“I’m expressing the fact that I’m dead,” I assert, my emotions getting the better, picking a fight. “And for that, you will exile me?—permanently? Exile me from the only place I’ve known to be home?”
“You’ve had other homes,” he says, his voice quaking.
He turns the door handle.
“What does that mean??” I ask, frustrated. “Other homes? What other homes?”
But he’s gone, and no answer finds me. For two short moments, I’m left alone with the words he’s uttered echoing in my ears. I have no idea what’s in store for me. My entire existence here, my purpose, just as in the air as it was when I occupied a cell in the Deathless city.
“I have no home,” I tell no one in particular.
Then the burly men reenter the room and, with short gestures, beckon me forth. Deciding it best to cooperate, I rise from my creaky chair and go with them. We move from the holding area down another hall leading deeper into the facility. Eventually, we pass through a hall of prison cells, only a tiny barred window in each door.
“These cells aren’t for you,” the Mayor explains, waiting for me at the other end of the hall, “in case you were wondering. We’re just passing through.”
Had I known the mental bane that awaited me here, I might’ve preferred staying lost and broken in the woods. “Yes, of course,” I say, managing a nod. “Not for me.”
With the Mayor’s lackeys behind me, I just keep moving in silence, passing window after window of little chambers, all of them empty except for—
I stop, take a step back and stare.
“Winter, is there—is there a problem, dear?” patiently calls the Mayor from the end of the hall.
The men come to a halt at my back. Now everyone waits patiently for me to explain my strange reaction, stopping in my tracks to stare through the porthole of a prison cell … one particular prison cell.
“That,” I whisper, locking eyes with the occupant of said cell, “is a Human.”
“Oh, y-yes, of course, silly me!” The Mayor slaps his own forehead. “So caught up in the politics, I completely failed to mention the Living we found in your house.”
C H A P T E R – F I F T E E N
B L O O D
John, right there in the cell, staring back at me. His eyes hard, his jaw tight, his hands gripping his thighs like vices. He stares at me like a statue, not even the sound of breath escaping his flared nostrils.
My stomach’s dropped straight through the floor at the sight of him.
“Don’t worry,” the Mayor calls out. “He brought no harm to your kind abode. He merely was inhabiting it in your absence, collecting food there as well. A bit of a thief, if you mark him so. Might’ve the intention to kill you if you’d returned!—Oh, the thought. It’s a good thing we caught him before your return … Might’ve given you quite the fright had you found him yourself.”
No expression crosses John’s hard-as-stone face. He just stares into my eyes with the intensity of suns. Something inside me burns in reaction … I cannot show it on my face, but I so seethe at the idea of John being held in a dungeon cell. Just as I was in the Necropolis. And I can’t even fathom for how long he’s been in there … How long it’s been since the last time he’s eaten …
How are we any different than the Deathless, to imprison innocent people like this against their will? I’m so angry, so hurt, so mortified, and can express absolutely none of it. I’ve no idea the consequences of such actions.
Eyes still locked on John, I ask the Mayor, “Why is it necessary to … to keep him like this?”
“It’s best we keep the Livings out of sight. It only disturbs our peace here in Trenton, the presence of them. We do not need the reminder here, you understand?”
“What’s … going to happen to him?”
The Mayor is at my side now, having come back down the length of hall, and with a hand on my shoulder he murmurs, “I’ve worked very, very hard to create peace in this town, and I will do what it takes to keep it.”
I turn my gaze on the Mayor. Like nothing at all, he pulls out a handkerchief and, fastening it to my forearm to cover my so-called blemish, he says, “Best to cover your arm, dear. We wouldn’t want two executions today.”
Then he ushers me down the long hall, away from the Human, from my Human, the two men marching behind. When we emerge from the dungeons and empty into the main lobby of the Town Hall, I ask the Mayor, “You mean to … to execute him?”
