Dead Of Winter (The Beautiful Dead Book 2)

by Daryl Banner

  “Of course,” I agree, staring at the table now. “That makes sense.” The old Judge Enea could smell the blood on my breath. It’s ridiculous because the Undead cannot smell, but she seemed to be able to. I wonder if Helena is picking up any similar trace. “Of course, of course, it can’t be known.” I suddenly find myself very self-conscious and scared and, well …

  Mostly I feel ashamed.

  “And I think it may go without saying,” she goes on, “that you will be joining John in the party heading north to our neighbors for assistance.”

  I didn’t realize—I’d thought—“But Hel … The Chief said we’d form a party made of—”

  “Human and Undead, to include at least two Humans. John and Gunner, I believe the Chief decided. And I have chosen you, as well as Jasmine for her … green thumb, shall we call it? You four leave tomorrow at sunrise.”

  “Jasmine? Are you sure she’s up for it, after …?” In the Battle of the Deathless versus the citizens of Trenton several months ago, her sort-of daughter, a gloomy girl with black braided hair, was destroyed by a Warlock. Yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but it’s the world we live in, and not even the Undead are safe from permanent ends. Warlocks can turn any of us to dust with a flinch of their green, glowing eyes. Something to do with voodoo or necromancy or jealous ex-lovers—whatever, I don’t know how it works, no one’s cared to explain. Besides, the Warlock is dead—and by Jasmine’s own hand, in fact. She javelined a sword through his beady little face.

  “She is, on the contrary, more than up for the journey. A distraction is just what she needs.”

  Some distraction. Jasmine may be ready, but … “I don’t understand why I’m going. You ought to go. Or Marigold, for all her charisma. Or that big guy who makes gloves and boots—whatever his name is. Or even—”

  “You’ll be passing by the old Human camp,” Helena presses on, ignoring my protests. “The city is not much farther north from there. It is called After’s Hold and it’s where Grimsky was Risen.”

  I was about to interject again, but at the sound of his name … Grimsky … I find myself frozen in place. I loved Grim. At least, I’m pretty sure I did. I’ve tried not to think about him since the day we threw him out of Trenton. I see his eyeless face, and the little emerald Warlock-eye I set into it. I still see the glimmer of that green Lock’s Eye, wondering if it worked, if I’d restored the vision the Deathless took from him. I thought I could feel him looking at me, looking into me. “Didn’t work,” he had whispered, but I wasn’t convinced. I undid his binds and set him free. I could’ve ended his existence right there, just as we did with all the other Deathless, but Grim … Grim was different. “Deathless I am.” That’s one of the last things he said to me. And then: “Goodbye, Winter.”

  “Grimsky,” I say aloud. Helena’s studying my face, likely wondering where my mind just went. “I hadn’t thought about him since—”

  Oh, who am I kidding. I’ve given a thousand thoughts to Grimsky since he left. Thoughts like, where is he? What’s become of him? Was it a mistake to let him go?

  “I know,” says Hel, interrupting the turmoil of my thoughts. “I cannot easily trust the place that Raised him, but they are our closest and most practical neighbors. If there’s anything amiss, your presence will be needed. You have a connection with the Deathless that no one can match. It’s imperative that you’re there … just in case.”

  Those are the three most deadly words in this world. Except for maybe: no more chocolate. “I understand. I’ll go. What else am I going to do?” My insides are wrung up like a wet washcloth. I bury my face in my hands. I think I still smell the blood on them.

  Then the front door creaks open and John’s standing there, eclipsing the sunlight with his brawny frame.

  “Helena,” he says, a cold courtesy.

  She simply nods at him, then turns to me to say, “Don’t underestimate yourself, Winter.” She gives me a wink. “You have a talent for managing disaster. Speaking of which,” she leans in, her pointy nose nearly stabbing me in the eye, “don’t forget about the Brains issue.”

  My voice low as a breeze, I reply, “And what, exactly, am I supposed to do about the Brains issue?”

  “A good mother always knows,” she says unhelpfully.

