Dead Of Winter (The Beautiful Dead Book 2) (3 page)

Not that the Humans mind. They have a place to live. Where once they were scared in the woods, settling in temporary camps to clutch at some semblance of a life, they now have a true home. They have
walls
. They have
ovens
and
kinda-running water
. Sure, it was odd at first for them to have Living-Dead neighbors; Humans aren’t used to meeting people whose heads can literally pull off and still talk. Several times already, Humans have run away screaming from some of us. To be fair, until now they thought all the Undead were flesh-eating monsters.

Since the Undead don’t sleep—well, that is, those of us who don’t bother with pretending to sleep—it’s kinda nice having a purpose for all the beds now.

I’m not one of those who pretends.

When I push through the doors of the pink and squatty Refinery, I find the infamous fake-flesh-mender busied with some activity at the counter. “Marigold?”

She turns around. Her plump and cheery form is draped in an apron as though she were caught baking a pan of cookies. But what one finds instead is a pan of fingers and toes in one hand, and what looks like—and what I pray isn’t—an unraveled intestine in the other.

“I’m interrupting,” I decide, turning away to leave.

“Hello, sweet Winter! Don’t mind my fingers; I’m only getting ready for our next Raise!” She grins excitedly, her eyes flashing and her hands—regrettably—squeezing, which inspires a most unpleasant squishy sound from the intestinal-whatever in her hand.

“No Raise today, I’m afraid.” I avoid her eyes, avoid the horrors in her grip, find myself staring enthusiastically at her knees. “I came here because my—”

“Your left hand again!” She mercifully stows the vile body parts into a cabinet somewhere and wipes her hands on her apron as she approaches. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were pulling it off deliberately, wicked girl!”

I do have a history with defiantly pulling off my own arms. I was a …
difficult
Raise. “No, Mari. It actually flew off this time. Promise.”

“Oh! Roxie, Stringer, Minnie! What have I told you?? Proper level-four-grade adhesive!” Of the three called out, only one emerges. “Roxie. Haven’t I said—?”

“Stringer and Minnie haven’t come in for weeks.” Roxie, a wiry Undead with the ever-rolling eyes of any can’t-be-bothered teenager, lifts her chin at me. I take that for a hello. “Just me. And we’re out of level-four.”

“W-Why haven’t they come in? The sad lazy pair a’ them!” Even Marigold’s criticism sounds cheery and full of morbid joy.

“We haven’t had a Raise since four Mondays ago. That’s why.”

Marigold stares at her as though the words had gone unheard. Then she asks, “What’s a Monday?”

Roxie flicks her eyes at me, her patience depleted, then takes up a coat and saunters out of the Refinery. I have an impulse to remind her that the Undead can’t feel the cold outside like the Living do and therefore need no jackets, but figure to keep my thoughts to myself. Ever since temperatures started dropping outside, several of the Undead “play along” and have been donning coats and pretending to shiver when the wind tickles their hair.

“A day of the week,” I explain kindly, approaching her with my severed hand dangling limp and awful. “That’s what a Monday is, though I suspect you already knew.”

Marigold’s eyes seem hundreds of miles away. Maybe even a lifetime away, though she’s claimed not to have had her Waking Dream yet, and therefore shouldn’t know a thing about her Old Life. “Monday … Really, who needs days of the week anyway?” Her voice is strangely despondent, aloof. “That’s a Living habit, keeping track of them.” She snaps out of it, giving me a wink. “Can’t be bothered! Let us have a look at your hand.”