“Nothing to worry on.” He doesn’t quite face me when he adds, “He’s not a danger to you anymore.”
“But really, was he ever a danger to begin with?”
He answers: “All Livings are.”
“But we cannot die.” I try to sound as uninformed and innocent as possible, despite the terrible things I’ve seen. “What danger can anything pose to us when we can have limbs lopped off and still survive? Organs that don’t function and still survive? Decapitated, still alive? What could that Human possibly do to me?”
“The worst kind of death.” The Mayor turns to me, his eyes sharp. “He will remind you of what you’ll never have, what you’ll never be again, what you’ll forever regret losing in the first place. It is the reason we go Mad when the Waking Dream is too much to bear. Having a Human around is like having a walking, talking Waking Dream and that, my little dear, is not a curse I wish on the sweet and caring populace of Trenton. Understood? Good.” And with that curt finishing, he continues on his way, the men ensuring I follow him utterly.
I glare at his back, deeming it unnecessary and pointless to argue his logic. What I felt while sharing a house with John was not sadness or loss or regret.
On the contrary—
“Here we are,” sings the Mayor. The four of us turn into a very minimalist office with a desk, one tiny cabinet in the corner, and a metal chair where my Raise—who I’d forgotten entirely about until now—sits silently. Standing before her is one sour-faced Judge who looks up at us with great annoyance upon our quiet entry.
“Judge, I have informed Winter of her crimes, both little and grievous,” the Mayor announces. “I think she is quite ready for your judgment.”
“You’re interrupting,” replies the Judge, and the shine of a long blade in her grasp catches my eye.
My Raise makes a groaning sound, squirming slightly. I notice belatedly that she’s bound to the chair by what appears to be twine.
“Perhaps Winter’s presence can, if anything, help.” The Mayor smiles. “She was there after all, and will have her own experiences to recount. Have you made any progress on the Raiséd girl?”
“I am attempting to twist Deathless intel from her. It is necessary she tells us all she knows.”
“What if she knows nothing?” I point out. “She couldn’t have been there for more than a day or two. What ‘secret Deathless intel’ might she actually have?”
“And then there’s the curious case of you, Winter of the Second.” Her eyes narrow. “I’ve an entirely different interrogation tack planned for you.”
I roll my eyes. It’s useless talking to someone so stubborn and awful of heart. The Judge’s nasty demeanor makes Helena look like a downright sweetie pie.
Helena. “I do have information,” I realize. “I was kept in a cage alongside my Reaper Helena, and a Human girl named Megan briefly, and an Undead teenager named Benjamin whose legs were taken from him after trying to escape, and—”
“Helena?” The Judge narrows her eyes. “You haven’t until now confirmed her existence.”
“Well, that’s the thing. She’s—She’s no longer.” I look down at my feet, unable to meet her harsh eyes. “When I was taken to see the Deathless King, she was there. And then … then the King destroyed her in front of me.”
It feels awful to lie, but considering how the Judge and Mayor have treated me so far, the actual truth would not paint any better a picture of me as they already have. The truth being that it was not the King who destroyed her, but I. The
King may have forced me to do it, but I hardly think either of the people in this room would point out the difference.
“So she was destroyed before you,” the Judge says. “That … fits the profile. All Undead who are captured with their makers are made to witness their makers’ demise as a means of symbolic unbinding.”
No, of course there wouldn’t be a moment to respect Helena’s demise. Not even an offer of compassion.
“Yes,” I agree anyway, noting something Benjamin said. “One of the prisoners—the teenage boy—he had mentioned his First Hand being grinded to dust in front of him. First Hand,” I repeat with a little smile. “That’s what they call their Reapers instead, wherever he’s from.”
“Did the Deathless King mention a way of action with you?” asks the Judge. “His intentions with you? His plan? Tell me everything.”
“He only meant to sway me,” I tell her. “My feelings. He tried to make me doubt our way of life here. He called us the Pretenders. He … was a she. A woman, a queen.”
