Dead Of Winter (The Beautiful Dead Book 2) (8 page)

When I push open the door, I find him on the couch.

“It’s a
fine
day to be dead,” he corrects me sleepily.

“So you remember.” I can’t help but smile.

“How could I forget? And, I regret to say, it is
not
summer yet. Rather, much the opposite. Alcohol helps. Warm, now. Nearly sweaty.” He’s holding a half-empty bottle on his thigh, I notice. “I hear it’s Jazz’s birthday.”

“So-called,” I say, nodding. “You’re drinking?”

“They managed enough fruit and sugar last month. I was taught all this stuff about fermentation and … and dead yeast or something by a dead guy named Ben. It’s nice to see
some
of us working with Undead to keep the brewery alive. Lucky me.” He toasts, winks, then swigs.

“Lucky you,” I agree. “Bottling beer … or wine, or whatever that is.”

He swallows, rests the bottle back on his thigh. “I’m not sure what it is either. Tastes horrible. You want to go over to Jazz’s? I kinda waited for you.”

I feel a genuine rush of surprise within me. I didn’t realize John was feeling so social. Or that he’d care enough to wait for me. “Sure.” I smile. “Let me just … Let me freshen up.”

“Looks like you had an accident.”

“Oh.” I make a careless swipe of my hands on my soil-stained dress. “Just took a little fall. No one got hurt. Unless you count the flowers.”

“The what?”

“I’m gonna change.” I move to the bedroom and open the little closet, flipping through the various outfits I’ve collected. It’s been a regrettably long and lazy time since I’ve done laundry. John will often take it upon himself to wash our clothes. He used to do it back when he was less of a guest and more of a prisoner in this house. I guess he was so bored back then, washing and hanging our clothes to dry in the bathroom was a welcome break from the monotony of hiding-for-his-life all day long.

I coax each foot into a long black boot and negotiate my hair into a white bird’s nest resting on my shoulders, then pull a silken thing the color of sapphires with blue-white wintry sleeves from the closet. It looks more like an ice witch costume than a dress, but Jasmine made it for me using a machine at Hilda’s shop—poor Hilda—and I figure it’d be a kind gesture to wear it to her party. Even if I look half a zombie princess.

“Ready?” I ask John, making for the door.

I don’t hear his response, but suddenly the bottle he was nursing is forgotten and he’s following me.

The crowd outside is oblivious to us. Every grouping seems caught in the middle of telling some hilarious joke or riveting story, no one paying mind.

Just as I’m pushing open the front door, a man on the porch grabs my arm, his voice wiggling with excitement, and he shouts, “I saw it, I saw it, the glow in the sky!”

“The what?”

“The glow! It isn’t a winter’s on its way, no, it’s a
fire!
The forests are burning and we’re next, we’re next!”

“Say what?”

And then Jasmine’s come between us, her wise eyes flashing. “Don’t mind the crazy Living on my porch. Even the other Humans pay him no mind.” She leans in and whispers, “
I didn’t invite him.
Come inside!”

“Thanks,” I say, despite the crazy man’s continued pleading and imploring. “A fire, he was saying?” I ask to Jasmine when she’s shut the door behind us.

“My rabbit, you’re wearing the thing I made you!” She slaps a hand to her cheek, overjoyed for a moment. She doesn’t seem to know what to say. “You look … oh, who am I kidding? It’s not Halloween and you look ready to stir a cauldron full of children. I’m sorry.”

“I think it’s sexy,” I remark anyway, “in that, y’know, zombie princess sort of way.”

“Oh!” She laughs, puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Please, rabbit … don’t use that sort of language. There’s Humans around and you’ll give them a fright. Oh, look who’s here!”

I turn to find Marigold standing there. She looks no less cheery than when I last saw her, wearing a proud necklace that looks made of toes.

“Are we
sure
it’s not Halloween?” I ask tentatively.