Only minutes later, we’re seated at a manicure station and I’m watching with morbid fascination as she sews my left hand back on. She blabbers on about the latest town gossip. Apparently four Living women and a man in the Human’s quarter—which is what people are calling the part of town the Living occupy—have formed weekly gardening lessons for the young to show them how to grow and care for crops, limited as they are. The Undead aren’t allowed anywhere nearby, which is a good thing as plants tend to die when we touch them. In other news, there’s a lady in the third quarter, west end, who can sing beautifully. She can be found at the Square in the dead of any night, singing. She discovered this talent just a week ago when her Waking Dream found her, and she recalled two curious facts: she used to be a world-renowned singer when she lived … and she also murdered her husband. “You ought to give her a listen,” suggests Marigold, “but be prepared to cry! She did it with arsenic. I know you’re wondering. Ooh! Reminds me of
another
bit of gossip …”

It never stops with Marigold, as she goes on about the new owner of Hilda’s Singing Seamstress. I do miss Hilda and the beautiful red dress she made me once; pity the dress had to be impaled with a sword. Really, I’m happy Marigold hasn’t lost her everything-dead-loving spirit. May she always be filled with macabre glee.

Her and I … We’ve been through a lot together.

“No luck today?”

We both turn. The cool voice comes from the door where a pointy pale face watches, framed by jet black hair that curls dramatically at her chin. She is my Reaper, the person who brought me into this world: Helena.

“No luck,” I tell Helena, as if luck has anything to do with finding and reaping a living-dead person from the ground. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Her emotionless eyes move to Marigold and her work on my hand. She studies it awhile before speaking. “You need to bring John to the meeting in an hour.”

I’m taken aback. “There’s a meeting?”

“It’s what I said, isn’t it?” Helena, her face unreadable as ever, twists her mouth into something of a smirk before turning to leave. She loves and cares deeply for me, I promise. Don’t let the rude and hateful demeanor fool you; it’s just part of her charm. Besides, she’s the only person in existence who knows that I’ve had my Waking Dream … and what my real name is.

Well, my First Life real name. “I saw a bird,” I say to Helena’s back, hoping my words touch her.

She just stops at the door, turns half her face to me and says, “I’m coming to the next Raising. You
must
be doing it wrong. After all, you’ve a
history
…”

When the door closes behind her, I’m troubled by her last, hurtful words … because they’re true. The only Raise I’ve ever had is kept in a dungeon cell now where she chants the same cryptic thing over and over and tries to eat anyone who gets near her. Someone made a joke and now everyone calls her Brains.

I have mixed feelings about that.

“Hey, look here!” Marigold takes her forearm, gives it a twist, then pops it right off at the elbow. She jiggles it and I hear rattling inside. “I’ve filled it with fingernails! How delightful is that?? I’ve turned my arm into a purse!”

“Darling.” I blanch and try to appear impressed.

“I got the idea from
your
forearm,” she says, giving me a wink. “Want a fingernail?”

“Got ten of my own, but thanks very much.” I force a smile. My forearm is still missing a large heap of flesh, exposing the bones to the world—my ulna and radius, to be exact … as Doctor Collin so helpfully explained. The wound is sorta sentimental to me, and I’ve refused to get it fixed up. “Maybe next time.”

Marigold gives a gleeful grin and a chirp of agreement, then proceeds to finish sewing my hand on.

The streets are bustling and full of noise as I stroll down the long winding road that leads to the circles of tiny houses at the first quarter, west end of Trenton where my forever-home sits patiently. I’m feeling very apprehensive for a person without a central nervous system, but at least I can wiggle the fingers on my left hand again. A kiosk full of Undead gentlemen stop their conversation as I pass by. I wave casually. One of them grins and waves back, the others shamelessly ogling.

Still got it.

When I reach my sad little adorable house that has nothing short of dust and blight for a front lawn, I take a completely unnecessary deep breath, curl my fingers into a little fist, and knock on my own door.

“John?” I murmur cautiously.

No response. I slowly push it open, and it creaks so obnoxiously that I wince before peeking my head in.

“John?” I try again, a little louder. My house hasn’t made many improvements over the months since the Battle of the Deathless that nearly destroyed the city and ended all our existences—including John’s—but I’ve come to appreciate the minimalism. The blunt crooked table holds a single plate and fork, left there from some past meal. There’s a moth-nibbled couch across from it, but no Living rests on its stiff cushions. I read there sometimes.

