Almost Alive (The Beautiful Dead Book 3)

by Daryl Banner

  The leash hangs limply in my grip and Lynx only lifts a brow, peering curiously out the door. I realize belatedly that he, after spending all these years in the Necropolis dungeon, has never experienced such a rainfall in this new, Undead-hating world.

  As no one else seems capable of moving, I release myself from John’s side and step outside. All I see on the ground appears to be two sets of armor—one of them Ann’s, one of them Lena’s. Ash is couched next to Lena on one side and I come to the other.

  Ash doesn’t seem to know where to put her hands. She reaches first for the metal glove, realizes there is no longer a hand there to grasp. She reaches for Lena’s face, realizes there’s not a face there either. Only the semblance of bone with a few metal plates and rods remain; the storm has literally wiped away Lena’s existence.

  I look up, finding Lynx at the doorway. Belatedly, I realize I’d let go of his leash. I pay it no mind; where could he go, anyway? “Come here,” I order him. “You’re the expert in Anima, Lynx. Work your necromancy.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m a Lock no more. Poor girl.”

  “Poor girl,” repeats Ash bitterly, her lips forming a snarl as she brings herself to face Lynx.

  “She is,” Lynx insists quietly. “Rain has always been a weakness of the Dead. A pool of water, a lake, a river, those things are calm and sitting and can pull away from the touch of the Dead. But rain has nowhere to go but down. Blame nature. Blame gravity. Blame being Dead, it doesn’t matter, we’re all as vulnerable.”

  “So that’s it?” asks Ash, angry, pushing irritably at the visor of her helmet that keeps falling. “She’s gone?”

  “Anima is everywhere in the body,” Lynx explains, coming as close as he dares to Lena’s melted side—to avoid Ash’s rising anger, I presume. “It’s everywhere, all around us. In the trees, in the grass, in the insects. But its main fix in our bodies is the head. Sever our heads from our bodies and we can still carry on, only without a body. This girl’s head was unprotected,” he notes, giving a small nod to Lena, who wore no helmet. “The rain quashed out her Anima. There is nothing left of her. She’s gone.”

  Ash looks at me, her eyes intense with emotion. “And you’re okay with that answer?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not okay with any of it. But I know it to be true. Just as much was explained to me, in fact, when I inquired about what it’s like to … shatter.” I smirk, not wanting to plunge myself into yet another memory—hanging from a certain cliff, and the pale and handsome face of Grimsky peering over the edge and, in trying to talk me out of letting go, explaining precisely what would happen if I did. “Our heads are our essence. My friend B-B-Benjamin …” I sigh, annoyed at my own emotion trying to seep out of my words. “He was shot several times in the face and … never recovered.”

  “Not so immortal,” Lynx murmurs sadly, smirking down at the armor. He gives the boot a little kick, a splash of murky water oozing out. “If I had my Lock-eye …”

  “All you could do was destroy things,” I point out, caring not to let loose too much of my own fury. “You couldn’t help Lena or Ann even if you did have your necromancy at your disposal.”

  “The Lock-eyes have many powers,” says Lynx. “It manifests differently, depending on whose heart wills it. I’ve heard plenty in my years in the dungeon, Winter. From the men who’d come to check on me. I heard all about the Green Prince’s power. I heard all about Megan’s power. I heard—”

  “No one cares what you’ve heard!” Ash shouts, shaking and furious. “Either help or shut your mouth!”

  I look up and realize more of the others have come out of the building to observe this exchange. John and the Chief stand together, and Jimmy is near them with Ann’s silent head in his cradling hold. I see Bill and Will, the two teen girls, and even Brains, staring curiously at us with large, unblinking eyes.

  “Well maybe you ought to care that your other friend is not lost,” mentions Lynx, giving a nod at Jimmy. “It was her head the Human saved, after all.”

  Jimmy blinks, stares down at the head in his arms. He sputters, then manages the words: “She’s—but she’s not talking, she’s not moving …”

  Lynx snorts. “You’re no expert, now are you, Human? Hand her to the fat one,” he commands, like he’s still some important Warlock in charge of a Deathless army. “The fat one who works in that workshop of Pretenders.”

