by Daryl Banner
“He’s … there?” I suppose she means he’s far, far in that direction, wherever he is, wherever he ran off to so many months ago when I freed him. “He’s still …”
“I am Deathless,” she croaks, still facing away, still pointing that way. “I am Deathless.”
“Your name is Helen,” I say before I leave, unable to stand another second in her horrifying presence.
On the way out, I hear her tinny voice echoing in an endless monotone, I am Deathless, I am Deathless, that way, that way, I am Deathless, until finally the heavy door at the top of the stair shuts her up. But then I’m haunted still, knowing she could be, no doubt, repeating that phrase without end for hours and hours, days even.
I am Deathless, I am Deathless. I still hear it.
I’m not sure when I decided to stop, but suddenly I’m sitting on the concrete edge that outlines a little flower garden in the courtyard outside a Human bakery. I’m peering at the flowers, of course minding not to touch any of them. We all know what happens when an Undead touches anything precious or pretty or full of promise.
A young couple walks by, arm-in-arm. I can’t tell whether they’re Living or not until one of them remarks about how lovely the bakery smells, and even then I have to question if it’s just an Undead couple pretending. Even this far in my Second Life, I’m so tired of all the pretending. I’d always taken Jasmine to be one of the kind who don’t succumb to all the pretending and fakeness, but maybe she needs it now more than ever—especially after losing her death-daughter in the Battle. So let Jasmine throw a party for her so-called birthday; seeing as we have no concept of what day of the year it actually is, we all know it’s not real. And we know she knows it’s fake, yet we still play along. It could be all our birthdays for all anyone would care or be able to verify. Even the attempts at remaking some form of a calendar turned into a joke, as everyone kept arguing over which months of the year have thirty-one days. At least everyone agreed that February has twenty-eight, whenever February is.
My birthday was the first day of December. I wonder when that is, or if it’s already gone.
I could have turned twenty. Maybe I’m twenty, now.
“Winter!”
I lift my eyebrows and am strangely comforted by the sight of little Megan racing out of the bakery to meet me. Before I know it, she’s crashed into my arms.
“Careful. We can break apart,” I warn her.
“Don’t worry, I’m staying clear of your left hand,” she teases. “Hey, guess what? I found this totally enormous spider leg in the woods the other day. It was, like, huge!”
“Yes, Megan. They can be quite big.” I can’t pay much attention because all I hear in my head is I am Deathless, I am Deathless … that weak, tinny voice.
“Megan, dear?”
The two of us look up. A man and woman approach, having come from the bakery themselves. The man is a stocky short thing while the lady is tall and gaunt. Megan comes to the woman’s side and clings to her dress, and I realize belatedly that they’re her parents. The way Megan clings to her reminds me of how she clung to me at the Necropolis long ago … The memory stings, bittersweet.
“Hi!” I say. Surprisingly, even in all these months, I’ve only met her parents twice; once when Trenton’s order was reestablished after the Deathless Battle, and then once a few months later for some reason I can’t recall. They aren’t the warmest. “How’s your morning?”
“It’s late evening,” says the mother, and I’m sure she didn’t mean to sound like she was rudely correcting me.
“Yes, late evening, of course.” I make myself giggle. I can’t help it; I’m determined for them to like me. “How’s your late evening, Bonnie and … and …?”
“Ken,” mutters the dad, and it’s not that he’s rude; he’s just reserved. That’s a polite way to put it. Reserved and guarded. Guarded in the good way, I think.
Miss mommy Bon-Bon’s grip on Megan tightens. “Something you need?” she asks, her voice like a shivery sort of sigh, and I’m absolutely positive she isn’t meaning to come off like a bitch.
I’d never dare say that of Megan’s mother. Out loud.
“Oh, no,” I say, smiling in this horrible please-like-me way. “I was just … taking a little rest and admiring the—” When I peer at the flowers, I find the closest ones have pulled away from me, recoiling, their petals discolored and wilted at the edges.
The sight breaks my confidence in half like an icicle.
“This is the Human part of town,” says Ken the dad in such an artfully polite way, I’d almost think it were just a friendly reminder.
