I gasp, taken so dramatically by the sight of him. I can’t bring myself to say anything, caught by how he looks, his awful, degraded state. Even after it all, I feel …
I feel terrible for him.
“Winter of the Second,” the Mayor bellows for the crowd’s benefit. “You have successfully rid our city of the most vile of plagues, and returned peace to our peaceful kind. The reign of the Deathless is at long last terminated. You are, in mine eyes, a true and honored hero!”
I hear some applause, but it is like the half-hearted hand-slaps of a tired joke on a lost crowd. Even the people of Trenton it seems are clouded of spirit.
“You behold the Blade of Judgment, brave girl!” he announces, indicating my weapon with a demonstrative sweep of his hand. The Judge’s blade. The one that’s taken both the lives of the Warlock and my mother. “And with it,” the Mayor goes on, “you will serve the traitor Grimsky his final Judgment!”
I’m confused for a second. I genuinely don’t get it. “Final Judgment?” I ask quietly.
It is not the Mayor who answers me, but Grimsky himself. “He wishes you to end me.”
I stare at Grim. Even the Square seems to have fallen silent, the restless shuffle of bored, joyless citizens of Trenton growing still, anticipating the show the Mayor wishes me to put on … This public execution of Grimsky.
“Please,” Grimsky murmurs, but not to beg for his life. “Do it quickly. The citizens of Trenton will be happy. The Mayor will be happy. And you … you will be free.”
The sword feels so heavy in my one hand suddenly. I worry if I can even lift it above my waist, one arm or both if I had them. All of my resolve, if I had any in the first place, it’s dropped to the blighted earth.
The Judge would be here delivering this Judgment, had she survived the quick wit of the little puppeteer. Her final moment, her body twisting into ash and air before my eyes … Her blade is now asking politely to end the life of a man I thought I once loved.
A man I might still love.
“Serve the final Judgment!” bellows the Mayor once more, his showman arms sweeping out for the crowd.
Every eye in the Square is on me, and it is in this moment that I finally choose to see.
Forlorn faces meet mine. Tired faces. Angered faces. Aching faces.
This is not the populace of a victorious city.
“Serve the final Judgment!” he calls.
This is the populace of another prisoner city. Jasmine, I spot her leaning against the cold brick of a shoe store. Her eyes detached, it’s like I can read her thoughts. The girl with the braids whose name I never learned … Jasmine’s Death-Daughter, her own Raise, ended. There is no victory for her, the price for it too great.
What’s next for her, other than an eternity of pretending nothing is wrong?
Ann, she’s in the crowd too, alongside her scarf-wearing friends. Or at least the ones that survived. This is no victory for her either. Another senior year at Trenton High to look forward to. Another year in the prison of eternal, cycling, endless death. Another year pretending.
Pretending, pretending, pretending.
“Serve the final Judgment!”
And my eyes cannot find a single Human in the crowd. The Humans, all of them, either blended in or blundered away by our exclusionary laws, our anti-blood laws, our Pretender laws. Is this the victory I fought for? The victory so many died for? The victory we wanted?
“There is more than one kind of poison,” I whisper, and I’ll never know if my dad recovered from the hospital. “A poison of the soul,” I say, and I’ll never, ever know.
“Serve!” cries the manic Mayor.
I turn to the sightless Grimsky, sword heavier and heavier in my hand, in a monotone I ask, “Do you have any last words, Grim.”
He turns his face up to the sky as if to feel the warm rays of an imaginary silver sun, his expression resolved, his lips part to say: “Deathless I am, Deathless forever be.”
The world waits. I hold the sword up high, steeling myself for the blow. “Pretenders no more,” I utter.
And chop off the head of the Mayor.
It slowly rolls across the Stage, drops to the soiled earth below with an unimpressive thump.
