Author: Daryl Banner
Date: 2014-11-06 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Zombies; Fantasy; Paranormal; Apocalyptic; Paranormal Romance; Adventure; Dystopia; Romance
Description: *BOOK #2 IN THE BEAUTIFUL DEAD TRILOGY* *It is recommended to read this series in order* THE BEAUTIFUL DEAD (#1) DEAD OF WINTER (#2) ALMOST ALIVE (#3) No one said being an Undead is easy. Winter’s Second Life became a lot more complicated when the Living moved into her hometown of Trenton. Undead neighbors fight with their Breathing ones. Food is sparse. And, worst of all, the season is taking a change for the colder. A desperate plea for help to a neighboring city turns deadly and soon Winter finds herself facing an old friend from her past whose plot to annihilate all life on the planet may
Publisher: Createspace

Dead Of Winter

(The Beautiful Dead #2)

by Daryl Banner

Books By Daryl Banner

The Beautiful Dead Trilogy:
The Beautiful Dead            (Book 1)
Dead Of Winter                  (Book 2)
Almost Alive                  (Book 3)

The OUTLIER Series:
Outlier: Rebellion             (Book 1)
Outlier: Legacy                  (Book 2)
Outlier: Reign Of Madness            (Book 3)
Outlier: Beyond Oblivion            (Book 4)
Outlier: Five Kings            (Book 5)

The Brazen Boys:
A series of standalone M/M romance novellas.

Dorm Game                   (Book 1)
On The Edge                  (Book 2)
Owned By The Freshman            (Book 3)
Dog Tags                  (Book 4)

Other Books by Daryl Banner:
super psycho future killers
Psychology Of Want
Love And Other Bad Ideas
(a collection of seven short plays)

Acknowledgements

Madeline Sheehan, Chelsea Camaron & Claire Riley
Without the three of you cheering me on and encouraging me in the way of dead things, sexiness, and a general sense of “your-life-is-in-danger-if-you-don’t-finish-that-Beautiful-Dead-sequel-soon” this book would not be what it is. My sisters in madness, I’m lucky to know you!
And for those few of you who have
not yet been introduced to these three geniuses,
check out excerpts from their work included at the
end of the Kindle version of this novel.

Chris Rivera
Sometimes my brain feels like a hundred brains
and you have a very clever way of bringing me back to earth. Whenever I doubt myself, you set me on fire.
Y’know, in the good way. Keep doing that!

Jan Behrens
My friend from across the world! You have a keen eye
for photography, both in the nature and urban senses. I’m so proud to have your work on my covers. Thank you.

Mom
The world needs to know I have an awesome mom.
There’s no other way to say it. Be way jealous. She is as awesome as you think she is. I love that you embrace the crazy and the freaky and the weird that is me.

You
And thank you, the amazing, brave person
who is about to read this book. Thank you for taking a chance on me. If this is our first time together, I hope
you know what you’re getting yourself into.

Copyright © 2014 by Daryl Banner
Published by Frozenfyre Publishing
All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used
or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the
written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, groups, businesses, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual places or persons,

Living, dead, or Undead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Daryl Banner
Nature Photography by Jan Behrens

ISBN-13: 978-1503035898

ISBN-10: 1503035891

B L O O D

H A P P Y

S H I V E R

B U R N

D E F I A N C E

A L L I A N C E

C O E X I S T

G R I M

E Y E S

S K I T T E R

T H E   P R O J E C T

L O C K E D

R E C K O N I N G

O N S L A U G H T

A   F A M I L I A R   P L A C E

T H E   B E A U T I F U L   W I N T E R

S O M E O N E   E L S E ’ S   H O M E

E V E R   A F T E R

T H E   N E V E R   D R E A M

D E A D   O F   W I N T E R

F I R S T   H A N D

“Life is more resilient than we think.

It just doesn’t always look the way we expect it to.

Even burned grass
is still very much alive
beneath the surface
where new seeds are waiting to sprout.”

