“Nice to meet you,” I say, reaching back to give the closest one an innocent handshake. The steel of my ring burns instantly, inspiring an agonized cry from him, and he drops clean to the ground gripping his fingers and writhing in pain, the other Deathless trampling over him. “Until we meet again!”
“Ooh, Winter!” my personal cheerleader shouts. “You have such curious style!—Helena never mentioned!”
Helena. I feel a terrible pang of guilt at what I’d done to her, willingly or not. Leaving her behind as I did, she’s already met her final fate in the granary by now, grinded to dust, to particles, to nothing.
And like I need something else to feel awful about, there’s Grim. “Mari,” I call out, fighting my stubborn desire to dwell on these anxieties. “Anything in your kit made of steel??”
“What kit?” she says. “They confiscated everything!”
I curse under my breath.
“But I do happen to have a steel-plated forearm,” she adds merrily.
And in one single motion, Marigold stops running, detaches her entire left arm, shakes the fake-flesh off, and swings the naked steel-plated bone like a troll’s club at the nearest chaser. The improvised weapon hits the Deathless square in the face, knocking him senseless and arousing steam—and a scream—from his squished skull.
All of this, while balancing a dead girl on her back.
To the ground that one plummets, and wouldn’t you know, dear danger-hungry Marigold doesn’t stop there. With another foolhardy swipe of her own steel-plated forearm, she scores a blow against the head of a skinny half-man. Swinging the other way now like she’s batting off a swarm of flies, the large lady takes out two more, then a third by clubbing it right in the chest. A pile of steaming, anguish-ridden Deathless writhe on the ground before her now, and she just pops her arm back into its socket like this is an everyday chore for her.
Turning back to me, she sings, “What fun!”
Even the old man stopped to admire the show. “Let’s go!” I call out, breaking them from their trance, and the three of us bust a move.
After another long bout of running, I find I don’t recognize any of the paths we’re on, nestled in the leafless trunks, sticks, and thorny lifeless vegetation of this world. I still don’t know where I’m going and whether or not Trenton looms any closer than it did an hour ago, but the three of us keep hurrying. With every passing hour, perceived or real, thoughts of Helena and Grim follow me like ghosts. Helena in pieces, even her final words cut to pieces … Grimsky and his Death-forsaken soul.
No matter the acts I did of freeing some Humans and finding my Raise with the most unfavorable of luck, I only feel deep despair.
“Still hanging on?” I call out to Marigold, who simply grins with utter excitement at our impending doom. I wonder if she spent the entire time at the Necropolis admiring how cute her cage was, pondering excitedly the nightmarish things that were soon to happen to her.
I guess some were made for this world.
Neither her nor the old man seem to know where the Necropolis actually sits in relation to anything else in this dead world, so we conclude that we’re utterly lost. The only thing stretching for miles in all directions is the dead woods through which we’ve been running without end.
How curious, my misfortune. To flee one prison only to get thrown in another, except this one is perhaps a bit roomier.
And full of trees. “I neither see nor hear any more of them,” I point out, surveying the area with a quick glance. “Maybe this is a moment for us to collect ourselves. Are you doing okay?” I address the old man, who just smiles at me. “I hope you’re prepared. Trenton probably won’t welcome you, sad as it is. Might want to part ways now, unless you’re feeling particularly foolish. You know, you have a lot of endurance for someone your age …”
“I’d always wanted to meet a Human,” Mari admits, leaning against a tree and poking at her fingernails, “but seeing as it’s against the law and all, I figured, better not. Is it true that they sound funny? Like little machines?”
I frown at her. “Why do you talk as if you weren’t once Human yourself?—heartbeat and all? You act like living people are a total mystery to you.”
“I believe some of us were not once Human,” she tells me very seriously. “Some of us are Originals. Created for this world only. I believe this is my first and only life.”
I had never considered that a possibility. “That doesn’t make sense,” I tell her. “Everyone has a Waking Dream, though. Haven’t you had yours?”
