Dead & Godless Read Online Free Page B

and good, but I think people ought to grow
some thicker skin. In my experience, you can’t take a stand for anything
without offending somebody.”
    Ransom
seemed satisfied with the answer and they continued down the path. As a steady
flow of students filed past, Corwin couldn’t help but notice that something was
odd. No one had spared him or his sveltely-clad companion so much as a glance.
    “Can
they see us?”
    “No. We
are merely shades in this time and place,” explained Ransom.
    “Interesting.”
Corwin snatched a textbook off the nearby balustrade, beside which two men
stood chatting. “Does that mean I’m like a poltergeist right now?” he asked as
he sent the book bobbing and swaying before them, adding a ghostly moan for
good measure.
    With
a beleaguered sigh, Ransom shook his head.
    “When
a shade touches something, it creates a sort of copy, one that exists on our
plane, but not theirs.”
    His
hopes deflated, Corwin tossed the textbook over his shoulder, leaving the
students to carry on in their discussion, blissfully unaware. A second look confirmed
that, indeed, the original book had reappeared right in the same place. Armed
with this revelation, a new plot sprang to mind as he spotted a comely blond,
the threads of her yellow sweater showcasing an impressive degree of elasticity.
    “Can
I make a copy of her?”
    “It
only works for things without souls,” Ransom stiffly replied.
    A
wave of Corwin’s arm proved as much. His hand passed right through the girl’s
waist as though she were nothing more than a hologram.
    The
strangeness of being a shade was disconcerting, yet intriguing. Corwin felt
like a scientist having happened upon a new discovery, his mind awhirl with
questions. If touching things created copies, was there a limit to how many
copies he could make? Or was it a choice? Could he walk through walls if he
felt so inclined? What if he were to meet other shades? Did dead people make a
habit of roaming the earth like creepy, voyeuristic tourists?
    As
the possibilities played out in his head, his roving gaze strayed to the
windows, where the park’s florid reflection shone in the glass. There were
joggers and picnickers and benches home to studying students. It was a scene
that could have belonged to any sunny afternoon. Almost.
    One
man stood apart. Wearing a dark suit and a fedora, he leaned against a maple
with The Times spread open before him, but he wasn’t reading the news. His
black stare was leveled towards the windows, towards Corwin.
    Not
towards me, Corwin realized. At me.
    In
the reflection their eyes met. Slowly the stranger lowered his newspaper, a
mirthless smile on his lips, and Corwin’s blood turned to ice. He swung his
gaze away from the windows, into the park, finding only dead leaves. There was
no one beneath the maple tree.

4
    Dark Winds Rising
    Braxton Hall’s
entrance was a set of glass and aluminum double doors that bespoke modern
sensibilities informing the Georgian bricks. Following on the heels of a troop
of students, Corwin and Ransom stepped inside and shortly took a turn, ascending
a broad stairway to the second story. The angel halted at a classroom’s rear
door.
    “Sounds
like class is already in session.”
    Like
a pair of tardy students, they slipped in quietly and found a place against the
far wall. It was a modestly-sized room with windows to one side and seven rows
of desks, mostly filled. A man whose abundantly gray hair clashed with his
tanned, only slightly lined face leaned behind a podium in a plaid dress shirt.
He spun the words of his lecture with a preacher’s passion.
    “Professor
Valentine!” exclaimed Corwin. “Now there was a man who had a knack for
teaching! His course on existentialism introduced me to philosophy. But that’s
strange . . .” He gave the man a hard stare. “He looks as though he hasn’t aged
a day.”
    “Has
he?” questioned Ransom. “Don’t assume that the same chains of time that bind
mortal men