“I hadn’t thought we’d designated such parts of town,” I jest, the stupid smile still stretching across my ghost-white face. “I guess I was lured by the … by the smell of the bakery.” I hum longingly, taking a big whiff.
“Your kind can’t smell,” he points out, another kind reminder.
My smile breaks.
“Mommy, daddy, let’s go home please?” The plea comes from the little mouth of Megan, half-muffled by Miss Bonnie’s gag of a dress. “I’m getting sleepy.” Her eyes drift over to me, and I realize with a saddened feeling that she’s trying to spare me from her parents’ kindness.
Mister Kenny, the dad, isn’t finished. “Go ahead, Bon. Take Megan home. Temperature’s dropping anyway, and I have something I want to talk to … Winter … about.”
The wife is all too eager to leave, taking her daughter by the hand. Megan’s eyes never leave me as she rounds the corner and is gone.
“Something you wanted to discuss?” I ask, keeping my tone the sweetest.
He faces me now, though his eyes are elsewhere. “I understand you … took my girl to the Haunted Waste.”
Oh. That. “We call it the Whispers, actually.”
“I also know my daughter has developed a certain … attachment … to you.” He shuffles a bit, itches his chin, then looks me in the eye. “She’s young. She is headstrong. She is beginning to make … decisions. After losing our son, I hope you can understand that I can’t allow my girl’s safety to be regarded with such irresponsibility.”
This, coming from the parents that Megan said don’t care whether she lives or dies. Well … maybe it was something she just said out of anger. I can’t be sure now.
“I regard Megan’s safety very much,” I assure him. “Ever since we met—despite being under horrifying circumstances—I have cared very, very much for her. I even told her not to come with me. I insisted—”
“And she went with you anyway, of course. That’s just like her. Please don’t misunderstand me.” I’d almost say his voice is kind. “We are grateful that our daughter returned to us alive, and we’re not at all forgetting the fact that it is wholly because of you that she lives.” He clears his throat. “But you are not the kind of person with which she should be keeping company. There are other children. There are other girls. There are other, well …” Living, breathing, heart-beating Humans, I get it. “Anyway, I think you can understand the problem with our daughter spending so much time with a dead person,” he finishes, the most polite reminder he’s given me yet.
The smile has broken off my face completely. It’s in pieces at my feet, and so’s my politeness, and so’s my everything-pretty. I don’t feel anger because, well, he’s explained it plain enough: I’m dead. I feel and know nothing. I’m reckless and irresponsible and whatever.
“Message received,” I murmur.
“Good.” The dad flinches, making a strange move. I think he was about to offer a handshake, then suddenly changed his mind. Yes, better not to do that. You might catch my death, Mister Dad. I’m so contagious. Cough.
“Have a good evening, Ken,” I force myself to say, because I’m going to prove to him what a nice and mature person I am. I turn away to leave.
My foot catches and I trip myself. I plummet hands-first into the little flowerbed. Pushing myself up quickly, soil stuck to my palms and under my nails, I’m back on my
feet in less than a second. But that’s all it takes for the damage to be done. The flowers I fell onto twist and writhe, turning brown and grey and wormy before our eyes. Even the soil seems to die where I touched it.
I spin my face to meet the dad’s, white hair flipping, but he’s already walking away. Whether he saw me fall or not, I can’t say. Maybe his very hasty departure is yet another polite gesture of his; he’s simply sparing me the embarrassment, that’s all.
“I kill everything I touch,” I murmur to no one, my own polite reminder to the world.
C H A P T E R – F O U R
B U R N
By the time I get back home, the party’s already starting at Jasmine’s, that much is clear. She’s hired the resident band of Trenton from the sound of it, as there’s drumming and guitar-playing and what I take to be “singing” coming from within the house. A number of Undead are spread across the porch and on the gravel in front, chatting and screaming and acting like drunken fools.
The ridiculous frivolity is not my destination, not yet. Forgive me for not being in the mood to party.
I scratch on the door of my house. A sudden memory hits me, and with a wistful smile I sing, “It’s a good day to be dead.” There’s no response, but really, I’d figured John may still be asleep.
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.
