Almost Alive (The Beautiful Dead Book 3)

by Daryl Banner

  As I continue to talk about life, about purpose, about the science and probability of the dead walking the earth, about how their very existence is, in theory, directly to thank for the world we have today, I survey helplessly the bored faces of my audience. My so-not-poetic words echo, beating back against my ears as I fumble through my notes, searching for my next point. My voice grows littler and littler with every passing minute as though I’m shrinking. I can’t keep my nervous hands steady.

  My blank, watery eyes drift to the mysterious, pale poet near the front. That handsome, almost creepy face hasn’t laughed once through my speech. Instead, he’s listening intently. I know my words will never be as great as his. He always had a way with poetry, I noticed, in all of his past presentations, each more inspiring than the last. He’s had a troubled past and it’s a miracle he’s even here and still alive, through his wiles and his passions and his recklessness. Do good with this life, he said in a matter of silkily strung-together words, and you won’t need to apologize for anything. Even the worst of the bad can be made good. I should know. Well, I’m sure it was better worded than that, poetic as the original speech was, but that’s what I remember.

  Trouble is, I don’t think I can make good out of this “bad” that my presentation has become. I look down at my device, blinking at me with the twelve remaining pages of notes and findings that I have left to present.

  With a sigh, I make a decision and shut off my device.

  “And that is why,” I conclude in a tiny voice, cutting off the presentation before it’s really started, “reciprocity is the philosophy of Humankind. Thank you.”

  The auditorium issues a soft, unenthusiastic applause. Gathering my books and device, the applause is ended before I’m even halfway back to my seat. I close my eyes for the rest of the class period, willing myself to turn invisible and swallowing my humiliation.

  When I’m crossing the campus afterwards, I’m furious with how horrible the presentation went. It was a stupid subject, admittedly. My mom suggested a report of a more botanist nature, expressing her love for flowers and summertime trees and wildlife. I had jested sneeringly to her that she should’ve named me Summer, and to that she lifted her eyebrows and said, “Why, I almost did.”

  Suddenly unable to face anymore people, I push into the first door I can find, spilling into a hallway. The women’s bathroom is first on the left, so I push through that door too, nearly dropping my Theories book in doing so. When I hear the door shut behind me, I breathe a deep sigh of relief, set my books on the counter, and will myself to cry it all out.

  I face myself in the mirror, staring at my shiny green eyes. “Let go, Jennifer,” I order myself, feeling irate. “You belong. You belong and your voice matters.” Listen to me. I’m my own self-help book. “They will laugh at you. They’ll mock you and they’ll try to pull you down, but you won’t be pulled down. Not in this life, nor the next.”

  At saying that last part, I let myself smile. I think about what my past life might’ve been like, and the life before that. I imagine glorious mansions. I imagine a life in the woods, a diet of berries and greens, leaves in my hair.

  My smile fades. I imagine myself dead.

  “The Beautiful Dead,” I murmur, tasting the stupidity of those words. “I should’ve called it something else.”

  And then the door bursts open and a man rushes in, slamming the door behind him and breathing heavy.

  Our eyes lock, and I’m speechless. He’s handsome in a horribly brutish, rough way. Stubble dusts his otherwise flushed cheeks. His chest is broad, his arms big, and I find my eyes drawn to his lips, slightly parted and wet.

  “You’re in the ladies,” I tell him.

  He nods slowly, then brings a finger to his lips, I guess signaling me to be quiet. Curiously, I draw myself up to the door, placing an ear on it. His eyes watch me, nervous and still as a statue.

  I whisper, “What’re you running from?”

  He swallows once, then says, “Responsibility.”

  I stare at him hard, suspicious, then say, “Alright.” I press my ear against the door again, my hand grazing his arm. He’s got very … firm arms. “I don’t hear anything.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  Slowly, we slip out of the bathroom one by one, peering into the hall to ensure no one’s there. I signal him to follow me out, which he cautiously does.

  On the street, he walks alongside me, watching in all directions for this “responsibility” he’s running from. I take advantage of this delicious man’s company by using him to vent. “I just had the worst presentation.”

  “Uh huh,” he says, looking over his shoulder.

  “It was a presentation on …” I realize he’s not paying attention, so I decide to tell my own version, thinking about the pale poet from my class. “A presentation on the human necessity for passions and wiles and recklessness.”

  “Sounds cool.” He peeks over his other shoulder.

  I try not to roll my eyes. “I think it’s important that—”

  “I gotta go.” He splits from me, plunging into the crowd in the streets, likely never to be seen again.

  I stare after him, feeling my own heart racing in my chest. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything stir me within. I must be desperate, clinging to a man in the ladies’ bathroom. I peek over my own shoulder, annoyed, and can’t even see this “responsibility” he’s running from.

  Back home, Marianne is chatting on and on to her friends on a conference call and I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling. I thrust an earpiece into both my ears to blot out the noise and disappear into my own world.

  “Winter.”

  I peek open an eye. Marianne is standing over my bed. “Uh, what?”

  “Your mom sent us tickets to the gardens.”