- Chris Rivera

P R O L O G U E

The world is a lot quieter than it used to be.

But there is a sound in the desolate dark tonight; it is the sound of fire burning. The tongue of this great fire stretches up high to lick the silver sky, and its fingers, red with greed, are as long as a lifetime.

The fire is as ugly and as beautiful as an ex-lover.

What it feeds on isn’t the wood of the forest. They’re all dead anyway; the trees. This is a fussy fire that only feeds on things you cannot see. It feeds on happiness. With its little yellow teeth, it eats hope for a midnight snack. It eats dreams and laughter and anything little or pretty.

Especially tulips.

If you squint, you realize it is not just a fire, but rather an army. Each flame is made of a person, and you realize it is their hope that burns … it is their happiness, their passion and despair and greed, burning, burning, burning.

A man stands at the front of the fire—the leader—and he burns a different color than the rest. He burns green. Furious, jealous, hungry green. He is not a proud creature, so the Green One stands with hunched shoulders and he watches from the top of his head, and though his pale face was once handsome, he can only form a permanent scowl now with his twisted, ruined lips.

With this Third Life of his, he will never smile again.

Kneeling before him, a man begs for his life. A Living man. He’s in tears about a girl he loves and the son or daughter he wants to have someday, and the scowling face we will cautiously refer to as the Green Fire holds him sweetly by the neck, the way one might hold a lover, and he says: “I once loved a woman.”

The Living man begs, imploring, and the Green Flame says: “She set me free, opened my eye to the gift of death.”

The Green Fury whispers: “My green eye.”

But the Living man won’t stop crying and begging, waving his hands everywhere, so the Hungry Green shows him what he means by taking those healthy Living hands and pulling them right off. Over the man’s screams, the Green Inferno says: “These hands, they’ve reached and reached, all your long, tiresome life, clinging to meaningless things. These hands that take so much, yet hold nothing in the end. I free you from them.”

The man’s voice breaks, his shrieks echoing off the bodies of dead trees, so the Burning Green takes his throat too and grips gently, the way one might embrace a friend. He brings his mouth close and says: “This Life, your permanent solitude, the torture of being Human … you are so hungry for a meaning to it all. Let me feed you.”

Something dark as a void passes between them. One might say it’s the man’s Life, or soul, or something called his Anima. Whatever it is, it’s so quick it’s already gone.

What remains is no longer alive, yet he is not dead. The man’s worries are forgotten, his girl is forgotten, his future, his past, his dreams, all of it, and his screaming is ceased. Handless, lifeless, deathless … he stares with stony glass eyes into those of the Green Death.

The Green Death, who says: “It is the dead of winter, and you will never hurt again.”

C H A P T E R – O N E

B L O O D

“Oh, don’t worry … It’s just the sound of you dying.”

She squints her little brown eyes at me. “Say what?”

“Undying,” I correct myself. “And don’t mind all the chaotic, annoying wind. That’s, like, totally normal.”

Her head turns right, turns left. “I don’t hear any—”

“Just pretend,” I whisper.

“Right.”

To make way for my favorite little Human’s pretend Raising, I dust her off with a dramatic sweep of my hand—and my hand goes flying into the mist. I watch it with a mix of horror and bewilderment.

Megan lifts her head of big unruly hair off the ground, wincing. “You should get that looked at, Winter.”

It landed somewhere in the mist. My freaking hand. “It’s always the left one,” I complain. It’s gonna take me a good while to find that sucker again, I just know it.

“Can’t you get a new one?”

“Put your head down. You’re supposed to be dead.”

“Sorry.” Megan lies back.

In other news, my worst fear came true: I completely forgot what chocolate tastes like. I’m pretty sure it was my favorite thing when I was alive.

“So, I’m undying?” she asks. “Is that what you’re really supposed to tell them? That’s an awful first thing to hear.”

“Hmm. Well, that’s what Helena said to me when she first Raised me.” Of course, she was not the best example. And let’s face it, neither am I.