An ugly sort of smoke spews from where the steel blade had decapitated the Mayor, his neck now a freakish sort of chimney, revealing to the jaw-slacked and baffled populace of Trenton the Mayor’s true identity. Among the people, a false idol. Above them, a leader whose bad intentions we may never know, his words now sealed away in the vault of his own groveling eternity.
There is silence. I feel deep misgiving, wondering if the crowd will mistake the meaning of my action.
Make right of all your wrongs, Claire.
The mayor’s body at last loses its balance, collapses onto the stage with a resounding thunder that rings through the Trenton people.
Looking out to the many, many faces, to the many prisoners of Trenton, I realize their only authority, their only word of rule, has been ended before their eyes. Like a chain about their neck, at long last broken. The door to the cellar they’ve been shut in, at long last cracked open.
Sunlight spilling in, blinding them. Glorious, freedom-singing sunlight. Now what do we do, they wonder.
Now what do we do?
“This city,” I declare, lifting my sword up high—Okay, I feel pretty melodramatic in this gesture, but when you’ve just slayed the only two leaders of the Undead world that you know in the space of one little evening, I think you’ve earned the right to practice just about any amount of drama you damn well please. “This city is a free one, from here on out, so help me!”
No one speaks. No one blinks. No one breathes.
Of course no one breathes.
“This city belonged to people,” I tell them. “Living people. Until this man you call your Mayor stole it from them.” I’m still trying to spot the Humans in the crowd, wherever they are, but I can’t. “They did nothing wrong. Humans … Living people, just like you and I used to be. Living people helped you win this battle. They are among you right now!” Though I can’t spot a single one.
When the war ended, where’d they go?
“I don’t want any rules!” I cry. “I don’t want to live by some Mayor’s say-so. I don’t want to pretend like I’m happy—I want to be happy! I don’t want to say I’m alive when I’m not. Under this skin is a heart that doesn’t beat. In this flesh, no blood. No pulse. Pretender no more!”
I lift my sword. This is that moment when everyone cheers. This is when the triumphant music plays, the horn sounds, and everyone throws their hands up in victory, their hearts light and their eyes inspired.
Nothing but ringing silence.
But then something quite curious happens. Scattered throughout the crowd, scarf-adorned teenagers step up and ceremoniously remove their scarves, dropping them to the pavement. Their deepest secret drawn along each of their necks: the proud slit of decapitation.
Ann among them, she is the one to speak up. “My name is Ann. I’ve been a senior at the Trenton School for my entire Undead life. We have already died once, all of us. With this second life, this second chance, why must I spend it dying again every day?” She holds up a fist. “Pretender no more.”
Really, it isn’t necessary to do the whole inspirational fist-in-the-air thing.
But the movement continues with another lady, garbed in heavy pearls and necklaces. “My name’s Camille and ever since my Raising, I was taught to fear the living. It wasn’t until I had my Waking Dream that I realized why. They didn’t want us to see what we’ve lost … But how can we expect to make progress by blotting out our own tortured histories? Roads cannot exist without a destination on both ends. Pretender no more.”
And it just goes on. “I never wanted to be the old town hag at the end of the street,” an elderly woman gripes bitterly. “I wanted to be an artist! I wanted to tell my story on canvases that stretched the buildings tall, oils and watercolor an
d … and … I want to paint the sun!”
“Pretenders no more!” shouts another man. “I’m sick of getting my arm reattached every weekend! I’ve been imprisoned over sixteen times for refusing Upkeep!”
“My first pretend-daughter was imprisoned when she stopped acting her physical age,” a frustrated, high-voiced lady yells. “We are not dead! We are not static entities! We are h-h-human beings! Pretenders no—!”
“Human beings!” concurs another young man with one invigorated yelp. “We deserve to live in freedom!”
“Pretenders no more!” another shouts.
“Pretenders no more!” yet another joins in.
And so it happens I’ve incited a sort of rally. Pretenders no more, they chant with joyful conviction. Pretenders no more. Pretenders no more.
