Dead Of Winter (The Beautiful Dead Book 2)

by Daryl Banner

  “Alright,” he grunts.

  But neither of us let go.

  I feel a breeze snaking through the narrow streets. For a moment, I imagine cars driving past us. I pretend I can hear alarms and honking in the distance, police sirens, the noise and chatter and laughter and steam of a city. When the dream of it all lets go—when that imaginary past fades away—the silent, ghostly streets meet my eyes again.

  “I wish I could show you what the world was,” I tell him, thinking somewhat fondly of it.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean … well, I just now am realizing. You, being alive, you’re trapped here, in the present. All you know and all you’ve ever known is this … empty, dead world. But we Undead, we’re trapped in the past.” I draw quiet.

  “You mean … you remember your past?”

  Better now than never. “Yes,” I finally confess. I let my eyes drift across the courtyard, observing how very alone we are. “I … I recalled everything. It was a while ago, actually. I hope you’re not mad that I didn’t tell you.”

  He’s silent for a moment. “How long ago?”

  “When … I killed the Deathless Queen.” John doesn’t react. I continue. “I remembered everything in an instant. Just like they warned me. I … I was an awful child. I grew into a worse teenager. I died before I turned twenty.”

  His hand clenches mine tighter. I feel his arm pushing against my side, like he’s drawing closer to me. Though it’s imaginary, I feel like I can sense his warmth. The hard drumming of his heart pulses through his arm, tickles me.

  “Go on,” he mutters.

  “My name was … C-Claire.” I swallow unnecessarily. “Claire Westbrook. When the memory of my life came back, I … I couldn’t tell anyone, actually. I was filled with so much shame for how I’d lived my life. Claire was … Claire was awful, John. She was really, really awful.”

  “How’d you—” He stops himself, licks his lips, then changes a single word. “How’d … she die?”

  “She froze.”

  He puts his other hand over mine, clasping my pale little hand with both of his. I look down, surprised. Then suddenly I feel his chin rest on the top of my head. His hand begins to rub gently, slowly. I watch his hand move.

  “It’s okay,” he mutters quietly, so quietly I hardly hear it. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  I catch sight of a store window across the courtyard. For a moment, I feel like there’s a pair of eyes watching us. Then suddenly they’re gone.

  “John, I think we’re being—”

  “It’s okay,” he tells me again, letting go and wrapping his arms around me.

  Squeezing now, my face is pulled into his chest and he’s hugging me. Hugging me. John the Human is hugging me with his big arms and I listen to the loud, thunderous drumming of his lifeblood. It’s okay, he says, and I have to question who he’s saying it to. Surrounded by the song of John, I forget completely about the suspicious eyes or the fact that I think we’re being watched.

  “No one is alone in this world,” John says finally. “I’m not. You’re not. We all suffer together, Living or Dead. The world’s closing its eyes to sleep and we have to keep ours open as long as we can.”

  I lift my head and look him in the eye. John’s tortured, wetted eyes. His cheeks, blushed red from the subtle bite of cold that I’m certain is in the air. His lips, full and parted and breathing.

  “John …”

  “You can let Claire go,” he tells me, “or you can hang on forever. The only you I know is Winter.”

  And then he puts his lips onto mine. I don’t even have time to gasp or prepare. His arms squeeze me tightly. His large hands gripping my back like a tool in a sweatshop. My hands find his solid chest, playing up to his broad, impossible shoulders. And our lips make wet, angry fire.

  He pulls away, staring into my eyes. He looks angry. He looks hungry. He looks maddened and vicious and …

  And then he kisses me again.

  Suddenly my back’s fallen to the bench and he’s over me. His body lays on top of mine and his lips give me no room for air, and I realize stupidly that I need none.

  Even in my First Life, I’ve never kissed so deeply.

  Our mouths part and he stares into me again, like some enraged lion pinning down its prey … against a park bench. I’m the prey, by the way. For one self-conscious moment, I wonder if my face is still intact.

  “Is this okay?” he asks quietly.

  I lift my eyebrows. Is he serious right now. “What?”

