Between Death (#6.5): Dark Dystopian Paranormal Romance

by Blodgett, Tamara Rose

  “Why are you wiggling around so much?” Jasper asked, taking a swipe of the bright-green ice cream she loved, and a big stripe landed on the tip of her nose.

  “These damn denims… they're insufferable.”

  “Jeans,” Jasper corrected absently.

  Her pink tongue licked the frozen cream.

  And licked again.

  Without realizing it, he leaned forward and Jasper stilled, her hair falling forward like a black waterfall. Braids were not current in this sector so she'd been forced to relinquish her normal severity.

  He dabbed the paper he'd torn from the dispenser against her nose.

  “Oh,” was all she said, as high color bled across her face, staining it pink.

  Jeb stood in the middle of the awkward moment, throwing the brittle yet strangely sweet edible holder in the trash.

  He held the door open for Jasper and they walked out.

  “We have to return.”

  Her lack of enthusiasm forced a smile.

  “I know you want to explore, Jasper.”

  She faced him.

  “And you don't?” Pure accusation creeped through her tone.

  He nodded slowly as they continued toward the permanent marker. They were in the downtown part of the Kent Quadrant, walking through the region's idea of a historic district, though by Papilio standards, this region was in its infancy.

  It was late nineteenth century. True antiquity was Papilio, where everything aged like a fine wine. Modern advancement had not robbed his people of their history the way it had in Sector Three.

  Jasper stopped and cast her eyes to the ground, as he did. The cobblestones had been paved over with another hard substance, but chunks of missing pavement revealed bits of the original road like wounds of antiquity.

  Jeb caught site of the pedestal, built like a little sanctuary in a pocket of what remained of the original structures.

  Jeb took the locator out of his pocket and it hovered as soon as it was free. It floated to the marker that was an integral part of the wall, sinking into the custom niche.

  “Do you know who made these markers?” Jasper asked, looking at the sphere, three meters above their heads.

  Jeb shook his head. He knew only that the markers had been made many years before. Perhaps the marker they were using was a replacement. Coming after the old-growth trees in the rich valley bed they stood on had been felled.

  The markers were safest where the environment was unlikely to change much.

  Sounds came from down the narrow alleyway, and they tensed.

  It was not the casual sounds of human traffic but those of violence. Merrick fought the urge, which he’d had before, to put Jasper behind him.

  She was more than capable of fighting her own battles.

  A group of young thugs chased a lone man down the alley, straight toward Jeb and Jasper.

  At the same time, their eyes rose to the softly glowing sphere.

  Once in the cradle of the marker, the sphere would begin to degrade. They had a window of only minutes to jump. First, it would lose its reflection, then it would disintegrate to nothing. It was a clever invention.

  The Reflectives could not leave proof of their existence. This was another of the many directives that Reflectives maintained at all costs.

  “What… is this?” Jasper asked.

  The man running toward them was six feet tall, with hazel eyes and light-brown hair. It was highly stylized but not in a modern way. The rest of his clothing seemed out of sync with the era as well.

  Jasper covered her nose just as the smell hit him.

  The man smelled of rotting meat with a chaser of raw earth.

  Jasper coughed.

  “I do apologize,” the man said in a cultured voice, “but I'm rather pressed at present.”

  Jeb's eyes narrowed on the gang as they drew closer.

  Jasper backed away, slowly lowering her hand. “First third, twentieth century. Undead,” she identified quickly.

  Jeb was suddenly glad he had a foreign sector historian on his hands. He turned to her.

  “You mean?” he asked, indicating the polite rotting man.

  She nodded. “Why do you think I hated the cemetery idea?”

  The rotting man seemed insulted, even with the nefarious troupe bearing down on them.

  “I don't tarry about graveyards. I am a normal citizen.”

  Jeb thought that was somehow inaccurate.

  “What's the deal with them?” Jasper asked, jerking her head toward the violent knot of men.

  “They mean to beat me until I'm dead,” the zombie said.