  “Oh.” I rub my eyes, then glance down at her hands where she clutches two chrome keycards. “And?”

  “And it’s winter, like I said,” she groans. “I don’t want to go to the gardens, not in the winter. You have another friend you can take?”

  “Yes,” I lie, having absolutely no one.

  “Have fun, then?” She tosses the keycards into my lap, gives me a wink, then returns to her friends in the other room, their holographs popping back into existence. I watch them curiously for a bit until Marianne shuts her door and I’m plunged into silence. I turn my head to the glass wall, surveying the peace of the city as the sun patiently sets, bruising the horizon with liquid gold.

  I make up my mind to go alone. Whipping on a coat, I make a mental note to thank my mom when I get home. Entering the winter, I descend the smooth stairs and stroll down the street. The cold seems to wrap around me like a second coat, so I hug myself and walk quicker.

  It’s when I pass the Floating Fountain that I find him again. He’s seated on the edge, studying the water and shivering. When I approach, his muddy brown eyes meet mine. His arms flex as he shivers. He’s only wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans. The orange of the sunset colors his face beautifully and, for a moment, I’m so struck by the sight of him that I can’t even speak.

  “Headed somewhere?” he asks, blunt as a punch to the face.

  Not the warmest man who’s ever caught my eye. “Yes, in fact, I am.” He so rudely ditched me earlier today after our encounter. “You’re shivering.”

  “I’m cold.” His words carry a tone that does not go unnoticed.

  For some reason, I’m not inspired to ditch him. Reciprocity sometimes must be fed too much one way in order to have it … balance out. “You want to join me?” I pull out the keycards. “I have two tickets. My roommate didn’t want to come.”

  “Tickets where?”

  “To the gardens. Ever been?”

  “No.”

  “Why don’t you come? To be honest, I’d really hate to go alone.” I smile. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

  He studies me for a while, trying to figure me out and rubbing his hands together as though he were
trying to start a fire between them. Then, quite determined, he rises to his feet and says, “Fine. Let’s go.”

  Again, I forgive the brashness.

  The walk is quite lengthy, so I figure opening up some conversation is the polite thing to do. “You obviously go to school here, right?”

  “I should be,” he says, sneering.

  I grow skeptical. “What do you mean, ‘should be’?”

  “Stupid finance department.” His hands are plunged into the pockets of his jeans to keep warm, and he kicks the ground in frustration. “Couldn’t afford the rest of the semester. I’ve been attending classes without permission. Now there’s, well … Now there’s someone who’s kinda chasing me, I guess.”

  “Is this mysterious someone named ‘responsibility’ by chance?”

  “That’s the one,” he answers humorlessly.

  “Do you think—?”

  “No, I don’t,” he answers, cutting me off without even hearing the question. I hold my tongue, the rest of our walk spent in silence.

  When at last we arrive at the gates of the garden, we find the lights shut off and the ticket office closed. My new friend squints at the sign. “Closed after 7 in the winter?”

  I sigh, dropping the keycards at once. “I hate winter.”

  He studies me, squinting curiously. Then he seems to make a decision and says, “But why let a stupid thing like closing hours stop us?” He grips the fence, climbing its woven coils of steel, then flipping over the top. I watch with equal parts fascination and fear.

  On the other side now, he pulls a heavy latch, undoes a chain, then gently pushes open the gate. As soon as it’s open, his hands are plunged back into his pockets, his big arms bulging as he shivers.

  Well, he might be rude, but he’s got style.

  Walking lazily down the aisles of the closed garden, which look eerie without the lights and the music that play, we pass red flowers and white flowers and vivid blue ones. “I feel so wicked,” I confess to him. “Feels like we’re gonna get in trouble at any moment.”

  After passing and paying little mind to the black roses and dragon whiskers and tulips, he finally responds, but it’s with a question of his own. “What do you study?”

  “Theories, mostly.”

  “Hmm. Which Theories?”

  “I specialize in History and Mythology and …” For some reason, I feel like he’s going to make fun of me. I sigh, figuring I’ve nothing much left to lose anyway. “And I have a Mythology specialization in the Undead.”

  “Oh.” He seems surprised, his blunt dabs for eyebrows pulling together. “I wasn’t expecting that last bit.”

  “I’ve just always found it … interesting.”

  “Me too,” he admits.

  Now it’s my turn to be surprised. “Wait, really?”

  Just then, we happen on the far west corner of the garden where an ornate pedestal made of stone stands, carved into the shape of a billowing cloud. Upon its top there is a glass casing, within which rests a chunk of rock.

  He speaks first. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “What do you think it is?”

  “Didn’t you read in your books about Anima?”

  “Yes.” I look up, meeting his doughy eyes. Or maybe they are dark and ominous and daunting eyes and I just wish for a moment they’d be doughy.

  “How pieces of the planet could … somehow house the stuff of living things?” He taps the glass. “I think this is one of them. You notice how nothing’s growing near it?”

  Indeed, right around the base of the pedestal the grass seems to terminate. Funny how I don’t remember reading anything about rocks and Anima. Though I do recall a thing or two about special emeralds. I peer into the glass, unimpressed with it. “Looks like a lump of coal.”