  “Me!” cries Marigold cheerily, raising her hand.

  “HEY,” I shout, suddenly overcome. Lynx looks up at me, startled with my volume. A spider dangles out of his ear that I avidly ignore. “This isn’t your Deathless army to boss around, you scum-thing. And her name is Marigold.”

  He doesn’t respond, only caring to lift his cobwebby eyebrows and wait.

  I survey the faces of the remaining fourteen Undead, excluding the vile little Lock at my side and the flushed Living face of Jimmy. The Dead are all looking to me expectantly, waiting. Ann, their former leader, is now nothing but an unresponsive head. Is it my responsibility now to take over, directing them what next to do?

  “I think …” My voice sounds so meek and small. I don’t know if I can do this. I haven’t had time to grieve or freak out like I want to. Alas, the one in charge doesn’t get such luxuries. “I think he has a point. Marigold, maybe you can take Ann to the Refinery and … and see if there’s anything at all left behind in that building that could … maybe serve as a body, should Ann ever wake.”

  “Done!” Marigold cheerfully reaches for Ann’s head only to have the red-faced Jimmy growl at her, pulling away. Then, after a bit of confused derision, the two jointly walk off in pursuit of the squatty pink building deeper in town, the helmeted head between them.

  “Alright,” I say, sorting my thoughts. “The rest of us, let’s keep close to the buildings, in case of another sudden downpour. I suggest we search as much as we can. There might be things we can use. Keep your eyes open. We’ll meet at the Town Hall. I figure you’ll know the way.”

  Ash rises, suddenly quite finished with crouching next to whatever sad remains are left of Lena’s melted corpse, and marches down the street.

  When the others slowly begin to walk, downhearted and most certainly not inspired to go on but going on anyway, I tell myself it’s the best I can do for now. I listen to all their armors clinking and clanging, none of them talking, and my heart fills with frustration. We can’t expect to just push on recklessly, not after the horror of what we all experienced. A due moment must be had.

  I take the leash into my hand and trudge forward with John at my side, uncaring whether the Lock is following behind voluntarily or being dragged like a sack of rocks.

  We walk through the changed, overgrown streets of Trenton, and I marvel both in fascination and in fear for how the city I used to know has so been swallowed by the planet. The windows of shops and apartment complexes are torn open, suspicious and toothy, watching us with gaping, glassy eyes as we pass. The buildings are silent as stones and none of them familiar. Barricades of leaves and thorny red vines crawl over the faces of every building, sometimes nearly barring the entry, as if protecting things inside. I remember when the streets used to be filled with the sounds of laughter, busied conversations … Now, all that fills the air is an unsettling quiet. The lack of the careless joy and partying I’d come to love about Trenton is filling me with dread.

  Wordlessly, we move down streets I don’t recognize until finally happening on one that I do. Its cobblestone path leads past the gymnasium where Collin used to conduct his medical practices and spills into the Square. The doctor lingers near the entrance to the gym for only a moment. In this moment, he closes his eyes, gives the building a tiny nod of his head, then resumes the trek with us. I give a moment to the building myself, and regret not being around for when Collin’s brother turned to dust, even though I never really got to know him. This building is also where Megan traded one of her Human eyes for a Lock-stone. The memory of my explosion of rage on Ann for allow
ing Megan to do such a thing permeates the scene, disrupting my otherwise calm insides.

  I wonder if I’ll ever be calm again.

  In the Square, there used to be an astonishing spread of tents and kiosks and stands where people, Living and Dead, would sell their wares. Now, weeds and grass break through the concrete like tiny green demon fingers, hungrily pulling the city down its earthen esophagus. I give it a few more years before this place is digesting in the planet’s stomach. In the center of the Square stands the stage on which I’d beheaded the last Mayor and defied my mother, when she was still Queen of the Deathless army. Oh, what fond memories I have here.

  “You took me to this place on my very first day,” John observes.

  Bill and Will and the teen girls head to the Town Hall, curious, trailed by the Chief and Ash. Brains is seated on the stage, her legs dangling, and Collin is standing nearby with the old papery-skinned man, arms folded and quiet.

