Dead Of Winter (The Beautiful Dead Book 2)

by Daryl Banner

  Fire.

  C H A P T E R – F I V E

  D E F I A N C E

  “I’ve been watching it for weeks.”

  My jaw drops. “Weeks??”

  “And it has not moved.” The Chief lifts his chin, his eyes guarded and heavy, likely with a hundred other things he has conveniently decided not to mention to anyone.

  “Let me get this straight. You’ve known about that fire—for weeks—and haven’t said a thing? You haven’t even sent someone out to, like, investigate it? Anything? Do you realize if it comes anywhere near Trenton—?”

  “The whole dry lot of us will go up in flames. Yes, I realize. I don’t want a town panic, so this news stays here.” He lifts a cup of water to his lips, makes a loud gulping sound, then sets it back down, heavy. “There is something odd about that fire … something I don’t trust.”

  I look over at John incredulously, who I’d dug up from Jasmine’s party and dragged here to the Chief’s home. Still being plenty intoxicated, he simply stares at the wall pensively, unresponsive.

  “But surely the gatherers have seen it,” I point out. “Wouldn’t they notice the smoke and flame, even during daylight? In fact, just now at Jasmine’s party, a man was going on about it.”

  “A crazy man no one listens to. And no, the gatherers haven’t seen it. From the ground, its view is blocked. Did you look closely, Winter? This fire doesn’t smoke. It’s an odd fire.” The Chief shakes his head. “How does it stay in the same place for weeks? No matter what it’s burning, it ought to have put itself out by now.”

  I have to admit, that part strikes me as odd, too.

  “And that’s the least of our concerns,” the Chief goes on. “Gill’s been thrown in a cell. You might’ve noticed his absence at the … party, if that’s what you’re calling it.”

  I blink two totally what-are-you-talking-about eyes at him. “Not that I would have expected his attendance, considering how vile he thinks our kind is, but why was he imprisoned?”

  “Two neighbors of his, Murphy and Theresa—Murphy the Undead, Theresa the Living—got it in their minds that what Gill’s dead wife needed was a proper burial. But Gill won’t allow that. Got into a pretty bad tiff, and now Murphy’s decapitated and Theresa lost an ear.”

  “Well. At least Murphy’s fixable.” I sit down on the couch next to John, who’s making half a snoring sound. I nudge him unkindly with my elbow, inspiring a snort and a grunt from him. “So why doesn’t he want her buried?”

  “Well, isn’t that how you folk do it?” The Chief lifts an eye at me, like I have any idea. “Gill thinks they’re trying to raise his wife up as an Undead. Is that even possible?”

  “I …” His question strikes me. “I … don’t know.”

  “Gill prefers to do it the old way. Back at camp, when superstition taught us that our own dead could rise up against us, we would burn the deceased. He wants to burn his dead wife.” The Chief’s eyes hang heavy and he leans against the back of a chair, pensive, furrowing his brow. “I don’t know how to help the man. He’s lost it.”

  “It’s understandable,” I admit. “I don’t really know the mechanics of … how Raising works.”

  “Listen, I was going to save this for the morning, but seeing as you’re here …” His eyes harden. I already know I’m not going to like what he’s about to say. “I’m sending Helena to After’s Hold in place of you.”

  Oh.

  “Before you protest,” he goes on—and I’m totally not protesting—“I’m sending her because of her knowledge of them. She knows who they are and can work with them.”

  Then it occurs to me what else this means. “You’re still sending John?”

  “Yes. John will be accompanied by Gunner.”

  Yes, he said that. “And who the hell is this ‘Gunner?’ ”

  “He is our watchman and hunter. You might not have known him by name at the time, but he is the one who landed an arrow into you when you first happened on our camp long ago. The day you and I first met.”

  Yes. I remember that fondly. The arrow plunged into me and, after a moment of confusion, I yanked it right out, thereby confirming what I really was to the whole of the camp: a Crypter, a Dead Thing, an Abomination …

  “He is quick,” the Chief goes on, “nimble, and never misses. He will protect John and the others.”

  Such a person must have had practice. I’m suspicious instantly. “And how many of us has he killed?”