  “Am I hurting you at all?”

  I could say a hundred different things right now, make my usual Winterish jokes about being dead, but all I can manage to say is, “No. Not at all.”

  Just like a normal Living girl.

  Like his normal girlfriend.

  Then he finds my lips again, and if there’s anything I ever wanted in this vast pain-riddled second existence, it’s for those warm Human lips of his to never lose mine again. I feel so alive, and that’s without the help of—

  While kissing John, I’ve suddenly distracted myself with thoughts of Gill. Both Gills. The one who’s cruelty left me to die, and the one who’s blood left me to live. I’m inappropriately considering how different … how much more this experience would be if I’d had a taste of blood. Just a tiny little taste.

  Would I feel the warmth of his breath on my face?

  Would the rush of blood awaken my every nerve? His electric hands? His ravenous kissing?

  Would I be more alive than I ever was … when I was alive?

  He snorts and pulls away from me in an instant, his eyes bewildered, surprised, flashing. I stare up at him, confused at his reaction.

  “You bit me,” he mutters.

  Did I? “I didn’t even mean—” He’s brought a finger up to his lip, inspecting it. Did I seriously bite him? Did I hurt him at all? A rush of agony and remorse thunders through me. I shake my head, rattled. “John, I really didn’t mean to. I was just caught up in the … We were both so …”

  And I realize with equal parts dismay and amazement that—even with the tiny nibble I made of John’s lip—the sky appears faintly orange … still grey mostly, but the tiniest hint of color has invaded it. A ghostly sunset.

  Really? Is that all it takes?

  “It’s okay,” he insists quickly, even though he’s moved off of me now, even though our moment of passion is so abruptly ended.

  I murmur quietly, “It’s not okay. Biting means … it means something else in this world. But when I was alive, it was just …” I can’t even justify it, not when I can’t even trust my own intentions. What was I hoping to do, really? Draw a little blood? I can’t even be sure.

  “It’s okay,” he insists again, that stupid thing he keeps saying.

  I sit up. I can’t look at him. The eyes in the window of the store are back, and the moment I spot them, they go away. “I think we’re being watched,” I whisper.

  He looks up, his maybe-bite forgotten. He casts his gaze to the left, the right. “Where?”

  “That window, straight ahead.”

  His eyes focus. “We should head back. I’m not feeling comfortable here.” He rises from the bench, and I have to wonder sulkily if his comfort’s been broken by the eyes in the storefront, or by my little … love bite.

  Then suddenly he’s grabbed my hand and I’m on my feet. We’re holding hands again, and the sky is orange.

  I keep up, clinging to his side, ignoring the orange-grey sunset. “L-Let’s not appear too panicked,” I whisper.

  “Good thinking.” He lets go of my hand and puts his arm over my shoulder instead, pulling me in tightly as we walk. “This is better. Just a guy and a girl, huh?”

  Just hearing him say that, I feel like I could blush.

  Having returned, we push through the doors of the lobby. The creepy yellow-lipped desk clerk is absent, so we hastily move up the stairwell, returning to room 203 and quietly shutting the door behind us.


  He sits on the bed, staring ahead at the window. I just hover at the door, unsure whether I should stay, or find a little peace in my own room. I’m fairly sure our moment of passion has long gone and I’ve ruined everything.

  I’m turning to leave when he asks: “I thought you’re supposed to be taking Helena’s place at the Town Hall?”

  His question catches me by surprise. I come up to the foot of the bed. “Yes, but—well, basically the Chief said that I—” At this point, I feel pretty much awful lying to John. Especially since I can still see orange outside, the sun setting, a Human’s day ending. I should tell him the truth, though I struggle with figuring out which truth to tell him. “To be honest, the Chief … doesn’t know I’m here.”

  John twists around to look at me. From the look in his eye, he’s already assumed that much. He doesn’t know the full extent of my worries, however. No choice but to tell it all. I wring my hands, considering what to say next.

  “Go on,” he says cautiously.