  “Yes,” I finally respond. “This also used to be your home, John. In your First Life. We lived in a little rickety house in the first quarter, west end.”

  “Oh. Can I see it?”

  Jimmy and Marigold disappeared long ago into the little pink Refinery building, despite it being covered in a blanket of green, and I spot the young Undead boy heading to the Town Hall with the others. I approach Collin by the stage and hand him the leash without explanation. He accepts it just as wordlessly, Lynx and the doctor’s eyes meeting listlessly, nothing to say.

  No one has anything left to say.

  John and I move through the streets. I know the exact way to my house, yet the roads feel strangely moved, bent as though by an earthquake. The further from the heart of the city we go, the less stable the buildings appear. One store is completely collapsed; all that remains standing is a doorframe. Another building is missing its front face entirely, opened to the world like a dollhouse. I see a bed hanging off the front, daring to drop if it weren’t for a gnarled tree growing up the wall, supporting it.

  The wind stirs in my ears as we draw further toward my cul-de-sac at the west end of Trenton. When I find where my house ought to be, my heart sinks. There is little left to show John. The houses out here, considerably less sturdy, have all been pummeled down to rubble by the unnatural rain. Only two walls remain of my house and the porch is collapsed, front door not even reachable unless we care to make a climbing project out of it.

  John removes his horned helmet to get a better look. “This was yours?” he asks, lifting his brows. I nod glumly. “Oh.” He frowns, studying the remains. “Sorry, Winter.”

  “It’s okay,” I suddenly decide. “Wasn’t much. We had as many good memories here as we did bad ones.”

  “I lived here too?”

  “Yes. At first, you just needed to be hidden. Then, after the Mayor was slain and the laws of Trenton abolished, you lived here because you wanted to.” I look at John. He seems pensive, thoughtful, trying helplessly to imagine everything I’m telling him. I wonder if any of it seems familiar, even vaguely, distantly familiar.

  “It looks small.”

  “It is,” I assure him. “One bedroom, which was yours, really, as the Dead don’t need to sleep.”

  “I sometimes wish we could,” he admits. “I’m pretty sure I miss dreaming. Or saying good night before I sleep. Or good morning when I wake.” His eyes find mine, the grey one seeming more brown today. His eyes almost look alike, if I squint a little. “Don’t you miss it?”

  “Of course I do.” I smile, thinking on the many times Living John would say good night to me before drifting to sleep, and good morning when he’d stir and open his cute, sleepy eyes.

  He puts an arm around my back, his gauntleted hand clinking loudly as he places it at my waist. I lean into his breastplate, his muscular arm squeezing me, and I close my eyes and listen to the ghost town of Trenton breathe quietly. My hair dances in the wind and John’s hold on me tightens even more. The armored fingers of his other hand begin playing up and down my arm, tickling and bringing me to smile. This John is so playful. He’s so thoughtful and curious. A part of me wonders if John, even while alive, was as thoughtful and curious, and perhaps I just never let myself see it. He is infinite in his depth. Perhaps we all are, when pesky things like memory and life and death are stripped away.

  “Oh, Winter and John … my sweet rabbits!”

  I don’t need to turn around to know that voice or those words, but I pull from John’s arms and look across the dusty expanse of the cul-de-sac. Draped in green flowing linens, her long tangled curls of greyish-green hair hanging all around her like a shawl, she emerges from the dust smiling somberly as she approaches.

  “I’m not sure how many times I need to tell you this, Jasmine,” I say to her teasingly, “but we are not, nor have we ever been rabbits.”

  She cackles, her laugh like the thrash of a whip, cutting through all the doom and gloom of the city. I welcome the sound so much, I could explode into tears. “First laugh I’ve had in years,” she quips. “Might be so appropriate that it was inspired by you, sweet Winter, my muse, my savior, my heroine.” Jasmine grabs my gloved hands, squeezing them. Then her eyes fall on John. “Ah, and the Living lover boy, now Unliving lover boy. You at last were Raised, I’ve heard.”

  “Yes. She’s my … Winter is my Reaper,” John says, his voice faltering. “Though I’m gathering that you might, um, already know me?”