The Mayor makes a vocal shudder behind me, which I almost mistake for a laugh. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Go on.”
After a moment to collect my thoughts, I continue to recount some of the things the King-Queen said, repeating it all to the best of my memory. I tell all.
Almost all. “And after he destroyed Helena, I escaped by jumping from the top of the tower. I was amazed at how I didn’t shatter when I hit the ground, though clearly my left leg and arm took the most of my weight. I hurried away.”
“And you managed to flee the city?—Just like that?”
“No. I … I met with a band of people who were fleeing too. That included the old man we brought back with us. And together we fled, with but one obstacle standing in our way. Well, two.”
“Grimsky and the minion,” the Judge finishes for me, I guess having gathered the rest of the story from another source—my Raise, Marigold, who knows. “Yes, I think we’re nearly caught up. And how, exactly, did you pass this final obstacle?”
“Grimsky. He was given an instruction to shatter me, and instead he stabbed the—minion—so that we could flee.” I shake my head. “And so we did.” The Judge nods, her eyes meeting the Mayor’s behind me. “So, is there anything else you must know?”
“Only if there is more to tell,” she responds curtly.
Considering the fact that there are many things from my account that I chose not to mention—Helena’s real demise at my hand, the fact that I aided in freeing a dozen or so Humans, my bond with that sweet Human girl Megan … Is there anything else I’ve omitted?
“Helena did mention one thing,” I remember, forcing my mind back to the apex of that Black Tower, “just before her … decapitation. She wanted me to tell the Mayor something.” I face him. “She wanted me to tell you that the Deathless King was—something. She didn’t have a chance to say the final word.”
The Mayor himself looks perplexed. After a moment he simply says, “I haven’t an idea what she could’ve said.”
“That’s it?” asks the Judge, and I nod.
The two of them seem to stare intently at one another, as if trying to discern Helena’s last words between them by way of telepathy. As if that were a viable thing to do and I should just sit here waiting for the mystery to unravel in their minds.
“You may go,” the Judge grunts finally, her eyes flicking back to me. “In fact, I prefer it. I have business to attend to with your little Raise here, and I don’t need the distraction of you. What did you name her?”
“Helen.”
“Oh. How charming.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Suddenly her expression changes. “What’s that?”
She takes a few steps toward me. I can’t help but back away, startled. “What’s what?”
“That—That odor.” Her eyes narrow onto my lips.
“Odor? You’re going to pretend like I have an odor, now? You know as well as I do we cannot smell.”
After a long and awkward moment of the Judge staring at me as though I were hiding some great secret, she finally spreads her thin, puckered lips to say, “Go.”
“Gladly,” I spit back, annoyed at her behavior, and slip past the Mayor on my way out.
Taking a quick sniff of myself as I’m marching my way down the hall, I push unpleasant thoughts of the fate of my Raise and the Judge’s attitude to the side, because there’s a much more pressing matter I need to attend to.
I turn a few corners and cross the main lobby. I notice the receptionist is busy chatting to one of the guards about a man in the Square who sells necklaces and how she thinks he makes them with stolen teeth from a cemetery—Oh, the things you overhear in this world—so I take the opportunity and pass unnoticed through the side door that leads down to the Town Hall basements. Or as I should probably call it: The Town Hall dungeon.
I hurriedly race past thirteen empty cells and arrive at the only occupied one. To my relief, he’s still here.
He looks up at me.
“John,” I breathe in half a whisper. “I’m so sorry about this. I’m so, so sorry. I’m getting you out of here.”
He doesn’t respond, curled up in the corner of the cell with his knees pulled up against him. Only his intense eyes connect with mine, and I can’t tell if they’re sad, or weak, or furiously angry.
I press my face against the bars of the tiny porthole in the door. “John, how long has it been since you’ve eaten anything?” Again, no response. “John, talk to me.”