  “There’s a … a very big fire,” I finish. “It’s enormous. And it is somewhere up here, in the north, and I don’t know what it is, and it’s been burning for weeks and hasn’t moved. The Chief knew about it, but—”

  “He told us.”

  Oh. “So … have you figured out what it is?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s helpful.” I move to the window, staring down dubiously at the street. A pair of men pass by, and one of them peers upward. For an eerie second, it feels like he’s looking right at me. “I don’t like this place.”

  “So you came here because of the fire?” he presses on.

  Really, John, the reason I’m here is because I couldn’t stand to be away from you for too long. How ridiculous is that? Separation anxiety, much?

  “Not just the fire,” I confess, facing him again. “I … I had a little situation with Benjamin. So I … I brought him along. He needed to get out of Trenton. Desperately. Megan saw us, followed part of the way, but she’s gone back home.” I feel sick that I can’t actually confirm that. For all I know, she’s lost in the wilderness between here and Trenton, hugging her knees and crying.

  “And?” He’s sensing there’s more, clearly.

  “Well, I guess I was worried about … you. I have trust issues. I don’t know these After’s Hold people. I don’t—I don’t trust Gunner.” I press my lips together. “Megan told me some things about him. To be fair, the first time I met him he tried to kill me.”

  “If it makes you feel better, I don’t like the kid either. I think he’s cocky, I think he’s immature, I think he’s got problems, but so do I. I’d trust that kid with my life. He’ll put an arrow through anything that tries to harm me, or you. He’s changed since he’s been in Trenton. We need a chance to kill our demons, Winter.” His eyes detach from mine, his last words hitting him. “We need a chance.”

  I think suddenly of Claire. “You’re right.”

  Unexpectedly, he grabs my hand again and pulls me up close to him. I’m surprised (and thankful) that my left hand hasn’t come off yet, with all the yanking. He brings me closer, even though I’m close enough, and suddenly I’m on his lap and the bedsprings are moaning in protest.

  “Everyone deserves another chance,” he whispers into my face. His Living breath tickles my nose, dusts my cheek like a gentle spread of fingertips. His eyes pour with longing, smoldering me. “Everyone.”

  Is this his way of saying I’m forgiven for trying to sorta-eat his sexy lips?

  “Agreed,” I murmur back.

  His face crashes into mine, the world somersaults, and for the next long while, I can’t remember where we are or who I am. I’m just a girl in his arms, and he’s just the boy I’m kissing.

  He pulls away from my lips only long enough to toss his shirt aside. I kick off my stupid shoes and we’re lost in each other’s faces again. Would Claire have been so bold? I guess the best and very worst part about remembering your First Life is realizing how reckless dying has made you. I can do anything I want now. I can be anything. I can have anything. Even him.

  Maybe this is better than living. I don’t care anymore. Whether it’s Claire or Winter who kisses John with such passion, I don’t care at all.

  In this moment, I’m alive no matter what I am.

  Later, when John sleeps, I find myself once again trapped in his arms. It’s the only place I ever want to be trapped for the rest of my Second Life. I grin stupidly and I close my eyes and pretend to dream. Yes, yes, Pretender no more, but I’ll pretend tonight. I dream about another life … a Third Life. John and I are together. We have a backyard and a swing set. We have children, and they grow up in a world without worries. They laugh and they breathe the air and they never want for food. They have a cute pet puppy and they don’t mind that it isn’t the one from the magazine. They grow up happy.

  When I open my eyes again, a haze of angry colors fills the window.

  I bolt up.

  “What is it?” John asks, awakened instantly.

  I race to the window, but no one and nothing’s in the street. Only a vague, multi-colored wash, like a fog or a sheen of mist. “I don’t know,” I say, confused. “Stay here. I’m heading out to see what it is.”

  I quickly make for the door, but … “John, it’s locked.”

  “That’s good,” he grunts, rubbing his eyes with a fist. “I didn’t think they even locked.”

  “Locked from the outside,” I stress, panicked.

  Suddenly, there’s a lot of noise outside the door. I step back, alarmed. It sounds like many feet. Heavy feet.