  “Quite well.” Jasmine winks at him. “When you were a fleshy, breathy Human hiding out in her house, I was the one who got you foodstuffs. I’m a good secret-keeper. Always was, wasn’t I?” She winks at me, now, her papery skin wrinkling at her smile.

  I figure, of all my friends, she ought to have been the first to know, had she been around for the last couple weeks. “I wonder, Jazz, if you can keep one more.”

  She lifts her eyes, flashing them. “Yes, dear?”

  “We’re actually here with—fifteen other Dead,” I say, “and we’re on a journey to find Empress Shee.”

  “That isn’t much of a secret, I’m afraid.”

  “Shee was chased by Julianne the Jubilant.”

  “That, as well, is widely known.”

  “Julianne the Jubilant is my First Life mother, the former Deathless King, restored from her decrepit form at the bottom of the cliff.”

  Jasmine’s eyes flash again, her lips parted. “Well,” she utters, mildly aghast. “That’s quite a secret. My, my … I knew the Deathless Queen was your mother, of course, everyone does. But I did not realize that the woman named Julianne … Oh, my. Well, my rabbit, now that you say it, it makes a certain sense. She’s done the world wrong. Now she wants to do the world right.”

  “She was like that when she was alive,” I point out, suddenly thinking about it. Make right by all your wrongs, my mom liked to say. Here’s to her practicing what she once preached. “Jasmine, why haven’t you been around?”

  She gives a doleful glance at the sky. “I’m not useful anymore. I was the gardener. The woman in green. Now everyone’s the gardener and there’s a hundred men and women in green and my skills are no longer … special.”

  “Your skills are very special,” I assure her right away. “We need them. Come with us. We’re stronger together, and unless we find Shee, all of our kind’s doomed to dust. Please, don’t even consider staying. Just say yes.”

  Jasmine sighs, drops a handful of flowers I didn’t notice she was carrying, and says, “Yes, then. Since you give me such a choice.” She smiles, her face wrinkling pleasantly with that familiar grandmotherly/aunt-like warmth I’ve come to love.

  The three of us return to the Square where the Town Hall and the Refinery sit across from one another in permanent stare-off. Collin, Brains, and the old man are still gathered at the stage, though now seeming to be in conversation. Passing the door of the Refinery, I wonder if I ought to peek in to check Marigold’s progress with Ann, but decide against it, feeling I don’t have the stomach for it, whether if she’s suc
cessful or not.

  When Jasmine catches sight of the leashed dwarf, she gasps loudly, her whole body petrified with horror. It isn’t until now that I stupidly realize the one major and potentially deal-breaking detail I failed to mention.

  “Jasmine,” I say, standing in front of her and blocking the view of the little Warlock. “I’m sorry, I’m really, really sorry. I forgot to tell you that—”

  “What is he doing here?” she asks quite simply, her tone unsettlingly even, her eyes wide and staring.

  “He was Raised and put into the depths of a dungeon in the Ne—”

  “I know that,” she interrupts, still speaking in perfect, level monotone. “What is he doing out of the depths of that dungeon, Winter of the Second?”

  “Third, now,” I correct her. “Sorry. Anyway. He’s the closest thing we have to an expert in Warlock stones. If we find Shee, he might be able to find out how to stop the Undead from turning into—”

  “And you think you can trust him?” She asks this without looking at me, her eyes like needles aimed for Lynx who still stands, leashed, halfway across the Square where he can’t hear any of this. “I wouldn’t trust him if no one’s life depended on it, let alone all our lives.”

  “I know, Jazz. I wish it were someone else. Anyone else. I wish a lot of things.” I realize my hand’s come up to Jasmine’s shoulder, as if holding her back from charging at him with imaginary bullhorns. “Please …”

  “Please what? Forgive him for turning my daughter to dust? I killed him,” she says suddenly, as if recalling it all over. I’ve never seen Jasmine so bitterly fueled, a berserk expression crossing her face. “I killed that little Warlock and there he stands. I put a sword through his face.”

  “Yes, you did. This sword,” I say, tapping the one still strapped to my back in a leather sheath.