“So, if I’m your Raise,” the ever-talking Megan goes on, lifting her head again, “does that make me your child? And does that make you my Undead Mommy?”

“No, not exactly.” I figure out a way to explain this to her. “There’s, um … there’s fake families. We’ll call them fake families. Sometimes the Undead will pretend to be part of a family, and … and it’s sorta because they, um, well … they want to pretend to be alive. But they’re not.”

“Is that why you called Helena your Death Mother once?” Patiently, I nod. “Oh. That’s weird.”

There’s way too much about this dead world that’s far weirder than pretend-families, and I hope Megan won’t see the worst of it for the rest of her little Human life. “We still have a lot left to do. You ready to move on?”

“Sorry.” She lies back down. “So … you listened for all that chaotic wind stuff, you found the spot where I’m buried, and then you pulled me out and told me I’m—”

“Undying, yes. And now …” What’s that other thing Helena said was soooo important to do for a newly-Risen Undead? Oh, right. “Your new name! I henceforth name you … Tulip.”

“That’s a stupid name. Can I just stay ‘Megan?’”

“I’m your Pretend-Reaper right now, so you’re named whatever I want, silly. Besides, new Raises don’t recall anything from their old life when they’re first pulled from the earth, so … you don’t know your name was Megan.”

“That’s dumb.” She sucks on her teeth, annoyed.

“So tell me, Tulip …” I peer into the nebulous forever-grey-and-silver sky, suddenly worried if the sun’s out yet. Undead eyes don’t regard light the same way the Livings’ do, so I can never properly tell time. “Is it light yet?”

“No. Is this when you take me to the Refinery?”

“I’m not actually taking you to the Refinery, Megan. This is all pretend. You wanted to know how the Undead are made and, well, this is how.”

“This place smells.”

“Sorry, Megan. We Undead can’t smell.”

“But you can see and hear really good. How?”

“I don’t know.”

“This place still smells. Is it true you can’t feel pain?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

“But like, are you sure? … not even if I stabbed you? Like, in the heart?”

“I don’t have one. You’re morbid for a little girl.”

“Not even if I stabbed you a lot?”

“Megan, it’s almost morning … I think. Any more questions, or would you like please to resume undying?”

The Harvesting Grounds—or the Whispers, depends on who you ask—is about the bleakest place left on the planet. It’s where the local Undead begin their Second Life. Vast and treeless … a sprawling lowland of despair, if you will. Not that there’s much else to compare it to; the rest of the world’s about as cheery. And no, this wasn’t my first choice in what to do with my day.

“Why aren’t you and John talking?”

I was about to say something else, but her question hits me like a cold dead slap to a cold dead cheek. “I’m … What do you mean? We’re not—There’s nothing—”

“I deserve to know.” Her face hardens with a stubborn look of entitlement.

John’s the ruggedly-handsome, strong-and-silent type, brooding and totally-alive Human I live with. The last time we spoke, he grunted and I broke a plate on the wall. Instead of mentioning that, I say, “John and I are fine.”

“Okay,” she says, but her eyes seem to know the truth anyway … far too intuitive for a girl only ten and a half.

“Megan, are you lying about the time?” I glance again into the silver, untelling sky, dubious. “I’m pretty sure we’ve been out here for a few hours.” When I see the girl’s eyes shift away, I realize I’ve caught her. “I only agreed to do this if we get you back by morning! Your parents will be up and they’ll be furious with me, and I—”

She’s pushed off the ground, apparently furious for her own reasons, and starts marching through the fog. Great. What now? I gather myself and keep up, minding not to trip over the uneven terrain.

“Megan, slow down. This was all supposed to be for fun, remember?”

“I just wanted to know what it’s like,” she snaps back, still hurrying on toward the sparse dead woods that hug the Whispers. “I’m tired of being just a Human.”

This comes as a surprise. “Why would you say that?”

“I’m tired of eating. You don’t need to eat.”