Their cheering and chanting enveloping us, I turn my gaze back to the slack-bodied Grimsky still bound to the stake.
It’s so strange, to look at someone you used to love after your whole identity has been tampered with. It’s like I’m seeing a completely different person. It’s like …
It’s like, how can I possibly judge him, after knowing what kind of person I was?
How can I possibly judge anyone anymore?
“Grimsky,” I say, leaning in close to him. The chants and cheers surrounding us, I say, “I don’t know if this is going to work, but I have a gift for you.”
I unbind the box at my hip and, with great care, I place my own Lock stone into his eye socket. He doesn’t even flinch, trusting me completely. The stone neither glows nor shimmers green, but he lifts his head and for a moment, I think he sees me.
“Didn’t work,” he whispers.
It’s with a very, very heavy heart that I say, “Grim. I’m going to undo your binds. And I think … I think it’s best if …”
“Deathless I am.”
I don’t have to finish the thought. Loosening a dagger from my side, I clip his restraints, freeing him from the post. He gains his balance, and the stone seems to fix on me. Regardless of his claim, I think he can see me.
In fact, I think he sees me perfectly.
“Goodbye, Winter.”
And then he tears off the stage and races through the crowd of chanting citizens—and they are not kind to him. Booing and hissing, they chase him away. Through the joy and the madness of a truly victorious people, Grim makes his way, and in just a handful of seconds, he’s gone.
Goodbye, Grim.
Figuring the deed to be done, I step off the stage and move through the crowd. Already, people are letting loose. A woman’s taken off a wig she’s been forced to wear, embracing her baldness with a grin ear-to-ear. Another person dances and another one sobs. Everyone does as they please, ecstatic and bursting with joy.
I find Jasmine by the wall, and she’s all smiles. “Oh, Winter, Winter, Winter. My little rabbit … What’ve you done?”
“Think I just inadvertently created anarchy,” I say dryly. “I mean, we can’t realistically survive without any rules at all, can we?”
“Give me a hug,” she sings, and pulls me into her body. I grip her back, letting myself smile.
“Tell me,” I say, almost not wanting to hear the answer, almost dreading it. “Where are all the—”
“They’re all at the gymnasium being tended to by Doctor Collins. All of them.” She pulls away, still smiling. “He has a purpose now, Winter. All the knowledge of his Old Life now made relevant after all these years, valuable beyond measure! He’s treating the wounded Humans. This is a special day for us all, my rabbit.”
And then out of nowhere, little Megan has crashed into my hip, clinging to my waist in the tightest hug. Ann’s there too, a crossbow hanging at her side.
This is what victory feels like.
I put my one hand on Megan’s head, running it through her hair, and Ann says, “So you’ve executed a King and a Mayor today. My, my, you’ve been busy.”
“Maybe you could ask for a few years to be put on at the Refinery,” I suggest, “and start at the University next semester. Marigold has a lot of hidden talents.”
“I can be twenty-one forever!” she cries, overjoyed.
I peer around, surveying the crowd and squinting into the distance. “So where are the others?” I’m glancing the other way. “Where’s John?”
Megan squeezes me tighter. Ann looks away, the joy leaving her eyes.
I stare at the top of Megan’s head, realizing she hasn’t said a word. “Megan.” I try to mask the worry that’s suddenly gripped my throat. “Megan, where’s John?”
“Oh, Winter,” says Ann, nervously clutching herself. “I’m so … I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry about what?” I ask stupidly.
Because I don’t want them to tell me.
I don’t want to know.
“Megan,” I say, lowering myself to look her in the face. “Megan, where is he? Please. Where is he.”
She doesn’t answer.
And I bolt from them, tearing off in wild pursuit of the gymnasium.
T H E F I N A L C H A P T E R
H O R I Z O N
So many happy, happy faces.
I rush through them and I don’t care.
Another person I love in a hospital bed, in a death bed. My mother and her lost legs … My father …
So many happy faces.