  Just then, the brooding man smirks—I wonder if he ever smiles—then plucks a tool from his pocket. I can’t see what he’s doing, not quite, but in a moment the glass casing lifts and he takes the stone itself into his rough, ungentle hand, giving it a little toss in the air and catching it. “Definitely not a lump of coal. Wanna hold it?”

  When the rock falls into my palm, it feels heavier than I expected. It’s a dull black thing, nothing special in it at all. “I wonder how much the garden paid for this sham.”

  Suddenly a siren sounds off and all the lights flip on, blinding us. We look at one another one second, then break into a sprint the next. We chase after one another across the stretch of flowers and grass.

  I trip over a shovel that’s been left out, plummeting face-first into a flowerbed. I shove my hands in front of me, pushing myself up when suddenly the man’s there and he’s hurriedly helping me back to my feet. When I glance down at the flowers I’d just landed on, I find them all curled in, wilted and greying.

  “The flowers,” I say, aghast. “They’re dead!”

  “Of course they are,” he grunts. “You fell on them.”

  “But no, they’re really dead,” I try to say.

  Of course, there’s no time to debate, as we scramble through the confusing, twisted aisles of the garden until, at last, arriving at the gate. Pushing through, the gate clangs loudly against the fence as we tear across the field, leaving garden and the sirens to sing by themselves.

  “That was so close!” I cry out when we’re some distance away, breathing heavy. “Wow!”

  “No one was really pursuing us,” he points out, trying to catch his own breath. “We’re just lucky.”

  “You warmed up yet?” I ask him, feeling smart.

  Just then, there’s a distant rumble. The two of us stare off into the night sky, the city skyline appearing like a spray of crystals against the deep blue horizon. A raindrop taps my arm. Another on my face.

  “Now you’ll be cold and wet,” I point out. “We’d better keep running.”

  “But I live in the city,” he complains as we hurry, “and the shuttle—”

  “Come to my place!” I cry out, laughing. Reciprocity. The human necessity for passions, wiles, and recklessness. Yes, I listened to the pale poet’s words, and I’m going to exercise my right to recklessness. “Quickly!”

  And as we tear across the campus, the rain begins to fall heavy. Cold and thick, we laugh together as we race through the rain. For a moment, I feel like the world’s slowed down to let the water dance upon our faces. Our eyes connect as we run and, for the first time, I get that smile from him I’ve been waiting for all evening.

  At my front door, I fumble with the code and have to enter it three times before finally getting inside. Sopping wet, I throw my coat over the grey leather couch, set the dull black stone absently on the end table, then plunge into my closet. “Don’t worry,” I tell him, my face buried in jackets and linens and underthings.

  I return with towels and he’s still by my front door as if he’s afraid to come in further. I offer him a towel and he accepts it, draping it over his back.

  “Heart’s racing,” he admits.

  I giggle, feeling more reckless than I’ve ever felt my whole safe, cautious life, and I ask, “Can … Can I feel it?”

  He lifts his brows, surprised. Then, without prompt, he takes my hand and presses it to his chest. Through his firm muscle, I feel the strong drumming of his heart.

  Then, to my own astonishment, I take his hand and press it to my chest, letting him feel the racing of my own. We stand there in the doorway forever, dripping wet and listening to each other’s heartbeats.

  And then I go for the most reckless thing I’ve ever done in my stupid, safe little life. I’m in the moment and my blood is pumping and my face is tingling and the glimmer in his eyes is vibrant. I lean into him, our hearts touching, and my lips find his. The kiss is long and unexpectedly deep, and I worry my heart could burst free from my ribcage.

  “I’ve never felt more alive,” I confess, listening to our chests as they drum together. “I’m Jennifer.”

  He smiles. “I’m John.”

  The end.

>   A F T E R WO R D

  from the author

  This book was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write. I don’t want to say goodbye to Winter and her friends. I really, really don’t want to say goodbye to the world they lived in, to the undeathly terrain and the unfriendly Living and the fear and the ridiculous drama of it all. But I guess, like life, nothing lasts forever. And I have to accept and embrace the end of this series.

  Thank you for being with us—that is, me and the various Living and Undead you’ve come to know over the years—and for seeing Winter’s story through to the end. If there’s anything I’d love for you to come away with from this book, perhaps it’s Marigold’s lesson: dare to be the fool. Speak up when you think you shouldn’t. Stand up in front of all those people even while your heart is racing because—hey, listen to that—your heart is racing. And the whole reason for this life is to express, to push, to make better, to love, to feel anguish so strong you don’t want to live anymore, and to feel the reprieve from that anguish, even if there’s not a single friend nearby and the only comfort you know is a song, or a thought, or your own heartbeat.

  I love you. Please stick around with me. I have so many more stories to tell.

  For hearts both beating and unbeating,

  Daryl

  Table of Contents

  P R O L O G U E

  J O H N

  T W E L V E

  N E W T R E N T O N

  W E L C O M E

  D U S T

  W A R R I O R W I N T E R

  L O V E I S E A S Y / T I M E I S N O T