  “You are dead,” Jasper pointed out.

  He lifted a shoulder of the wool overcoat he wore.

  “A technicality.”

  “Come ’ere, you fucking creeper,” the closest one said, reaching for the zombie.

  “First: Right the Wrong,” Jasper whispered.

  “Second: Bear no Injustice,” Jeb echoed as one of the men of Sector Three cracked the zombie in the shoulder with a solid piece of hickory.

  Jeb stepped forward, capturing the next swing in the palm of his hand. One of his fingers broke on impact with the smooth hardwood, which was worn from many beatings and stained rust-red with the blood of others.

  Jeb grit his teeth against the pain, though he had warred with more grievous injuries than this.

  “Jasper!” Jeb yelled.

  “I'm on it,” she grunted, kicking one man in the gut.

  “Allow me,” the zombie said. “I cannot abide violence against women.”

  He snapped his fist forward into the jaw of the one who had touched Jasper, though his other arm hung at an odd angle.

  The assailant fell like a box of rocks.

  “Bring it!” Beth screamed, and the pursuers stampeded.

  Jasper crouched low, plowing into the three men who remained as if she were a bowling ball and they, the pins.

  Jeb tossed the one who flanked their group into the wall of the building.

  He cracked the skull of the other while the zombie landed on the tossed assailant.

  He fell after a sound punch in the face.

  “Stay as you lie, vagrant,” the zombie commanded with quiet menace.

  The last one had Jasper by the throat, pressed tight against the brick wall.

  Jeb kicked the male between the legs from behind in a cupped strike of toes. It was an effective hook to the crotch.

  His angle had been awkward but effective.

  The zombie hissed his empathy from behind as the man slid down to the ground on his side in a fetal position.

  Jasper slapped her hands against the building for balance. Her eyes found Jeb's.

  The Reflectives’ gazes rose to the sphere.

  It had lost its luster. They momentarily ignored the undead man they'd saved.

  “Can you jump?” Jeb asked as Jasper struggled to draw air through her abused throat.

  Jasper came away from the wall as late-afternoon sunlight streamed between the two buildings like a spear.

  She stared at the locator.

  Nothing reflective remained.

  She shook her head.

  Jeb swore under his breath. His finger was a crooked flag on his hand. Swelling as he observed the broken digit.

  He glanced at Jasper. “Can you set this? It'll heal this way.”

  “I can,” the zombie said.

  He extended his hand.

  “I am Clyde.”

  Jeb stepped over one of the beaten men and took the proffered palm. He noticed the gray tinge of the skin; some of it was sloughing off like shed snake skin.

  Jeb shook it with his good one, keeping his repulsion under lock and key for the moment.

  “Jeb Merrick.” He indicated Jasper with his chin. “This is my associate, Beth Jasper.”

  Clyde inclined his head.

  “How is it you know medicine? Are you a healer?”

  “Merrick,” Jasper warned.

  His
eyes flicked to hers.

  “A doctor?” he corrected.

  Clyde's lips twitched.

  The interior of his mouth was black.

  “No, but I did a turn or two with boxing during Prohibition times. I might understand the mechanics of fixing a break.”

  Jasper put her leather reticule between Jeb's teeth as Clyde straightened the joint.

  Jeb did not scream, thought the marks of his teeth remained in the soft leather.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Just let it out, Merrick,” Beth said, disgusted by his pinched white face.

  Males.

  “No,” Merrick said through clenched teeth.

  “Okay—whatever.”

  Clyde straightened.

  “There. It is not a perfect set, but it is what I could manage because of prior breaks.” Clyde lifted an eyebrow, and a little glob of skin rolled from a decomposing tear of flesh and plopped to the ground with a dull splat.

  Beth could hear the dry click of her throat as she swallowed. Disgusting.

  She had always prided herself on not being squeamish. Beth had never expected to have prejudices like others held against her.