  And with heels stabbing the floorboards, Helena rises, crosses my little house and shows herself out. John closes the door gently behind her, then just leans against it, his shoulders slumped, watching me from across the room.

  I peer outside anxiously, avoiding whatever words John has for me. The silver of the sky is returning. The blue is laying itself to rest and I’m turning dead again. I am both relieved and miserably disheartened by this.

  I’m making this worse by being a creepy quiet thing. “Hi,” I offer, still staring out the window.

  He clears his throat, wipes a sheen of sweat off his forehead with the back of a dirty hand. “Hi.”

  He says nothing more, but just keeps staring at me. I realize I can’t even ask what happened after I left. That’s a horror-bucket waiting to be dumped. I can’t ask how Gill is doing, or whether or not the wife survived—I suspect I already know. Hel and I already assumed. I can’t ask what they named the baby because anything I ask feels like I’m intruding somewhere that I will never, ever belong … the world of the Living.

  Not that John’s shown me much kindness at all, either. The one Human with which I thought I could share everything … I thought he’d understand, but at the end of the day, with all the Humans here now in Trenton, I know where his true loyalty lies, and it is certainly not with a dead girl in a creaky little house.

  I’m not sure I can stay here much longer. I have Brains to deal with. Oh, if I had a nickel.

  I get up from the table, deciding to go to the sink. I can wash my hands six or seven more times, they won’t feel any more clean, not after what I’ve done.

  “Winter.”

  I stop halfway past the kitchenette, turn to look back at him. He’s still watching me. His brown eyes show fiercely, even from across the room.

  After a very long pause, I respond. “Yes, John?”

  “I’m alive because of you.”

  I press my lips together. I’m not sure what his angle is, what he’s getting at. Even the way he says it, it sounds half an accusation. As though my helping him to survive were yet another bad thing I’ve done. Shame on me.

  “Okay,” I say back curtly, needing to hear where he’s going with this.

  He looks away. I can tell he’s troubled. What he faced in there … Gill losing his mind and attacking anyone in sight … Even from across the room, I can see the bruise forming on John’s nose where Gill’s elbow unkindly bashed him.

  I can’t stand waiting for him to speak. “Is there … something I’m supposed to be saying?” I know I sound less kind than I ought to be, considering what he’s gone through, but the hurt feelings he’s put into me are starting to stubbornly scratch their way to the surface.

  His face is pale and stern, his eyes not able to rest on anything in the room. “There are demons in me, Winter.”

  Leaning against the counter, I wait for more.

  “Demons. Bad, bad demons that I can’t get rid of.” He crosses the room, which is startling because he’s suddenly very close to me. Next to the table now, he starts picking at the wood, pensive, staring down at it. “They don’t let me sleep. They’ve made me … awful.”

  Is this an apology? “We all have demons.”

  “But yours are a lifetime ago. Literally.” He chuckles without a smile, empty and feeble. “Winter, what I’m trying to say is …” He looks up finally. The effect his eyes have when they burrow into mine is staggering. Those Living earthen orbs of light in his face, they smolder. John and his wet, totally-alive, tear-capable eyes.

  “Yeah?” I encourage him.

  He takes another step closer to me. I resist an urge to back away, resist another urge to press into his solid, inviting body. “Please d
on’t mistake my demons for hate. Winter, you’ve shown me so much care … You’ve given me a home … You risked everything. I’ll never be able to repay you, ever. In ten lifetimes. I don’t hate you.”

  So many words are caught in my throat suddenly. The only one that escapes is: “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he agrees.

  I could almost trick myself into believing that I feel the warmth of his body. That I feel the racing of my own heart. That my knees are noodles in his presence.

  “I don’t hate you,” he repeats. “I … I don’t hate you at all. You’re … you’re not a bad roommate. You’re actually very …” John looks down at his feet, his face scrunched up. He rubs his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

  I hang on his words. I want him to say something else. I want him to keep talking. I want to hear more. “Yeah, it has,” I agree. “What am I, John? You were about to say—”

  “You’re very—I don’t know. You’re very kind.” He meets my gaze again.

