Dead Of Winter (The Beautiful Dead Book 2) (9 page)

I actually have no idea what that last sentence was; I’m not a professional lip-reader. “Say what?”

She repeats herself:
I. Want. The. Kitten’s. Toe. Bag.

Seriously. No idea at all.

“CAKE TIME!!” cries a voice, scaring all the dead out of me. I turn to find Jasmine surrounded by a ring of friends, with Marigold presenting a large colorful cake. The candles are already lit and the few Humans in the room regard the boring little flames while all of us Undead see a ripple of mesmerizing rainbow fingers dancing along the walls. The band, which I see consisted of two drummers, an Undead guitarist with exposed skeleton fingertips, and two bald lady singers with long fluffy eyelashes, breaks into a creepy rendition of Happy Birthday.

“How do you people eat cake?” I hear Jim ask from behind me, his voice full of wonder.

“We just do,” Ann answers evasively.

“But where’s it go?” He doesn’t easily hide the equal parts fascination and disgust in his voice.

Gloomily, I reply: “I asked that same question when I was a new Undead. I didn’t like the answer very much.”

“So, like … where?”

“You won’t like the answer any more than I did.”

My important chat with Headless-Horny-Ann will have to wait. I move through the crowd, passing by Marigold who quickly warns a Human against eating the cake, as it’s not actually edible. For another Human, it was sadly too late a warning, and they spit a mouthful of wax—or whatever it is—back onto their plate, gagging. Somewhere in the mess of cheers and cake serving, the birthday songs are unfortunately resurrected.

The singing that follows becomes so loud, I’m forced to move out of the backdoor of the house, finding some semblance of quiet in the backyard. I see the garden Jasmine tends. It’s a sad spread of vegetables. I couldn’t identify any of them; they all look like leaves and vines and bushels of grass, only some of them here and there bearing anything with a color other than green. The sight of the little plants struggling to grow is heartrending; the poor things look so starved, so agonized, so near to giving up. I’ve heard the plants she grows in the greenhouse are far better off, hopefully far more than these here.

If I were a plant in this world, I would’ve given up the moment a person dropped my seed into the foul stuff we call soil. But these plants are helping the Humans live, I must remember. Even these sad, wrinkly things.

The door flips open, and Benjamin’s beady eyes find mine. He grins upon seeing me. “Hey, hey, hey. Long time, Wild Winter.”

“Hey there, Bonkers Benny.” He giggles, coming up for a meek side-hug. “How’re you liking your legs?”

“I make sure to jog every morning, just to show my appreciation.” He slaps each of his thighs. “Solid things, they are. Good joggers. I tell it’s morning by when all my Human neighbors are up and about. They’re like a clock, really, if you just pay attention.”

“Never thought of it that way.” I smile, appreciating his company suddenly. “Sorry I’m out here. Not really
feeling
the party in there. Too much of a crowd.”

“Yeah. Even us dead can get sick of too much dead.”

A question suddenly occurs to me. “You aren’t a native of Trenton. You told me that once. Are you by chance from somewhere called After’s Hold?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. All my comrades were travelers. Nomads. We coalesced over time, our numbers grew, and before we knew it we were thirty strong. Each of us was someone else’s First Hand, which is really incredible, if you think about it. The kind of bond we shared … We were brothers and sisters, all of us. Mothers and fathers. Half of us had learned our False Self, though I wasn’t among the lucky. Still haven’t had my—what do you Trenton peeps call it?—my
Waking Dream
.”

His story heals me. Impossibly, unexplainably. I can’t stop smiling, imagining it. Like Undead Gypsies. “So the thirty of you just … traveled about? Roamed the woods?” All this time, I’d assumed Benjamin was from a strange skeleton city akin to Trenton, much like I imagine After’s Hold will be. I wonder if it’s too late to beg Helena to let me stay. “The Second Life you’ve had sounds … so
free
.”