“No,” she confesses with a tiny smile, her eyes detaching. “I’m afraid I do not have a past life. I’ve been an Original Undead for over ninety-three years and still haven’t faced a Dreaming Death.”
“Ninety-three??” I repeat, dumbfounded. “It’s normal to go ninety-three years without recalling your Old Life??”
“I do not have one to recall.” She approaches a tree and runs her hand along its bark, lost in a thought.
I’m lost in my own. Does she really believe what she’s saying? That she was never alive? That she was “created” for this world? Maybe she’s just in denial … That’s a valid possibility. And if that’s the case, then it is extraordinary she has gone that long without her Waking Dream. I figured it comes to everyone so much sooner. It makes me think of a few unsettling things … a few other awful possibilities. Like, is it possible for some Undead to never remember their lives?
Might I never remember mine?
“I might think it better not to remember,” she poses. “You were told the tale of Mad Malory, of course?”
The sound of that name hits me in a funny way, other than just knowing who she is. Maybe I’m thinking about that small moment when my legless prisoner-friend Benjamin had briefly mentioned her. I miss him too. “Yes, I was. But not everyone reacts badly to their Dream,” I point out, trying to remember what my neighbor Jasmine had told me. “Malory’s was an extreme case. For some, it’s very peaceful. Or has no effect at all.”
“The thought of never remembering your life is a bit scary,” she goes on, “for some. For me, I find it quite soothing. Why adjust to this life, only to be attacked by another? It seems rather wrong, the whole ordeal of it. This is the only life I want.”
Her argument, I’m ashamed to admit, resurfaces the words of the Deathless King. Already I’m resisting the urge to angrily call Marigold a Pretender and fight her seemingly dehumanized point of view.
Have the Deathless gotten under my skin too?
“Are you familiar with this area?” I ask the old man, deciding on a snap to change the subject. He just gives me a flat-lipped frown, then peers off into the grim sky.
Grimsky. All thoughts twist back to him. Was he just protecting me, disguised as a Deathless only to, at the expense of his own safety, find a way to free me and the Humans? Or is he truly one of them, having at the last minute betrayed his own kind to give us a way out?
I exhale with force, pushing away that last moment at the Necropolis, face my two companions and tiredly ask, “Which way?”
“Onward, upward!” suggests Marigold unhelpfully. The old man, just as well he should, shrugs.
The three of us, now no longer running from anything except our own self-doubts and haunting memories of yesterday, continue trekking to wherever. Following the path now, we pass through stretches of woods for a long while, none of us speaking. With just the sound of forest twigs snapping and pebbles of dirt settling beneath my hopping right foot as we move, I’m left with a sudden worry of whether or not my homecoming to Trenton will even be a pleasant one. I remind myself that the whole reason our group journeyed from Trenton in the first place was in pursuit of my runaway Raise. Not knowing what to do was my fault, apparently. Add to that the fact that we’ve lost the Judge, two of her men—and Helena—to the Deathless … what Trenton citizen in their right mind would welcome me back? I fear the only person who will receive me with any scrap of optimism is John the Human who, with an
y luck, is still alive.
“Of course you should find me.”
I jump at the sudden sound of a voice familiar, then look about, unable to find its source. “Stay away,” it says, annoyed and tired. I veer off the forest path and, to my horror, find a head attached to part of a shoulder, the arm clinging to the trunk of a smooth, barkless tree.
“J-Judge?” I say uncertainly, tilting my head to meet her eyes. “Is that … Is that you??”
“I command you,” she moans, in all the dignity she can muster as a partial upper torso, “to locate my other parts—and promptly …”
“How did you—?”
“Now!”
I’ll save the questions. With Marigold’s eager help, we search the vicinity and find the Judge’s entire lower torso from mid-abdomen down, as well as her other arm and remaining section of missing upper body. Putting them together, we realize fast that we have to improvise if we wish her to function properly.