“No. But that’s not—that’s not a good thing, Megan. I miss eating. I miss …” Kissing. A racing heart. Clinging to a person to keep warm in the night. Falling asleep in their arms. “I miss … marshmallows.”

She stops and wrinkles her face. “What’re those?”

“Soft, fluffy wads of heaven. Listen. Life wasn’t the best for me either, but … but I certainly wouldn’t have traded it for this one.”

“I’m tired of feeling sad and angry,” she goes on, ignoring me. “You don’t feel. You won’t remember your First Life until you have had a Waking Dream or a Dreaming Death or whatever it’s called. I’m tired of my life. I’m tired of remembering my … my dead brother.”

I stand in front of her, stopping her. “You can stab me all you want and I won’t feel a thing, true, but it doesn’t mean I don’t get sad, Megan. I still get very sad. And mad. I still get …” My mind trails off, thinking of the last time John looked at me in that silent, brooding way he does. It’s sexy. It’s maddening. And I think about the stew of emotions that burned through my body without the aid of a racing heart or blood in my veins to redden my cheeks. I wonder, how much do the dead really feel?

“You left your hand back there,” she mumbles.

I glance at the stump that remains of my arm. “Damn it, Megan. You made me forget my hand!”

“The sun was already up when we got here.” Megan pushes past me, continuing sulkily into the woods.

I watch her, baffled. “But your parents—?”

“Don’t care anymore,” she calls back without looking, tramping down the path, “if I live or die, if they live or die, if anyone does.” And with me watching, still beyond words, she disappears into the haze of scant dead trees.

Alone now, I vanish back into the mists and get on all fours—or is it three, technically?—and search for my left hand. When I find it at last, the fingers look like carved sandstone reaching up for the sky. I watch that hand with deepening wonder. What’s it reaching for?

I look up, as if to indulge my own left hand, and that’s when I see it in the ever-twisting monochrome.

A bird. It’s a bird in a dead world. A bird, so tiny, so far away, so high … and it flies off, flies farther off, away. Already it’s gone from sight. Only mere seconds, that’s all I get to see of a species I’d thought extinct. The sight of that tiny black bird warms the nothing in my chest.

“I’ll be damned,” I say, then realize I kinda already am.

When I return to Trenton, the groaning gates and the pokey metal spires greet me. I pass through the Square, which is basically the heart of the city, and it has evolved quite a bit with the addition of Humans six or so months ago. Considering Humans sleep, they’ve now set this interesting idea of “store hours”, which the Undead have since adopted, attracted to the idea of having actual organization to their workdays. The Humans indicate when it is sunrise, when it is sundown. We’ve added streetlamps and lighting to our major stores so that the Humans can see properly (as Trenton was apparently very, very dark at night). We can also finally make use of Trenton’s long-ignored store of nonperishables, including milk powders for babies, as well as some canned protein substitutes. “Just add water,” they read, like a sick joke.

Some Undead discovered a hidden pride for the city, taking an effort to neaten up our dilapidated dwelling. Most of the effort, sadly, did little to make the city less creepy or quaint. Now it’s just creepy, quaint, and clean.

Not that the Humans mind. They have a place to live. Where once they were scared in the woods, settling in temporary camps to clutch at some semblance of a life, they now have a true home. They have walls. They have ovens and kinda-running water. Sure, it was odd at first for them to have Living-Dead neighbors; Humans aren’t used to meeting people whose heads can literally pull off and still talk. Several times already, Humans have run away screaming from some of us. To be fair, until now they thought all the Undead were flesh-eating monsters.

Since the Undead don’t sleep—well, that is, those of us who don’t bother with pretending to sleep—it’s kinda nice having a purpose for all the beds now.

I’m not one of those who pretends.

When I push through the doors of the pink and squatty Refinery, I find the infamous fake-flesh-mender busied with some activity at the counter. “Marigold?”

She turns around. Her plump and cheery form is draped in an apron as though she were caught baking a pan of cookies. But what one finds instead is a pan of fingers and toes in one hand, and what looks like—and what I pray isn’t—an unraveled intestine in the other.