  “Sorry?”

  “I asked how many—Crypters—he’s slain.”

  The Chief narrows his eyes. “Helena will be safe.”

  “And what of John? What of Jasmine? You know as well as I do how highly some of your camp people think of us. That is, not very. And now you’re sending—let’s get this straight—a trained assassin ninja archer-dude named Gunner into a city ripe with Undead to ask for help. Not the kindest impression to be making.”

  “They are safer in his care. I assure you, he knows and respects the difference between Undead and Crypters. And though we may have wiped out the Deathless, we can’t be sure what else lies out there. If it were up to John, he’d likely pick the same companion.”

  “John shouldn’t even go,” I protest. “He’s—well, look at him … drunk.”

  On cue, John groans the words: “I can hear you.”

  “And,” I go on anyway, incensed, “Helena is in charge of civic peace and decision-making among the Undead. Who’s going to run all of that?”

  “You.”

  For a wild instant, I want to pull off both my arms and my legs and pitch them at the Chief’s face, screaming. I realize, however, that I’d have no arms left with which to pitch them. These are the thoughts of an angry Undead.

  “I can’t run a town!” I holler out. I literally feel like a child throwing a tantrum. Dad just grounded me to my room while everyone I know and love take off on a little journey. “I don’t know the first thing! You can’t do this. I should be heading out there.”

  “The decision’s already made. Helena has agreed. It will be them four, no one else. It isn’t personal, Winter. It’s business.”

  I cross my arms, acidly glaring at the Chief. He says something else about duties, something about keeping the peace, something about the respect the Humans have for me, and all I can do is slowly realize why I’m really upset: just when things were improving between John and I, he’s being taken away from me.

  “Alright,” I murmur, defeated. “Okay.”

  The Chief nods, his blue-and-grey-flecked eyes gleam. “Thank you, Winter. Take John home, make sure he gets all the rest he can. They will be leaving town an hour past sunrise.”

  “Might need two.” I take John’s hand and pull him off the couch. He mumbles something, then throws an arm over my shoulder and together we step out of the house. I give the Chief one last doleful glance before shutting the door. Not that it makes a difference.

  The trek home is horrid. I feel heavy and pained, and I know it’s an illusion because I can neither feel heavy nor pained, but suddenly this night with John just became a “last night with John” before he’s off, and I can’t handle that notion. Not now. Not with him being so …

  Kind.

  “Are we back yet?” he asks as I dump him onto the bed. He stirs against the bed sheets, a stupidly adorable grin finding his face. “Yes, we are. Mmm. Good. Mmm.”

  “Good night,” I mutter sullenly, moving to shut the door.

  “No,” he whines, reaching out a hand. “Come back.”

  I roll my eyes. What’s he need now? I come to the side of the bed. “What do you—?”

  And then he grabs me. I let out half a shriek, half a laugh, and John’s pulled me onto the bed, cuddling me into his body like a boy’s teddy. This was about the last thing I was expecting on a very long list of things I never thought John would do. With his arm clung tight around my waist, he nuzzles his face into the back of my neck.

  Oh my god. We’re spooning.

/>   “You smell nice,” he slurs drunkenly.

  “Thanks.” I’m as rigid as a brick wall.

  “For a dead person,” he adds.

  Did he really just say that?

  “How does that work?” He giggles sleepily, snuggling even more into my neck. “How do you smell so niiiice?”

  “I don’t know.” For a dead person? Seriously? “An oil or, uh … perfume or something. I don’t know.” I’ve never felt this nervous in all my Second Life. I’ve achieved some sort of dream state. I can’t believe this is happening. “Ask Marigold. She does my Upkeep every other day or so.”

  “Upkeep.” He giggles. I have never heard John giggle. “Upkeep. Funny word. Upkeep, upkeep, upkeep. Mmm. I need Upkeep, I smell bad.”

  I smile ruefully. “Lucky me, I can’t tell.”

  “I haven’t showered in days.” The arm he has around my waist grips even tighter. He moans groggily into my ear. “You’re so comfortable.”

  “… Thanks.”