“She won’t stay together without suitable fastening,” Marigold explains. “If only I had my kit!”
The Judge huffs. “Can’t you tie up my parts with vine, or fabric, or … Please, must I think for all of you?”
“You’re not in a position to complain,” I point out.
The Judge, only a shoulder and one arm attached to her head, reaches down to hold onto the rest of her body. The sight is very unsettling and, for one embarrassed moment, I have to look the other way.
“What is it?” she asks jeeringly. “My appearance bothering you?”
“Not in the least,” I lie.
“So how does it feel,” she goes on while Marigold works to bind pieces of her together with torn scraps from her own dress, “to have been in love with a traitor?”
I don’t answer, too busy glaring at a tree.
“Do you realize that your little lover is the one who did this to me?” I meet her eyes again, horrified. “Yes, it’s true. I wouldn’t doubt that the sight of me like this brings you great joy. Holding a grudge still for soiling that pretty red dress, are you?”
“Hardly remember it,” I say, fondly recalling that steel sword plunging through me. The same one that plunged through the short metal-legged guy, at Grimsky’s hand no less. “I never knew he was Deathless … He played us all.”
“I had my suspicions,” the Judge goes on. “The Mayor did too. It isn’t often one migrates between Undead dwellings. A man with that pretty a face can’t be trusted.”
“His face wasn’t that pretty,” I mumble, remembering our time in the tulips when I kissed that pretty face.
Marigold throws her hands up. “This isn’t working! Blast, drat, and half a human’s skull! You cannot be fixed.”
The Judge barks: “Try harder!”
“I’ve tried all I can, your honor. I need my tools.”
Clutching herself together unsuccessfully, the Judge attempts to stand. For two proud seconds, she’s on her feet, albeit quite crooked. The next moment, she’s in pieces again on the forest floor.
“My apologies, your honor, but I’m afraid we will have to carry you.”
“Like hell you will!”
But that’s exactly what we do. The old man holds most of the Judge’s right (or is it left?) upper torso as well as her lower half, while Marigold—my Raise still balanced on her back—carries the head. As I’m partly handicapped myself, hopping on one foot, I only carry her other arm, still separated from the body. A very peculiar sight we must be, the three and a half-ish of us strolling through the woods. In pieces.
Muffled, the Judge breaks the silence. “When did you acquire—Move your arm, please, would you?”
“Sorry.” Marigold adjusts the way she’s carrying her. “I don’t often handle body parts that still—um—operate.”
“When did you acquire the old man?” the Judge asks. “He isn’t from ours.” She squints dubiously at him.
“Obviously he escaped the Necropolis,” I tell her, annoyed. “I don’t care if he’s Human, and neither should you. He has the strength to keep up with us, so he’s tagging along whether you approve or not.”
“He’s no Human.”
I stop, turning to give the old man a second look. Marigold does the same, her eyes brightening. In the semi-quiet of the wood, I realize there is most certainly one key feature of a Human that is missing.
A heartbeat. “You’re—You’re one of us?” I ask the old man in a stupor, who of course cannot respond except simply to bow his head to me like I’m his royal liege.
How hadn’t I noticed before? The silence in his chest and paleness of face should’ve been obvious enough. I might’ve noted this fact sooner had I not been so otherwise distracted.
“Still doesn’t answer my question,” the Judge says, peeved. “He isn’t from ours. Where is he from?”
“He doesn’t talk,” says Marigold. “The poor thing!”
I peer back at him, hopping and trudging along as we are. “Where are you from? Can you give an indication?”
He can’t.
“You are too trusting.” The Judge scoffs. “It’s a wonder you weren’t charmed by the Deathless, the foul lot of them. You’d fit right in.”
“Oh, should I consider going back?” I ask mockingly.
“That ring on your finger is the only thing that saves you, otherwise I’d assume you yourself were turned.”
“Assume what you want. I don’t answer to you.”