“I’m interrupting,” I decide, turning away to leave.

“Hello, sweet Winter! Don’t mind my fingers; I’m only getting ready for our next Raise!” She grins excitedly, her eyes flashing and her hands—regrettably—squeezing, which inspires a most unpleasant squishy sound from the intestinal-whatever in her hand.

“No Raise today, I’m afraid.” I avoid her eyes, avoid the horrors in her grip, find myself staring enthusiastically at her knees. “I came here because my—”

“Your left hand again!” She mercifully stows the vile body parts into a cabinet somewhere and wipes her hands on her apron as she approaches. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were pulling it off deliberately, wicked girl!”

I do have a history with defiantly pulling off my own arms. I was a … difficult Raise. “No, Mari. It actually flew off this time. Promise.”

“Oh! Roxie, Stringer, Minnie! What have I told you?? Proper level-four-grade adhesive!” Of the three called out, only one emerges. “Roxie. Haven’t I said—?”

“Stringer and Minnie haven’t come in for weeks.” Roxie, a wiry Undead with the ever-rolling eyes of any can’t-be-bothered teenager, lifts her chin at me. I take that for a hello. “Just me. And we’re out of level-four.”

“W-Why haven’t they come in? The sad lazy pair a’ them!” Even Marigold’s criticism sounds cheery and full of morbid joy.

“We haven’t had a Raise since four Mondays ago. That’s why.”

Marigold stares at her as though the words had gone unheard. Then she asks, “What’s a Monday?”

Roxie flicks her eyes at me, her patience depleted, then takes up a coat and saunters out of the Refinery. I have an impulse to remind her that the Undead can’t feel the cold outside like the Living do and therefore need no jackets, but figure to keep my thoughts to myself. Ever since temperatures started dropping outside, several of the Undead “play along” and have been donning coats and pretending to shiver when the wind tickles their hair.

“A day of the week,” I explain kindly, approaching her with my severed hand dangling limp and awful. “That’s what a Monday is, though I suspect you already knew.”

Marigold’s eyes seem hundreds of miles away. Maybe even a lifetime away, though she’s claimed not to have had her Waking Dream yet, and therefore shouldn’t know a thing about her Old Life. “Monday … Really, who needs days of the week anyway?” Her voice is strangely despondent, aloof. “That’s a Living habit, keeping track of them.” She snaps out of it, giving me a wink. “Can’t be bothered! Let us have a look at your hand.”

Only minutes later, we’re seated at a manicure station and I’m watching with morbid fascination as she sews my left hand back on. She blabbers on about the latest town gossip. Apparently four Living women and a man in the Human’s quarter—which is what people are calling the part of town the Living occupy—have formed weekly gardening lessons for the young to show them how to grow and care for crops, limited as they are. The Undead aren’t allowed anywhere nearby, which is a good thing as plants tend to die when we touch them. In other news, there’s a lady in the third quarter, west end, who can sing beautifully. She can be found at the Square in the dead of any night, singing. She discovered this talent just a week ago when her Waking Dream found her, and she recalled two curious facts: she used to be a world-renowned singer when she lived … and she also murdered her husband. “You ought to give her a listen,” suggests Marigold, “but be prepared to cry! She did it with arsenic. I know you’re wondering. Ooh! Reminds me of another bit of gossip …”

It never stops with Marigold, as she goes on about the new owner of Hilda’s Singing Seamstress. I do miss Hilda and the beautiful red dress she made me once; pity the dress had to be impaled with a sword. Really, I’m happy Marigold hasn’t lost her everything-dead-loving spirit. May she always be filled with macabre glee.

Her and I … We’ve been through a lot together.

“No luck today?”

We both turn. The cool voice comes from the door where a pointy pale face watches, framed by jet black hair that curls dramatically at her chin. She is my Reaper, the person who brought me into this world: Helena.