  Kind. I’m very … kind.

  “Thank you,” I reply.

  “I should, um—” He keeps rubbing his eyes, gives himself a little slap on the cheek. “I should take a nap. I think a nap would do me well.”

  “Mine aren’t a lifetime ago,” I point out, bringing his beautiful brown eyes back to mine. Yes, I’ll keep them there, keep them interested, awake, aware. “Demons,” I clarify. His eyes shimmer. I love when he’s looking at me in this way. I could almost believe right now that I’m not dead. I could believe in this moment that I’m just a girl in this room, and he’s just a guy, and nothing separates us—not life, not death, not even air. “I have a new life now. I have … new demons.” My eyes drift to his muscular chest, his torn and dirty shirt.

  “Of course you do,” he agrees, taking a breath.

  I smile, watching his chest rise.

  He smiles, letting his chest fall.

  This is the first positive interaction we’ve had in weeks. I can’t believe this is real. Is the John I’ve been needing back, or is this just a brief moment of weakness, and tomorrow he will turn dark and horrible again?

  “Rest well,” I tell him as he passes by, pushes into the bedroom, then gently closes the door behind him. I feel a little bit better and a little bit worse after John’s words.

  In the top corner of the den, a cockroach scuttles over the wall, slips into a crack. The sight of it makes me smile. Yes, smile, because my first roommate in this little house, even before John, was a roach. Not the same one; John squished the first. That first cockroach was actually the only living occupant of my house, if you think about it … I didn’t count.

  It’s a weird feeling. To not count.

  I’m surprised by how unsqueamish I’ve become of things like cockroaches. In such a lonely, dead world, I guess I almost welcome them.

  C H A P T E R – T H R E E

  S H I V E R

  First thing I see when I step onto the porch is my wise neighbor across the barren cul-de-sac that is our ring of little homes. She’s relaxing on her porch, reading. If she were alive, I’d put her at sixty-five, maybe seventy years. She could be forty for all I know, I’m awful at guessing age. Her hair is stringy and brown and her olive skin, spotted and bumpy. She notices me right away and gives a little wiggle of her fingers.

  “Hey Jasmine,” I call out.

  “Ready for our little outing?” she asks, as if we’ll just be hopping over to the store for bread and toilet paper.

  “Excited as ever.”

  “Don’t forget about my party!” Jasmine gives a little giggle, pushing a finger at the glasses that rest on her crooked nose. “It’s my birthday. All the girls from the Refinery will be there, and even some Humans!”

  She’s made a lot of Human friends, likely because she’s the least Undead-like of any Trenton citizens I’ve met, and also because she happens to specialize in the care and nurturing of plants, which I guess the Living respect. Since the fall of the last Mayor, she’s been allowed to open a greenhouse and a garden that she tends in her backyard, though the weather’s been less than favorable.

  “Birthday,” I mutter. “Of course.”

  “B.Y.O.B.!” she calls out before returning to her book.

  I stroll into town, tortured by the dialogue I had with John, mixed in with imaginings of what a party at Jasmine’s might be like. This puts me into arguably the worst frame of mind to be visiting my failed Raise. Adding to my emotional pressures, I’m feeling more and more guilty for consuming all that blood. What am I now, a vampire-zombie? I feel sicker and sicker, furious that I’d given into such a reckless impulse.

  But if I’m known for anything, it’s reckless impulses.

  When I descend the steps leading to the dungeon cells beneath the Town Hall, they sound suspiciously like cold cement heartbeats. There is only one occupant of the forty prison cells. That is, thirty-nine empty cells, and one very occupied one.

  Stopping just before cell number thirteen, I inhale, steel myself, then take the step forward, peering into the little window at the top of the door.

  My Raise is weird. There’s no other way to put it. She is certifiably, undeniably, incoherently weird. She isn’t sitting. She isn’t lounging, no. She’s facing away, so close to the wall her nose is likely touching it. Her posture is absurdly straight, like a plastic mannequin set away in a closet. Half her right arm is still missing.