“Good evening, John and Winter!” cries Marigold, her chin jiggling and her eyes glowing from the yellow makeup with which she’s decorated them. “I hear you three are due to set out on quite an adventure on the morrow! Such a shame I can’t join you. I’ve been ever so bored. Oh, that reminds me! In addition to my arm, I’ve made a project of my legs. The bones are made of steel now and the left one can fold out into a makeshift sword and emergency nail file. I’m calling it my
Legsword!
Or my Legfile, I haven’t decided. I’m still waiting on a response from the patent office. Just kidding, those don’t exist! Wanna see??”

She’s already hiking her dress halfway up her knees when I quickly grab her hands to stop her. “No, no, thank you, Marigold, thank you. Maybe you can, uh, pop your legs off for us another time, yeah?” I suggest.

She shrugs, seeming only slightly disappointed. “So boring with no new Raises,” she complains. “I
really
wanted to try attaching functional fingers to my forehead. You know, just for fun!” She picks at her nails excitedly.

“No new Raises?” The question comes from Jasmine, her eyebrows screwing together. “What do you mean?”

Oops. “She just means … most of the Raises we’ve had didn’t need much Upkeep, surprisingly. We haven’t even been taking most of them to the Refinery. So they’ve had a lot less work to do, poor Roxie, poor Marigold.” I study her face, hoping the explanation seems sound.

“Interesting,” murmurs Jasmine, and I realize with mounting worry that she, unlike Marigold, is not easily fooled. Guilt floods my body in an instant. For all the times that she assisted me when I was in need, it feels so wrong to repay her in lies. But it’s for her own good.

I think.

John nudges my back, then puts his mouth at my ear. “Winter, we got problems.”

I turn. “What?” He points, and I follow his finger to the corner of the room. One of the first Undead I ever befriended, the teenager by the name of Ann who makes a hobby of pulling off her own head, is chatting with a
Living
teenage boy. Or flirting, judging by the close proximity of their bodies. The boy isn’t even that handsome—gangly and pale and awkward, a flat cap of dark hair atop his odd-shaped head.

“Please,” I mutter to John. “Please don’t make me separate them like creepy chaperone mommy. Don’t turn me into creepy chaperone mommy.” Does
everything
in my Second Life have to remind me of prom?

“I won’t,” he promises, his voice tickling my ear. At least I like to think it tickles my ear. “Just … the problem won’t fix itself. Also, I think I’m drunk.”

“You’re so helpful.” Regardless of how much I don’t want to interfere, I realize that Ann, no matter what her fake hormones tell her, is
not
helping the city’s Human-Undead cohabitation problem. “What do we do?”

“We drink until it doesn’t bother us anymore,” he slurs into my ear, then is gone.

I turn, discover John’s disappeared into the house somewhere—or out of the house, I was too slow in turning around to catch him. When I bring my gaze back to Jasmine, she’s in conversation with Marigold.

“So, tell me.” I decide to play into their conversation, smiling tightly. “How old do you reckon you are now?”

Jasmine ponders for a moment, then says, “You know, I haven’t decided how old I want to turn. Let me get back to you on that.” She winks, then returns to discussing forehead-fingers with Marigold.

The rest of the room is full of conversation and clinking glasses and laughter. I’m lost among it for a while until I catch sight of an Undead couple in the kitchen. With surprise, I realize the one leaning against the sink is Benjamin, a young Undead I met in the confines of the Necropolis. He’d tried to escape and had his legs taken from him. The details were lost on me, but somehow he was brought by the Deathless to storm Trenton, then ended up fighting for the wrong side:
our
side. I wonder if he’s the same Ben that helped John at the brewery.

Now he’s met a lady-friend. How sweet. He laughs loudly at something she says, then kisses her cheek. She says something back, and he laughs twice as loud.

It’s very sweet and everything, but I realize I’m not watching it with fondness; a tension has crossed my face.