“Yes. So imagine my horror when my First Hand and I were captured by the Deathless. His name is … was Brandon.” His gaze drops to the garden, thoughts holding him hostage. He was made to witness his First Hand Brandon’s demise, if I remember correctly. It was a cruel practice of the Deathless. “Anyway.” He pulls himself out of it. “I’m still looking forward to learning my False Self. I want to know what my name was, most of all. Hey, we kept our promise, didn’t we? We survived long enough to hopefully soon learn our False Selves. We’re still alive.”

“Not technically,” I point out, and we both crack up, finding the joke way funnier than it is.

The backdoor swings open and Marigold emerges with two tiny plates, a slice of cake slapped onto either one. “They taste like sugar wonderlands, these adorable delicacies!” She shoves a plate into Ben’s hand, the other into mine. “Don’t be shy, you two.”

Knowing the cake is likely made of wax or clay and will simply drop into my belly and sit there for all eternity until it’s somehow removed, I politely hand my plate back to her. “Why don’t you eat a sweet little slice in my stead, Mari? I’m … ah … trying to watch my figure.”

She giggles, her eyes squeezing halfway into her nose. “Yes, yes, cute thing like you! Of course. I’m so
excited
with all the Upkeep I’ll get to do after this party!”

She’s undoubtedly referring to all the cake she’ll have to remove from Undead bellies tomorrow. Marigold never ceases to amaze me with the grotesque things she finds “fun” and “exciting”.

Ben, far less reluctant than I, grabs the fork from his plate and joyfully helps himself to a bite.

Then all the happy leaves my face.

“Oh my,” Marigold exclaims in half a gasp, the happy vanishing from hers as well and instantly being replaced with horror; not an expression she often shows. “Oh …!”

Ben belatedly yelps out in pain. The plate and fork drop to the ground. The pretty cake splatters everywhere. His mouth full of frosting, dribbled up his chin … he stares at his trembling hand in total bafflement.

Steam rises off his palm, right where he held the fork.

“Benjamin?” I manage to say, still staring. Asking a question with the one word … with his name. I’m dead and my bowels don’t function and yet I have a sudden urge to be sick, and I ask again: “B-Benjamin?”

“What’s happened?” he asks no one in particular, gawking at his hand, shaking, terrified.

“The f-fork …” I stammer. “It’s … It’s …”

“Made of steel,” he finishes.

And the Undead can’t cry, but when he lifts his gaze to mine, he looks on the verge of a million tears that will never, ever meet his face. We’re both thinking the same awful thing, and we’re both confused by the same awful fact. He is not Deathless. But why, then …?

“This is not a good thing,” Marigold decides, takes a bite of cake, chews, swallows, then repeats, “This is not a good thing at all.” Her rattled eyes never leave Benjamin.

“I’m not Deathless,” he announces very suddenly.

I nod at once. “I know.”

“I’m not.”

“We …” I look at Marigold, beseeching her. “We can’t let anyone know what just happened. We can’t tell anyone about this. No one.” She takes another bite of her cake, nods slowly, then swallows. “This … Benjamin, listen to me. This is just some strange—some very, very strange—and random occurrence, and … and …”

“Yes,” he agrees, clinging to my every word. The steam is still rising off his palm like a freshly put-out fire and we’re all pretending to ignore it. None of us are ignoring it.

“So, um …” He wants me to say more and I have no idea what to say. “Just, um … Listen, Ben, just don’t touch anything—metallic—for a while and … and we’ll figure this out. Don’t tell anyone. Neither of you.”

Marigold nods again, but she’s the real one I’m worried about. The dear thing is so flaky, so scattered, I can’t be confident she’ll keep it a secret at all. I wouldn’t put it past her to accidentally spill the gossip in some bubbly wave of excitement, blabbering on at her next Upkeep appointment, cheerily pouring her every thought into someone’s wide-open paunch full of cake and pastry.

“Say it aloud, please.”

“Hmm?” Marigold’s mouth is full. She shoves another forkful of colors through her lips. I think in her stupor, she’s forgotten how to chew and swallow.

“Mari, please. Say it out loud. Assure us that you’ll keep this a secret.”

She says it out loud, though through all the wax in her mouth, every word is a guess.