  For a while, I’m literally scared to say anything. Last two times I visited her, things did not go so well. Even now, I notice several patches of hair missing from the back of her head. Apparently she’s fond of pulling them out in maddened clumps.

  “Helen?” I deliberately use the name I originally gave her; I find it far more dignifying. There’s no response, so I give in and try the other name: “B-Brains?”

  She turns around. It’s very sudden, and now I realize it may have been kinder to hold a conversation with the back of her head. She’s apparently pulled off her right cheek somehow, and her forehead looks absent entirely, giving us a new reason to call her Brains. Her clothes have become shredded tatters and I can basically see everything the front of her has to offer. I avert my eyes very quickly, revolted and horrified and saddened all at once.

  “I am Deathless,” she says in that creepy, tinny voice of hers.

  “Yes, that’s nice,” I agree, my gaze resting somewhere on the opposite side of her cell. “Except you’re not, actually. The Deathless are gone. By all rights, you ought to be free from their … um … influence?”

  “I am Deathless.”

  “Okay.” I bite my lip, thinking what else I can possibly say. Helena was cruel, really, to put this responsibility on me, as I don’t know the first thing to do to fix this. “Do you remember … Do you remember our time in the Whispers? When we first met? Listen, I made a terrible mistake and I—well, it’s a simple mistake, actually—but I didn’t name you right away. Then you escaped from me and you ran into the Deathless—are you following this?—and so now you’re confused and you think you belong to them. But you don’t. You belong here. You are Helen.”

  “I am Deathless.”

  “No. You are Helen.” I still can’t look at her. Really, when you’re talking to someone, you shouldn’t be able to see their brain through their forehead; it’s just rude. “You probably had a sweet, lovely life, and I’d like you to stop being Deathless because, well, the Deathless are not kind people. They’re just like any other Undead, of course, except they’re horrible and they eat Humans and they’re all vulnerable to steel. You don’t want to be vulnerable to steel, do you? It’s mighty inconvenient, especially if you’d ever like to wear … say … steel jewelry, for example.”

  “I am—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I close my eyes, exasperated. “Please. Brains. You’re the last remaining Deathless in the whole horrible world. Please, please, just make it a little less horrible by—not—being Deathless. If you just try …”

  “I am
not the last.”

  I’m about to say something else, but her words catch me. I open my eyes, then shriek and back away, realizing she’d come right up to the window and her face was an inch from mine.

  Did I hear her right? “What do you mean by that, Brains?” Until now, I didn’t realize she was capable of saying anything other than, well, what she’s been saying over and over. “You’re what?”

  “I am Deathless.”

  “No, no, I mean—You just said you’re not the—”

  “I am Deathless.”

  “You’re not the last? What do you mean? The Deathless Queen is gone. The whole army was destroyed. There is no—”

  “I sense him. I feel him. I am Deathless.”

  I stare into her horrible, gooey eyes. I stare and I stare and I stare. I’m holding imaginary breath. I’m clutching my neck and staring at Brains, and staring at brains.

  Does she mean … him? Does she mean … Grim?

  “I feel him,” she repeats, her tinny little voice ringing in my ears, filling the hall. “I feel him, I feel him, I—”

  “Who?” I finally say, half a breath, half a sound.

  “Him. I am Deathless. I am Deathless.”

  I’ve backed away so far from the window, I’m leaning on the cell door opposite hers. She keeps repeating those three horrible words. Grimsky, until now, has just been some strange, distant imagining. I’ve regarded him like a bad dream I’ve long ago woken up from … a dark story told to me once in the quiet of a wretched night … a tale I’ve since cast to the likes of fantasy and fable.

  Who else could she possibly be talking about? My Raise senses him. My Raise senses Grimsky.

  “Where is he?” I ask, clinging to the terrible, gut-wrenching assumption. “Him? He? Where …?”

  “That way,” she sings, pointing.

  I squint. Huh? I look where she’s pointing, somewhere at the north wall of her cell. I realize she’s turned her head completely around, 180 degrees, while keeping the rest of her body facing front. Showing off now, are we?