“No luck,” I tell Helena, as if luck has anything to do with finding and reaping a living-dead person from the ground. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Her emotionless eyes move to Marigold and her work on my hand. She studies it awhile before speaking. “You need to bring John to the meeting in an hour.”

I’m taken aback. “There’s a meeting?”

“It’s what I said, isn’t it?” Helena, her face unreadable as ever, twists her mouth into something of a smirk before turning to leave. She loves and cares deeply for me, I promise. Don’t let the rude and hateful demeanor fool you; it’s just part of her charm. Besides, she’s the only person in existence who knows that I’ve had my Waking Dream … and what my real name is.

Well, my First Life real name. “I saw a bird,” I say to Helena’s back, hoping my words touch her.

She just stops at the door, turns half her face to me and says, “I’m coming to the next Raising. You must be doing it wrong. After all, you’ve a history …”

When the door closes behind her, I’m troubled by her last, hurtful words … because they’re true. The only Raise I’ve ever had is kept in a dungeon cell now where she chants the same cryptic thing over and over and tries to eat anyone who gets near her. Someone made a joke and now everyone calls her Brains.

I have mixed feelings about that.

“Hey, look here!” Marigold takes her forearm, gives it a twist, then pops it right off at the elbow. She jiggles it and I hear rattling inside. “I’ve filled it with fingernails! How delightful is that?? I’ve turned my arm into a purse!”

“Darling.” I blanch and try to appear impressed.

“I got the idea from your forearm,” she says, giving me a wink. “Want a fingernail?”

“Got ten of my own, but thanks very much.” I force a smile. My forearm is still missing a large heap of flesh, exposing the bones to the world—my ulna and radius, to be exact … as Doctor Collin so helpfully explained. The wound is sorta sentimental to me, and I’ve refused to get it fixed up. “Maybe next time.”

Marigold gives a gleeful grin and a chirp of agreement, then proceeds to finish sewing my hand on.

The streets are bustling and full of noise as I stroll down the long winding road that leads to the circles of tiny houses at the first quarter, west end of Trenton where my forever-home sits patiently. I’m feeling very apprehensive for a person without a central nervous system, but at least I can wiggle the fingers on my left hand again. A kiosk full of Undead gentlemen stop their conversation as I pass by. I wave casually. One of them grins and waves back, the others shamelessly ogling.

Still got it.

When I reach my sad little adorable house that has nothing short of dust and blight for a front lawn, I take a completely unnecessary deep breath, curl my fingers into a little fist, and knock on my own door.

“John?” I murmur cautiously.

No response. I slowly push it open, and it creaks so obnoxiously that I wince before peeking my head in.

“John?” I try again, a little louder. My house hasn’t made many improvements over the months since the Battle of the Deathless that nearly destroyed the city and ended all our existences—including John’s—but I’ve come to appreciate the minimalism. The blunt crooked table holds a single plate and fork, left there from some past meal. There’s a moth-nibbled couch across from it, but no Living rests on its stiff cushions. I read there sometimes.

John must be in the bedroom napping. Or ignoring me, I’ll take that too. I move down the very short hallway that bears a tiny bathroom on one side and a bedroom on the other. John installed doors finally, likely to grant some semblance of privacy, I imagine.

The bedroom door is shut. “John.” I tap my knuckles on the door. I’m being very, very patient. I don’t know what mood he’s in today, but I’ll treat him kindly no matter. He is, after all, my roomie, and several times he’s refused to live anywhere but here. He seems ever so miserable living with me; I have no idea why he still insists on staying. “John?”

I let my fingernails play along the door. I’m not going to get frustrated. I’m going to tap my nails instead.

“John, listen. The world sucks right now, I get it. The world sucks a lot. Humans get ill and we can’t treat them. People die. Some of the Undead are not the easiest to get along with, but at least you and I get along, don’t we?” I wait, hopeful, yearning. “Don’t we?”

He doesn’t respond. Just silence through the door.