  “I’m really glad.” He giggles again. That’s twice in a one minute timespan. Twice. “I’m so lucky. I’m so … so lucky.” Then I hear something like a choke.

  It takes me a minute before I realize he’s crying.

  “John?”

  He’s still crying. It’s quiet, he barely moves, but it’s there. I hear him sniffle once, but he says nothing more. It kills me that I can’t see him, as I’m facing the wall, back pressed tightly into him. He squeezes again with his arm.

  Then he whispers, “I’ve waited for you all my life. I’ve waited so, so long, and you’re …” He chokes again, a throaty sound that’s something between a laugh and a sob. “I’m so lucky.”

  I don’t know what he was about to say. I suspect if he’d finished his sentence, he might’ve said, “Dead.”

  It doesn’t matter. I let him hold me, uncaring, and he squeezes one last time before the sleep suddenly takes him away and his slurred moans are traded for deep, slow breathing in my ear.

  I close my own eyes and pretend to dream.

  Minutes turn into hours. Even a nighttime of being held in John’s arms doesn’t feel long enough. He stirs only twice, and both times he realizes anew that he’s holding me, and both times he changes his mind and clings to me again. I like that. A lot.

  There’s a sharp rap at the door. I glance up at the window, then realize with a heaviness that I’m not going to be able to tell if it’s a visitor in the night, or if the cruel and hasty morning’s already come. With great effort, I slip out from John’s thick arms, cross the creaky floorboards, and open the door to find Helena standing there.

  “I’m not happy about it either,” is the first thing she says, her lips pursed.

  “Promise me you’ll look out for John, alright?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Is he ready? Sun’s up and the Chief is getting restless.”

  “Not even awake yet,” I admit. “He’s … well, he had a rough night. Drank too much. Blame Jazz.”

  “Wasteful, the Living. Wasting their wine, wasting their food, wasting their lives.” She shakes her head of black, perfectly-pruned hair. “That’s the real reason we’re scurrying up to After’s Hold to beg. ‘Please help us. We have wasteful Humans who don’t know how to manage their own resources.’ So humiliating.” She lifts a brow. “You know I’m going to be counting on you to keep the Trenton peace, right? It’s tougher than it looks.”

  I cast my gaze to the floor, troubled. I’m still not ready to say goodbye to John.

  “I’ll give him another hour,” she says. “Tell him to be ready and meet us at the North Gate. Jasmine and this Gunner character are set to go.”

  I nod slowly. “Alright. I don’t know—Gunner—but I don’t much like the sound of him.”

  “Let’s not make enemies just yet. If I recall,” she goes on, “we do owe the Living for helping us rid our city of the Deathless. That includes mister Guns and his quick quiver, Miss Winter.”

  I force a smile. “I’ll see if I can wake him up.” Helena winks, then turns to go and I shut the front door quietly. When I turn, John’s already standing in the hallway. His scalding brown eyes pour into mine from across the room and his shirt hangs halfway off his body.

  “You’re not coming?” he asks.

  I gaze at the floor, then shake my head. Apparently he heard the words between Helena and I, but failed to pay attention last night. “The Chief’s ordered me to stay, to help run the city. He’s sending Hel instead.”

  “Oh.”

  We stare at each other. I don’t know what else I can say. I have a sudden and hilarious urge to thank him for cuddling me all night.

  “Get ready,” I tell him instead. “They’re expecting you in an hour.”

  “I heard.” He hesitates, as if about to say something else, then staggers back into the bedroom and closes the door behind him.

  Bye, John. I won’t say it. I’ll do best just thinking it.

  Twenty minutes later, after John’s taken a shower and donned his last set of clean clothes, I accompany him through the city to the north gate. Jasmine and Helena are in the middle of a conversation when they both turn, noting our arrival. Helena’s dressed from head to toe in black—even her lips are black. Jasmine’s nearly the same, but in green, and she has two satchels and a basket attached to her back. Her hair has several streaks of green woven through it and it’s been twisted up into a pretty bun shape. Long grey strands hang down to her shoulders and a few over her left eye. She smiles kindly at me.