  However, the zombie was another thing entirely. He was absolutely awful, and he seemed to be worsening as she watched.

  Beth was well versed in all the sectors the Reflectives maintained. Sector Three was known for the teen and young adults who possessed many different paranormal skills—which the Reflectives did not have. The Reflective lifespan was unprecedented in other sectors, yet they could not read minds or shift things without touch. And the dead of Papilio stayed dead.

  In Sector Three, a handful of individuals could excavate the dead, like mining for rotting jewels. Papiliones referred to these Sector Three inhabitants as animators a mortuis.

  Beth thought the loose translation in English would be death animators. But that was the difficulty with the new language that had been cultivated so pervasively across the other sectors—it was splintered and difficult to translate. In this case, it was close enough.

  Too close for comfort.

  “Thank you,” Merrick said.

  “You are most welcome. However, it is I that is in your debt.”

  “Clyde!”

  Merrick and Beth whipped around to the sound of a commanding female voice, which sounded relieved.

  Oh no… Sector Three police.

  However, the zombie—Clyde, seemed to be greatly pleased to see her.

  “I'm here, dear heart.”

  He smiled, and Beth retreated a step.

  Principle, his teeth were awful… and the smell.

  Merrick and Beth instinctively moved away, but remained flanking Clyde.

  They had not just assisted him, to then hand him over to a new and unknown threat.

  Beth thought the female officer appeared equal in size to her.

  Of course, that meant nothing. Beth knew she could go toe-to-toe with five Sector Three males and come out the victor. Perhaps this Three female was similar?

  “Clyde,” the female's eyes tracked them like a hawk, and Beth gave Merrick an uneasy glance as she absently stroked the weapon at her hip.

  “Roberta,” he replied.

  Her eyes swept them and Clyde, “Who are these bozos?”

  “Like clowns?” Merrick frowned.

  “No,” Beth responded. “It's meant as a disparagement.”

  Roberta stared.

  “Okay, who the grand fuck are these two, Clyde?”

  Clyde frowned. “You know my stance on coarse language, Roberta.”

  She bobbed her head. “I gotcha, lover, but it's 2030, not 1930… you've gotta buck up, baby.”

  Oh, dear Principle… they’re—together?

  Merrick gave Beth the look of horror she was feeling.

  Roberta took Clyde's hand.

  “Can we trust these two? Because I'm getting a weird-ass vibe, especially from the tall dude there.”

  “It is fine, sweetheart. They came to my aid when the ruffian bunch of scallywags tried to give me a taste of hickory.”

  “I'm so sorry, baby.” Roberta’s right hand left her weapon to caress his rotting flesh.

  At Roberta’s touch, Clyde’s skin knitted together like fabric, becoming fuller, tighter, and smoother.

  Color bloomed on his cheeks, spreading and giving ruddy life to every piece of visible flesh.

  Beth's eyes snapped to Roberta.

  “What are you?”

  “Okay, what is your story? You should know what I am instantly.” Her eyes narrowed on Beth then went to Merrick. “Look at how fine my man is now,” she purred.

  Beth shuddered.

  It didn't matter that Clyde seemed as alive as she. Beth remembered the smell, the taut gray skin that lay stretched like badly pulled canvas across the high cheekbones of his face.

  In Roberta’s presence, Clyde was handsome, virile, and very much alive. He no longer smelled of the horrible rot that had hung in the air as they’d fought his attackers. His hair had filled in and was a true, light chestnut. His eyes were a perfect cross between moss green and brown.

  The sockets were no longer shriveled. The whites of his eyes were flush in the pocket of healthy flesh that held them.

  “What magic is this?” Merrick whispered, well and truly shaken.

  Beth couldn't blame him.

  “Let us not push our questions…” Clyde said.

  Beth could see expression in his eyes because they were now fully formed. He knew there was something different about them.

  They would have to be careful in this sector, where the random young person could know their thoughts through touch and where the dead walk.

  In their presence, Beth thought then landed on the answer.