  Armored feet. I spin around and urgently whisper: “John, go! Go!! Hide!! Run!!”

  It’s too late. The door swings opens and I’m blinded by fire. I try to defend myself, but suddenly I’m pinned to the wall by a man engulfed in flames. “Get off me!” I throw a knee into him. I fight his grip, but nothing frees me. This is a dead man in flames, and many more are pouring into the room. I can’t even see where John is. I start screaming out for him, horrified, imagining that he’s being burned alive. “Stop!!” I scream, even though I have no idea what they’re doing because I can’t see beyond this man-on-fire in front of me. “Let him go!!”

  Suddenly the colorful flame-men begin to move like a strange, bright liquid structure, and I’m swept out of the room. I catch one brief, horrible glance at Jasmine, who is being similarly abducted by fiery men. I yell something at her, but only seconds later I find myself helplessly forced down the stairwell and through the hotel lobby.

  The yellow-lipped desk clerk makes no effort to help, only watching calmly as I’m dragged away.

  The city streets are a blur of color and madness. I’m thrashing my feet, stabbing anything I can with my expert heels and screaming so loudly, I’m certain I’ve broken my throat in half by now. No one comes to my aid. The men have me by the feet and arms and neck, half-dragging me, half-carrying me down the streets of After’s Hold.

  I beseech the sky, only to find I’ve become dead again.

  “John!” I scream out at the ever-grey nothing above, begging for his life. “Jasmine! Helena! Benjamin!”

  The men carry me through a set of doors, and I listen to their heavy feet marching up another flight of stairs, their every step like a hammer of sound through my bones. I have not made this easy for them, still fighting against their grip to no avail. I think my clothes have caught fire. I don’t care about my condition, what I look like, if they’re carrying a naked woman up a staircase, it doesn’t matter. I feel nothing but terror and I have no thoughts except John.

  After ascending what feels like six thousand steps, suddenly I’m dropped to the floor. Without missing a second, I jump to my feet and race for the wall of the room where I find a picture hanging of a bowl full of kittens. I throw a fist into the glass, grab one of the shards it creates, and brandish it for my weapon. “Get away from me!” I’m terrified to the point of hysteria. My eyes don’t know where to look—so
much color, so much fire.

  With my back to the wall, glass shards at my feet, the longest in my hand, the raging flames of the room dance hypnotically. They’re each a person … each flame is a man or a woman embraced with fire. An Army Of Fire.

  One flame stands out from the rest … a green flame. He is shrouded in a heavy cloak, a hood that swallows the whole of his head. The green flame takes only two steps in my direction, then mutters a single word: “Drop.”

  The flame-people drop to their knees, obeying.

  And the green one lifts his burning hood. A pale and handsome face shines through the fire, and I see within it a single, shimmering green stone … his eye.

  C H A P T E R – E I G H T

  G R I M

  “Hello, Winter.”

  You know. Like he’s just visiting the neighborhood, checking up or something.

  Seeing as Grimsky and I know one another quite well, I suppress all the complex, knotted feelings that just made a quick home of my belly and blurt out: “Please don’t hurt the others, Grim. You know some of them. Just let them be, please. If I mean anything to you at all, please …”

  “Alright.”

  I wrinkle my face. That easy? I glance over the room, surveying the ten or twenty men and women that simply stand there, like it’s perfectly normal to let a fire rage around you all the days and nights long. “What’s with all of the …? Who are all of these …?” I can’t even finish a sentence, for as dumbstruck as I am.

  “My friends.”

  Okay. “Can you make your—friends—leave?” I eye them with contempt. “I’d rather speak with you alone.”

  “I can make them do whatever I want.” He sounds almost proud, except for the lazy, almost bored drawl of his voice. “Out, please.”

  The flames, as if robots that have just received some kind of signal, uniformly move out of the room.

  Suddenly I find myself twice as terrified as I was with them in the room. “Grim … if they even touch one of the Humans, they’ll burn them alive. Please tell me they—Have they already—?” I’ve struck myself silent, horrified.