Freedom and victory and I don’t care.
Another one I love.
Claire, make right all your wrongs.
I throw the doors of the gymnasium open and I have to find him. So many faces, even they are happy, even wounded they are happy.
So many faces and not the one I need.
I move from bedside to bedside, from station to station, makeshift patient areas and beds and upturned weight machines and benches.
It’s in the room of mirrors that I find him, lying on a stack of mats next to the large back window.
I’m at his side already, I’m gripping his hand with mine. He doesn’t move.
“John,” I breathe.
I put my one arm around him, even wounded as he is, blood all over his face, I hold him like the mother I never hugged, like the father I never said goodbye to, like the friend I’d lost, like the boyfriend I never let in.
And deep, deep within him … I hear the gentle drum.
It is the sweetest song I will ever know on this dead planet, the song in his chest.
“He isn’t doing well,” Collin says, having emerged from a neighboring room. “Just comes and goes.”
I still hear the drum, and it’s all I can hear.
The thumping, the drumming.
Within him.
“Please,” I beg, though I don’t know who I’m begging. “Please, please, please.”
I hug him so tight, his body against mine. Every hug I couldn’t give him in the cramped, unfeeling confines of my little Trenton house. Every word I couldn’t say.
John’s blood dances on my lips.
His blood kisses my cheek, my earlobe.
“We just need to watch him,” Collin says, “because he’s lost a lot of—”
“If you survive,” I tell John, so quietly, so quietly that I know he can hear me, I have to know he can hear me. “If you survive, I vow to you, we will find Garden.”
I can’t let go of him.
His warmth.
“I won’t hold your past against you. No matter what’s in it, please, I’m begging you, I need you to keep your promise to me because I kept mine to you.” I squeeze him. I want him to feel me. “I’ve learned my past. John, I’ve learned everything.”
I’m choking, frustrated by my body’s inability to make tears, to tremble, to shake and scream with the agony I’m feeling inside, to … to …
But maybe it is.
“Even bad people can learn to be good,” I whisper. “No soul is lost … No soul is poisoned. No mistake cannot be unmade, John, we make rights by our wrongs.”
His blood on my tongue.
&nb
sp; I’m feeling tears in my eyes, impossible tears. There’s no way, but I’m feeling his warmth like a terrible fever.
“Please, John,” I beg him, and I’m shaking.
I’m crying and I’m shaking all over.
And the room grows brighter.
Taste of iron, of metal …
I look up at the strange, otherworldly light, the large window that’s kept us company. The burning light of a sun that’s so soon to break the horizon.
I gape. Squeezing him, I’m staring at the fire in the sky, the burning light. It’s just like at the top of the tower, the sight I’d so narrowly missed …
“John, look,” I breathe.
And I smell him, his scent, his humanity. His body, hot to the touch, so joyfully hot in my only arm, my only hand. The taste of iron on my lips, his blood, and I say, “John, look, the sun!”
The gentle drum keeps on.
He flinches.
“The sun is rising. Look …”
He grips my arm, holds me, feels my heat, our heat. His eyes open at last, and the light is showering on both of us, a sight that for once in our lifetime, we both share.
I turn to him, the great candle of the sky illuminating my Human in the way I was always meant to see him, in all his warmth, in all of mine.
Our eyes meeting, they share so much more than our stupid words could express.
“Good morning, John,” I say anyway.
He smiles faintly, whispers, “Still alive.”
And the sun rises.
E P I L O G U E
The land rots beneath his every footfall.
Blades of grass, green one moment, dead the next.
Dragging at his side, the Queen’s fallen crown, its tip cutting a trail in the earth as he marches.
The tall, heavy mess of metal she called a crown.
Whatever was left behind of the Necropolis, it isn’t worth its weight in the ashen remains of dead innocents. Stone and cinder and death, he can almost smell it in the air, each foot carrying him closer to the Black Tower.
The Beautiful Dead Page 27