Obviously he’s not in a talking mood. I reach down to fiddle with the door handle. Of course it wouldn’t be so easy to just open it; the thing is bound with a giant metal padlock that will require a key. No amount of strength or cunning can slip it, I’m sure. Unless …
I totally forgot about Jasmine’s bag, still hanging from my shoulder. I swing it around my waist and unbuckle it, if for any reason but to learn what exactly I’m carrying around with me. Hopefully a powerful picklock. Or a key. Fumbling with the buckle as it clicks and falls away, I stretch open the bag and stare into its contents.
How did she—?
“John, come here. Come up to the door.” I hold the bag up to the bars of the window, open, showing John its contents. “Look, John!—This is for you!”
Instantly, John scrambles to his feet and puts his hand through the bars, pulling a small, bruised apple from the bag. He chomps into it with the force of a machine, biting with such aggression, I nearly drop my jaw in reaction.
The beautiful symphony of John’s eating fills the dungeon with his song of succulent survival. The crunch, chew, bite, and swallow. For just a moment, I shut my eyes and vicariously enjoy the apple with him.
Just a moment of feeding him revives us both, it seems. The magic in this exchange, nothing compares.
Seeing as the first apple is nearly consumed to its core already, I let him pull two more from the bag. He eats with such intensity, I worry he’ll even eat the stems intact.
“John,” I finally whisper after recovering from the sight of his desperate eating, “I’m going to get you out of here. I’m not sure how, but it has to be soon, because—”
A scream echoes down the hall, silencing me at once. I look off for its source, cannot see a thing.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says finally.
I turn back to him. “It does! I need to get you out of here because they’re going to kill you. Did you hear me?” I squint down the hallway. “What was that scream…?”
“Save yourself.” He curls up again in the corner of his cell, appearing almost to be bored. “I was dead the day I came to this place.”
“No. I was,” I correct him with a sneer. The scream cuts down the hall again, this time accompanied by a frightening—something—that appears to be missing half its chest and arms. The pale, bloated thing comes barreling down the hall with its toothy jaw wide open like it intends to swallow me. Before I can even decide what the hell it is, the end of a very long knife
comes out the front of its chest—smoke issuing from the wound—and then it falls to the cement floor, revealing a little girl with a long black braid for hair standing triumphantly behind it. In her hand, the shimmery steel dagger that just murdered the screaming monster.
“Who are you?” I finally ask, still entirely petrified by the strange scene I just witnessed.
“More concerned with what I am,” she asks, a little lisp creeping into her words, “and not in the least what that thing was I just slayed? It’s a Deathless, by the way.” She casually wipes the blade clean with her palm like she just chopped up an onion. “I’m your neighbor. You don’t recognize me?”
I gape. My other-other-other neighbor … The little girl who lives down from Jasmine. The one I saw in the alleyway with Grimsky the night he took me to that restaurant. The one who was sad, quiet and forlorn.
And a little creepy. “I never met you, officially,” I point out. “My name’s—”
“I know.” She sheathes her knife into her belt. “No time for intros. The city’s being invaded. We need to go.”
“Invaded?”
The girl peeks into John’s cell. “This the friend?”
I assume the girl doesn’t recognize him as a Living, and quietly make the word, “Yes.”
“Well, get him out. We need to make a move.”
“It’s locked.”
The girl rolls her eyes. “Have you learned nothing with your new body?”
She pulls off her own finger and, with the ease of a seasoned picklock, wedges the bone into the lock and twists and pries it until the lock lifts, the door swinging open like it were never locked in the first place.
“Out,” the girl orders, annoyed, “and we gotta hurry. You don’t stand a chance of surviving here, not when they’ve brought the Lock with them.”
“Lock?”
“Don’t worry, Jasmine told me everything.” The girl squints at me. “She’s my death-mother. Surely you’ve figured that out by now. We keep no secrets.”
The Beautiful Dead Page 20