Benjamin hasn’t moved an inch since dropping his slice on the ground, literally; he’s turned to stone. I make a very brave and important gesture, bringing my hands over his, covering the steam and clasping them. “We’re going to be okay. We’ll figure out what’s happened.”

“Okay.” He nods finally.

“Yes, okay, good.” I pat his cheek reassuringly. “Let’s go inside, alright? Marigold, can you take him in?”

“Yes!” she exclaims suddenly, reviving. “Come, Ben! They’ve started
dancing!
Do you know how to dance?”

The two of them vanish into the house. I don’t follow.

The night swallows me up, though it’s just like day. I move through the yard, careful not to tread over any precious vegetables. When I come around the house, I’m met by a sight for which I was not prepared: Ann and the boy Jim leaning against the wall making out. It’s at this queer moment that I decipher what Ann was trying to mouth to me earlier, and it had nothing to do with wanting kittens’ toe bags. She was saying:
I want to kiss him so bad.
Clearly, mission accomplished.

Not wanting to disturb them and invite a fresh serving of embarrassment onto myself (and sweet Headless Ann), I move back into the house, cut through the party, and emerge out of the front door. The crazed old man who was hollering about fire earlier is collapsed on the porch, snoring. I delicately step over him, then descend the steps and saunter into town. No, I’m not ready for the dread silence of my home just yet. Neither do I care about relocating John at the party, wherever he’s gone; he can manage on his own now.

Feeling strangely unneeded and horribly burdened by too many things on my mind, I take advantage of the late hour by strolling down the empty, lifeless streets of Trenton. The Humans are all housed up or sleeping, and not a soul’s in sight to disturb me.

I start humming to myself, singing a little tune. My soft voice echoes off the walls of buildings, returning to me like little ghosts in the night. Maybe I can calm myself.

Even for the late hour, the swirling silver above me betrays the peace that a starry night sky ought to be supplying, so I just pretend there’s a hundred countless constellations watching me as I pass closed-for-the-night bakeries and marketplaces and trade shops.

I come to a stop in the Square, right at the foot of a great wooden stage. Sitting on its edge, I dangle my legs and stare at my imaginary constellations high above. In the morning, we depart for After’s Hold, but for now, I’m just Winter on a winter eve, fake-breathing in the night air and
not
recalling the horrors that occurred here. This is the stage on which I murdered the last Mayor. I beheaded him with a steel sword, the way you cut off the bruised end of a carrot stick. Whack.

I remember too well the sight of his neck steaming like a chimney. It haunts me, like Ben’s palm haunts me.

Only earlier today my Raise had said she could
feel
him … and I was certain she meant Grim. But what if she was feeling Benjamin?

Frustrated with the view, I hop off the stage and run across the empty Square. I climb atop a dumpster, then swing my legs over the low-hanging roof of a tool shop. Rushing across the loud, metal surface, I find a ladder leading even higher up. Climbing, climbing, I wonder if I could reach that silver sky. I’m mad like Mad Malory, high on desires and bubbling with thoughts and overwhelmed and dreamy, and I’m climbing so high that one slip of my foot could drop me to the cruel ground and shatter my every limb. Not that it matters, I’d survive. Even from the height of a cliff, I’d survive. I wonder if Mad Malory survived her fall.

I wonder … I wonder if Mad Malory survived.

But that thought is quickly abandoned when I find myself suddenly at the very top of the building. This high up, I can look over the Trenton city walls. Far into the distance, I see the tops of the leafless, creepy trees that hug our humble dwelling. Maybe if I strain my talented, Undead eyes, I can spot the Whispers, even from here.

Then I notice it. Fluttering in the sky some distance away. I gasp. With the silence of the area, my gasp is so loud, even in my own ears.

I
see
it … the
bird
.
The
freaking bird
. It’s so far away, I can’t tell what kind of bird it is. Flapping its wings, beating the dead air, it makes a large circle somewhere far, far off, circling the deadwood. “No, poor bird,” I say to the night air, “you won’t find a thing to peck on in there.”