  “Affinity for the Dead,” Beth blurted.

  Merrick turned to her.

  “Of course,” he said, nodding.

  “Wow, give the girl a prize!” Roberta rolled her eyes. “Who else could make a corpse stay alive?” She gave them a critical look. “I guess you two are okay, if a little slow up top.” She tapped her head, and Merrick frowned.

  Beth had forgotten how rude Sector Three people could be.

  One of the men lying on the ground groaned.

  Roberta strolled over to one. “Who's the one who did in your arm, Clyde?”

  “Roberta, leave them. They are not worth your time.”

  “Which one?”

  Clyde sighed, leaving Merrick’s and Beth's side. He pointed to the one that was propped up against the wall.

  He had partially regained consciousness, though Beth determined he was not a very smart adversary.

  “I'd do him again, bitch,” he said.

  A smile unfurled like a sail in full wind, right before Roberta landed a boot to his crotch.

  Merrick and Clyde flinched.

  The man groaned and rolled over onto his side.

  It must've been a decent strike, because he threw up whatever trash he'd consumed for his afternoon meal.

  “Was that necessary?” Clyde asked. “You know I could tear their limbs off and beat them about.”

  “Yes… but that’s not nearly as satisfying.”

  “Wildcat,” Clyde said, bending from his considerable height to nuzzle her neck.

  “I think we're done here,” Beth said.

  Merrick nodded, returning her uneasy glance.

  They needed to find a large water source. Beth hoped against anything they would be able to jump to Papilio without a locator. The larger the reflective surface, the easier the jump.

  She didn't possess the finesse that Merrick did.

  Beth could jump through anything, but her destination was a crapshoot. She shivered at the memory of the jump she’d made that fateful day in Rachett's office. She'd been a youngling. It was a miracle that she hadn't spun off to Sector One.

  She glanced at Merrick, and he gave her the barest nod.

  Beth's shoulders dropped in relief.

 
; She could turf it to him.

  Roberta's face turned to study the retreating pair.

  “Where are you guys going?”

  Clyde's healthy eyes followed them, glittering with knowledge. “Let them go, Roberta.”

  “Wait.” She moved away from Clyde, and his fingers slid down her arm reluctantly. “Why did you save Clyde?”

  Beth thought about it, knowing she could never take back the pause in her answer.

  Roberta's brows jerked together in a frown.

  “He was in danger.”

  “So let me get this straight,” she said, shooting Merrick an appraising glance. “You just decided to tag team this carload of assholes when they would put the beat on Clyde—a zombie?” She barked a disbelieving laugh.

  Beth didn't reply.

  Zombies were a newer development, and they were still rare enough that their history hadn’t been logged. But apparently—her eyes went to the disbanded group that decorated the alley—they were abhorred because they simply did not live.

  Their existence offered tangible proof of death and a grim reminder of every person’s mortality.

  The Threes and their obsession with life.

  Their concern was an insult to those who wished to ignore their eventual demise, a robbery of the lies they would feed themselves.

  The zombies starved them of the lies, leaving only the truth.

  “What does it matter?” Merrick tried for casual.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I just wanted to know. Don't get all defensive, fella.”

  Merrick was treading water, and Beth jumped in. “We're just trying to do the Good Samaritan routine.”

  She shrugged.

  Roberta studied the two then stabbed her hand out midair. “Then—thank you.”

  Beth understood the custom of shaking hands. She gripped the other woman’s hand and toned down her own strength. Beth loosened her grip more when Roberta winced.

  “Bobbi Gale,” she said then grinned. “Nice handshake ya got there.”

  Beth released her hand.

  “Officer Gale!”

  At the mouth of the alley stood another officer of the law. Beth did quick calculations of physicality.

  Hispanic descent, mid-thirties, six feet, one hundred ninety pounds, left-handed.

  She couldn't sense his intelligence from the distance, but as he moved toward them, she knew he could handle himself in a fight and almost run her down.