John must be in the bedroom napping. Or ignoring me, I’ll take that too. I move down the very short hallway that bears a tiny bathroom on one side and a bedroom on the other. John installed doors finally, likely to grant
some
semblance of privacy, I imagine.

The bedroom door is shut. “John.” I tap my knuckles on the door. I’m being very, very patient. I don’t know what mood he’s in today, but I’ll treat him kindly no matter. He is, after all, my roomie, and several times he’s refused to live anywhere but here. He seems ever so miserable living with me; I have no idea why he still insists on staying. “John?”

I let my fingernails play along the door. I’m not going to get frustrated. I’m going to tap my nails instead.

“John, listen. The world sucks right now, I get it. The world sucks a lot. Humans get ill and we can’t treat them. People die. Some of the Undead are not the easiest to get along with, but at least you and I get along, don’t we?” I wait, hopeful, yearning. “Don’t we?”

He doesn’t respond. Just silence through the door.

“I care about you.” I close my eyes. I’m fed up with so many things. Why aren’t there any new Raises? Are we, the Undead, being punished? Why does the earth insist on killing so many seeds we plant, suffocating every tree we try to nurture to life …? Why was I given this Second Life, only to suffer incredible emotional duress, and then get paired by fate or otherwise with this beautiful Human with whom I can, in no way, coexist?

“I …” My hand slides down the door, coming to rest on the handle. “I know this fixes nothing, but … but sometimes I wish …” I can’t believe I’m about to tell him this. I’m desperate now. I need him to react. I need him to know. “I … wish I was alive. I wish I was alive because … I wouldn’t feel so disgusted at myself for feeling—
things
—when I’m near you. John, when I close my eyes, pretend I’m alive … I feel the heat in my cheeks, and … and the heat in my lips, and … and …”

What the hell am I doing?

What the freaky stupid hell am I doing?

“John, I need to come in. Screw it, I’m coming in.” I hope he’s at least dressed. I turn the knob and push open the door.

The bed is bare, unmade, and unoccupied.

“Who’re you talking to?”

I whip around, my white hair flipping over my face, and find the square-jawed, brawny shape of John standing at the front door I’d left ajar. His puppy brown eyes pierce me quizzically, a sack of food hanging from his fist.

“I’m …” I part my lips, shut them, part them. It slowly dawns on me that he might
not
have heard any of the idiocy that just poured out of my mouth. I feel a sick sense of relief. “I was looking for you, actually.”

“What do you want?” he asks.

The sack of food he holds must be a heavy one for the way his arm bulges. I’m a bit too distracted by this fact. “H-Helena is having a meeting in an hour, I’m guessing with the Chief. She wants you there as well.”

He frowns. “What’s that to do with me?”

“I don’t know, John. Ask Helena.” I feel myself taking a tone, so I pull back. “I was just passing along a message anyway. I don’t know why she—You shaved?”

He moves across the room to the tiny excuse for a kitchen we have, unceremoniously dropping the sack on the counter. “The stubble tickled.”

I’ve never seen him so clean-shaven. I’m shocked it wasn’t the first thing I noticed. I guess I was more preoccupied with whether or not he overheard my conversation. Y’know, the one I just had with a door.

“Looks nice,” I offer.

“Yeah, I don’t look a day over sixteen now, huh,” he jests, though there’s no humor in his voice.

“How old
are
you?” I ask suddenly, struck that I’d never thought to ask directly all this time.

Sorting some sad-looking vegetables into a bowl with a crack down the side, he doesn’t look at me when he answers. “Twenty-two.”

I gape. I was
certain
he was no younger than twenty-five. I blame the patches of facial hair and stubble he used to have. “Oh,” is all I can manage. I was nineteen when I died, but John doesn’t know that. In fact, he doesn’t even know I had my Waking Dream. No one does, except—