“You most certainly do answer to me,” she bites back. “As long as you wish to live in Trenton, you will answer to the Mayor too. A lot of questions you’ll be pressed, a lot of them when we get back. Don’t think yourself an unhooked trout just yet.”
I fidget with the clunky thing on my hand, annoyed.
“I wonder what will occupy your days,” the Judge goes on, “now that pretty boy is vacated?”
“What does it matter?” I gracelessly hop over a dead trunk in the road. “Other than impaling me with a sword, you paid me no mind what I did with my days before.”
“Not to mention,” she goes on in her tireless endeavor to pester me, “your nameless child here on the back of Marigold. What a failed rescue she is. Curious what the Mayor will think of that—Or the fact that my men were left behind, and your Reaper …”
“How did you get free, for that matter?” I spit back. “This interrogation should go both ways. You escaped somehow, entirely unable to walk, and ended chopped up in the middle of the Dead Wood without any apparent aid. Explain that one.”
“Trained,” she says, her entire explanation.
“I’m not discussing this any further,” I snap, “until you’re more than just a head!”
She keeps quiet after that, hanging in Marigold’s arms. The rest of the journey home is silently fuming. In my empty mind where imaginary synapses still fire, doubt is flooding me like a storm, its rushing, angry torrents growing heavier and heavier. What I’ve done to Helena. What Grim’s done to me.
Following the winding dirt road, a part of me collapses with relief when I first catch sight of the walls of Trenton in the far distance. Not once had I ever truly felt connected to this obscure, odd dwelling … Never until now had I been so glad seeing its tired gates awaiting me.
“To the Refinery at last!” Marigold sings.
Like this whole exploit was nothing but a weekend’s blissful retreat, she returns waltzing through the city gates with a third of the Judge in her arms and my Raise on her back, the old man quietly following.
“I need to go home,” I tell Marigold, urgency gripping my throat. “Meet you at the Refinery in half an hour.”
“That can wait,” the Judge barks from somewhere under Mari’s arms. “You and I have unfinished business.”
“Our business can wait!”
Without listening to her furthered protests, I pass the Judge’s arm I was carrying to the old man like a football and rush as best as I can down the winding streets of Trenton. The colorless dirt roads, the cobblestone walkways to the
front steps of quaint wooden homes, the sparse, leafless trees that overhang portions of the road … These things I never knew I missed until just now.
I hardly contain my relief when I turn onto my street.
I trip halfway up the steps of the house, so clumsy the excitement has made me even despite the nonfunctioning left leg and dangling flesh-torn arm. I throw open the door … then realize …
“It’s—a good day—” I start to sing before it belatedly occurs to me that the door was not locked. After giving myself a moment, I cautiously shuffle inside. Nothing. Not a sound, not a whisper, nothing finds me. Everything seems in place, from the table to the half-burnt candle.
“Hello?” I whisper, creeping toward the short hall with bedroom and bathroom. No one’s there. I crouch down, peeking under the bed. I lift the sheets, find nothing but a pillow. I open the bedroom window, peer around as though in search of a stray cat, then shut it. Into the bathroom, I find no one, nothing, nowhere. I reenter the living room I’d already searched, looking under the table and moving a chair out of the way—as though it could possibly house a Human beneath it.
I search the bedroom a third time, the bathroom a fourth. I stop in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the floor in bafflement.
I cover my mouth and focus my eyes on the wall as though expecting an answer to materialize on it. I clench my teeth to keep from panicking, holding myself steady, pretending I have a working nervous system with which I might express said panic.
But I know better than to be a slave to my fears. I should’ve expected this since the moment I first met him. He’s gathered what he needed. He’s used me for what I’m useful for. There is only one explanation for his absence.
He’s gone home.
C H A P T E R – F O U R T E E N
P R E T E N D E R S
Swinging open the door, I limp down a short hall and into the room where the magic happens. The Judge is still neatly arranged on the working table in thirds, and it appears I’ve interrupted a dialogue.
The Beautiful Dead Page 18