  My first impression of Gunner is, he looks like a twelve-year-old boy trapped in a man’s body, his eyes alert and constantly seeking their next target. His short, slender, nimble figure is wrapped in black and grey close-fitting linens. He has smeared some kind of color on the tops of his cheeks and his hair is a spiky, tousled mess. A heavy-looking crossbow is slung over his shoulder, a quiver of arrows bound to his back.

  “The journey there and back won’t take longer than two and a half days’ time,” explains Helena. “Three at the very most.”

  “See you all soon,” I say politely.

  John nods at me. Jasmine and Helena move through the gates where I notice a wagon of sorts that’s been loaded full of plenty of items that shimmer. Weapons, from the look of it. Gunner even gives me a nod and a short wave of his hand. I still don’t know what to make of him and I don’t have any time to study the kid further because all my attention is on John suddenly, watching as he moves through the gate. Its hinges scream. The four of them trek down the path, the wagon squeaking, its burden clinking, clanging, further and further they go, the band of them growing smaller, the wagon smaller, all of it, going and going … then gone.

  I fight a horrible urge to run after them. It takes everything in me to simply put one foot in front of the other and carry myself back to the Square. The activity there is no less than it ever is, even this early in the morning; all the marketplaces are open for business and the tents and kiosks are set up for their day’s trades.

  I pass a kiosk selling steel bracelets, and am reminded of a very serious situation I’d neglected to solve last night.

  Recalling most of our conversation at the party, it just takes a minimal amount of asking around before figuring out where he lives. In the second quarter, east end, adjacent to the Human’s quarter, I approach the carved wooden door and give it three solid knocks. A voice within, muffled, tells me to let myself in.

  I’m reminded of John and my own house, how he used to let me in. A pang wiggles through me. I should’ve gone after them … I should’ve defied the Chief’s orders.

  I’m being so dumb. He’ll be back in a few days.

  I step inside. A long table stretches across one end of the room, a couch with two recliners on the other end, and a giant shell of a TV sits in the middle of the room in the way of everything, decorating a very old and tired-looking nightstand. Curled up against the wall is the tiny shape of Benjamin, like a cat who’s found a napping spot.<
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  “Uh, hi,” I greet him tentatively. “You … comfy?”

  “No.”

  “How long have you been like that?”

  “Since last night.”

  I come partway across the room, run a hand along the top of the couch. “You realize it’s morning, don’t you?”

  “No.”

  I crouch down next to him. I realize I’m keeping a bit more distance than a normal person ought to. It’s like I’m subconsciously afraid of him now and I can’t stand that. “You should get up, Benjamin. We need to talk.”

  “I could barely let myself into my own house.” His voice is broken, dejected, miles away. “The doorknob. I was so afraid to touch it. I know it’s brass or whatever, but I’m … so afraid to touch anything. I’m not Deathless.”

  “I know. Get up.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “No.” He points. “I took extra measures.”

  I glance down. He’s gone and nailed himself to the floor. A larger iron nail is impaling his abdomen, stapling it to the wall. The sight is ghastly, and I thank everything I know that we neither feel pain nor bleed.

  “I’d call this a bit of an overreaction.”

  “It’s not,” he retorts. “I’ve seen how Brains is.” He winces apologetically. “Sorry, didn’t mean that to offend. But I know what she’s like. Crazy, blood-hungry. They eat people, Winter. I don’t trust myself now.”

  “Where’d you get the nails? Never mind, I’m freeing you.” I grab the one in his abdomen while looking the other way; I can’t watch what I’m about to do.

  “But what if I, like, leap onto some poor, unsuspecting Human and, like, eat them?”

  “I’ll eat you before that happens,” I promise him.

  The huge iron nails come out so easy, I’m convinced they wouldn’t have held him anyway if he’d somehow inexplicably lost control. I coax him to a chair, since he insists on not being allowed outside yet. He lights a candle by the table and we both stare into the dancing rainbow light. He assures me it’s the only thing that can calm him right now—a trick his First Hand Brandon used to do, setting fire to a little twig in the woods, and they’d watch it burn to nothing, their worries burning away with it.