a gap quickly, and sure enough he caught up.
“How are you even here …” His mouth crimped. “I don’t know your name.”
“Aoife,” I said. “My name is Aoife Grayson.”
“I see. You’re Archie’s oldest?”
“Youngest,” I corrected him. He wasn’t trying to keep me from walking, so I decided to let him tag along. “I have a brother.”
“Amazing.” He shook his head. “Never thought Archie’d do it. Get married, I mean. He always had girls around him, but he was so damn devil-may-care he scared them off just as quickly. And he was never interested beyond a few dates anyway.”
He looked me over, this time with a critical eye. “Your mother must be a knockout.”
“Oh yes,” I said, trying and failing to keep the bitter tinge out of my voice. “She’s very pretty. And very crazy.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you.…” He sighed and gave me a sideways smile. “See, your uncle Ian never had a way with words. I was never the impressive one.”
“You didn’t have a Weird,” I said. “I know. I read my father’s journal.”
Ian flinched. “You’re blunt like him too.”
I thought about spilling my guts to Ian, telling him that I’d never really known my father before a few months ago, about my time in the care of the city, about everything, but I didn’t. I just walked. I didn’t know Ian, and that meant I had no reason to trust him. The fact that we’d just stumbled upon each other made me even more resolute to keep things close to my vest. After all I’d seen, coincidence was not something I’d ever trust again.
“Yes,” I said at last. “I suppose I am.”
We walked for a time, keeping our eyes on the horizon for more signs of the screaming sand. “I’ve gotten pretty good at avoiding it,” Ian told me, “but sometimes it catches you. Not to mention the Walkers. Some of them are feral, just rabid scraps of the people they used to be, and they want to feed on you.”
“Like zombies?” I said, thinking of Cal’s magazines, stories of creatures raised from the dead by magic or science.
“What’s a zombie?” said Ian.
I thought about how long ago he’d died, and sighed. “Never mind.”
“You don’t belong here,” Ian said in a rush. “Your soul may be solid as the rest of us, but your body, wherever it is, is still breathing. I can tell just by being near you, and if I can tell, then others can as well. However you got here, whatever happened, you have to leave.” He stopped and pushed his hair out of his eyes, a repetitive, reflexive gesture as it was long and covered his eyes. “It’s not safe for you here.”
I kept walking. “I’m aware of that. And I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.”
Ian had to run to keep up with me. “What’s that, then? What could possibly be here for a living soul?”
“His name is Dean,” I said. Even saying his name brought a prickle of tears, but I fought them.
Ian’s brow drew down. “You can’t bring the dead back, Aoife. They’re here to stay.”
“He was never supposed to die,” I said. “It’s my fault. I have to bring him back.”
“I hate to tell you this,” said Ian, “but whether he was meant to die or not, dead is dead. There’s no help for it once a soul crosses the barrier from life to the Deadlands. It’s not physical, like space and time, but it’s a barrier all the same. I tend to think it’s still physics, just laws we don’t understand.”
Any other time, I would have been thrilled to meet someone who could tell me more about the Gates, confirm or deny speculation, and just generally discuss science, but I waved him off. “No. My mother said that if someone dies before it’s their time, they can be brought back. And she’d know.”
Ian raised one eyebrow. “Your mother sounds like a smart lady, but it’s still bunk. There’s no way you can free a soul from this place. Dead is dead, Aoife. Once you cross, unless you’re using a trick like whatever brought you here, then you’re here for good. I’m sorry.”
“Bargained, then,” I snapped. “Everyone has their price.”
A clouded look passed across Ian’s face, and his eyes grew dark, gauging the road we’d been walking. “You don’t want to go that way,” he said, pointing ahead to the smog-shrouded city.
I stopped walking and folded my arms over my chest. “And why is that?”
He shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “It’s dangerous there. In the city.”
I softened. If he was anything like my father, he wouldn’t respond well to being pushed around. “Look, Ian. You seem to know your way around this place, and I could really use your help.”
He started to cut in and I held up a finger. “Let me finish. I’m going to find Dean with or without you, and do everything in my power to bring him back to the world of the living. So you can help me, or you can get out of my way.” I dropped my hand and started walking again. After a few steps I stopped and turned back. “But I’d really prefer that you help me.”
My uncle hesitated for so long that I thought he was going to refuse, and I was going to be on my own. The thought didn’t scare me overmuch, but it would make what I had to do that much harder.
At last, though, he sighed and followed me as I started walking again, reluctant to waste any more time. “I suppose I won’t change your mind? Not even when I tell you what’s in that city?”
“Doubtful,” I said. “What is it?”
“This place”—Ian gestured at the sands and the road—“the Ossuary Trail, it’s a neutral zone, where nobody except the most desperate go because it’s so dangerous.” He grimaced. “Like me, for instance. But in the city—the city is safe, because it’s controlled. Controlled by things that have never been part of the living Lands, things that take human souls and twist them past the point of recognition to keep the lights on and the gears turning. To be in the city is to suffer eternal torment, and the souls who escape can never stay in one place for more than a few clock-ticks in living time. They call us Walkers—the damndest of the damned, except for our freedom. Those souls in the city—it’s not a city, Aoife. It’s a tomb.” He shrugged. “Some prefer a tomb and the chance they’ll be turned into kindling to what’s out here, though. Which should tell you exactly how bad it can get in the wild parts of the Deadlands.”
“No, I understand,” I said. I’d seen the same effect in Lovecraft—people staying put in their comfortable lives and risking a Proctor burning rather than chance what lay beyond the walls. “So most of the souls stay in the Catacombs?” I said, thinking back to my conversation with Nerissa.
“The prison of the dead,” Ian agreed. “If Dean is here, chances are he ended up there, on his own or by force. Those who run the Catacombs aren’t picky about what you did in life, just what your soul is worth to them, and in return they offer a little protection. Not really worth it, but the souls they trap just want to exist. You stray from the city, you run the risk of … well … disintegrating. Forgetting who you are.”
“I understand that part, too,” I whispered. That couldn’t have happened to Dean. He had to be safe, to remember me.
I had to be in time.
“It’s hell,” Ian said softly. “This existence of mine isn’t much, but I escaped the Catacombs and I swore I’d never go back.”
“I’m sorry to make you do it for me,” I said, and I was being honest. “But if Dean is there, I’ve got to find him, and I think we’ve proved I don’t stand much of a chance without someone who knows his way around.”