I had daydreamed once or twice what a life with John might be like, were I a Human. Even now, I try to picture entering a fancy restaurant with him, hooked to his arm. We’d take our seat at the table. “You look lovely today, Claire,” he’d say. Claire, that was my name when I was alive. “Thanks,” I’d tell him, blushing lightly, then I’d ask a question or two about the menu to the server. The candles at our table would appear like totally-regular, boring flames … as opposed to the wild, hyper-colored rainbow that my Undead eyes interpret when they see fire. For this one candlelit dinner, I’d be normal. I would feel the ache of hunger in my belly, and when the food at last arrived, I would smell it, salivating, and bask in the steam that issued off my plate.

And I would taste it. And I would taste it again.

It’s about right here in my daydream that I’d realize it could never happen. I’d be eating with John in the dream, and he’d tell a joke. I’d laugh so hard, my eyeball pops out. “Oh!” I’d shout, embarrassed, fishing it out of my salad. “Sorry, sorry.” I’d still be searching for my eyeball.

I never know how the daydream ends, because as soon as I’ve ruined our imaginary date with the runaway eyeball, I’m pretty much over it.

Before I know it, I’m glaring hotly. Make-believe hairs are prickling up my neck and my fingers are curling up into fists. Maybe it’s watching Benjamin and his lady, or that stupid dirty fork I’ve just noticed sitting in the sink that’s made me so angry suddenly. That stupid dirty fork is making me think about fishing an eyeball out of a salad, and that’s really all the fuel I need.

“Excuse me,” I say, pushing through the crowd. “Sorry, pardon.” I gently ease between two excitedly chatting Undead, slide against the dining room wall, then reach my destination at the corner of the room.

Ann turns two half-opened amber eyes to me. Her husky, deadpan voice forms a few words: “What is it?”

Here we go. Activate creepy chaperone mommy. “I need to speak with you.” I regard the Human boy with a too-tight smile and a nod. “It’ll just take a minute.”

“I’m busy.” She doesn’t even bother to wear scarves anymore to cover the scar across her neck. “You mind?”

“Yes. I mind.”

She studies my face for a good, hard moment. Then her eyes seem to lighten and she turns back to the boy. “Hey, Jim. You haven’t met Winter officially, have you?” The boy shakes his head. “This chick here’s the one who saved all of Trenton.”

“Oh?” The boy, Jim, meets my eyes. “You’re
that
Winter?”

There’s more than one? “Yes. Though I wouldn’t say I’ve ‘saved’ all of Trenton. It’s more—”

“Don’t be modest,” says Ann, patting me on the arm. I’m not sure how to take her sudden change of mood. “She’s why you’re alive, Jim.”

Jim smiles almost shyly. “Thanks, Winter. My mom’s said a lot about you. She said you could raise a sword and, like, the bad Crypters would just run away.”

The rumors in this city are driving me crazy. “No, it doesn’t work like that, exactly …”

“She said you had these green eyes that glow,” Jim goes on, languid and wistful, “and like, you could kill any other Crypter just by blinking.”

“No, that’s a
Warlock
,” I correct him. “Or a Lock, if you prefer the shorter term, but they’re horrible. I’ve only known one and he tried to kill me every time we met.”

Jim grins, showing all his stupid teeth. “I wanna be a Lock.”

“Good luck with that. The last one had a sword put through his face.” I give a nod at our guest of honor, somewhere across the room. “By Jasmine, in fact.”

Ann gives me a look. I know that look. “You can’t scare Jim. He’s already seen me without my head.”

“So cool,” he moans. “Tried pulling mine off, but—”

“Wouldn’t recommend it,” I retort. “Ann, please.”

She puts a hand to the side of her face, shielding the words she mouths:
This guy. Oh my god. So cute. Go away.

I half-cover mine:
No. We need to talk. He’s not that cute.

Her eyes grow double:
He’s
so
cute. You are totally cock-blocking me. Please go away. We can talk later.

I glare:
There may not
be
a later.

She punches every silent word:
It is a birthday party. His parents are terrified of me. This is the first time I’ve gotten him alone in two and a half weeks. I am a kitten’s toe bag.