“I care about you.” I close my eyes. I’m fed up with so many things. Why aren’t there any new Raises? Are we, the Undead, being punished? Why does the earth insist on killing so many seeds we plant, suffocating every tree we try to nurture to life …? Why was I given this Second Life, only to suffer incredible emotional duress, and then get paired by fate or otherwise with this beautiful Human with whom I can, in no way, coexist?

“I …” My hand slides down the door, coming to rest on the handle. “I know this fixes nothing, but … but sometimes I wish …” I can’t believe I’m about to tell him this. I’m desperate now. I need him to react. I need him to know. “I … wish I was alive. I wish I was alive because … I wouldn’t feel so disgusted at myself for feeling—things—when I’m near you. John, when I close my eyes, pretend I’m alive … I feel the heat in my cheeks, and … and the heat in my lips, and … and …”

What the hell am I doing?

What the freaky stupid hell am I doing?

“John, I need to come in. Screw it, I’m coming in.” I hope he’s at least dressed. I turn the knob and push open the door.

The bed is bare, unmade, and unoccupied.

“Who’re you talking to?”

I whip around, my white hair flipping over my face, and find the square-jawed, brawny shape of John standing at the front door I’d left ajar. His puppy brown eyes pierce me quizzically, a sack of food hanging from his fist.

“I’m …” I part my lips, shut them, part them. It slowly dawns on me that he might not have heard any of the idiocy that just poured out of my mouth. I feel a sick sense of relief. “I was looking for you, actually.”

“What do you want?” he asks.

The sack of food he holds must be a heavy one for the way his arm bulges. I’m a bit too distracted by this fact. “H-Helena is having a meeting in an hour, I’m guessing with the Chief. She wants you there as well.”

He frowns. “What’s that to do with me?”

“I don’t know, John. Ask Helena.” I feel myself taking a tone, so I pull back. “I was just passing along a message anyway. I don’t know why she—You shaved?”

He moves across the room to the tiny excuse for a kitchen we have, unceremoniously dropping the sack on the counter. “The stubble tickled.”

I’ve never seen him so clean-shaven. I’m shocked it wasn’t the first thing I noticed. I guess I was more preoccupied with whether or not he overheard my conversation. Y’know, the one I just had with a door.

“Looks nice,” I offer.

“Yeah, I don’t look a day over sixteen now, huh,” he jests, though there’s no humor in his voice.

“How old are you?” I ask suddenly, struck that I’d never thought to ask directly all this time.

Sorting some sad-looking vegetables into a bowl with a crack down the side, he doesn’t look at me when he answers. “Twenty-two.”

I gape. I was certain he was no younger than twenty-five. I blame the patches of facial hair and stubble he used to have. “Oh,” is all I can manage. I was nineteen when I died, but John doesn’t know that. In fact, he doesn’t even know I had my Waking Dream. No one does, except—

“What?” He smirks, sniffing at an apple. “Surprised?”

“Not really,” I say and realize at the same time.

He palms one of the apples and sinks his teeth deep into it. I watch as his jaw works and flexes, the crunching of sustenance and life filling the room and filling my hungry eyes. I don’t think I’ll ever stop being so fascinated by the simple, boring act of … other people eating. I miss it so, so, so much. Chocolate may not exist anymore, but I suppose the taste of an apple would suffice at this point.

I can’t believe I just said that.

“What’re you looking at,” he asks without turning around, and knowing exactly what I’m looking at.

“You have a cut on your neck.”

It’s really more of a tiny scrape, but he just stands there at the counter crunching away, teeth working on that apple bite-by-succulent-bite, and with his mouth full, he mumbles, “Occupational hazard. Y’know. Of living.” His eyes move to the side of his face, as if looking at me without bothering to turn his head. “Am I bleeding?”

“No.”

“Good. Then you’re not tempted.” He moves past me, pushing into the bedroom. I’m staring at the bowl of fruit on the counter, feeling the imaginary rush of anger crawling up my body like the throat of a volcano.

He made that cruel jape because he knows I’ve tasted Human flesh before. To be fair, I was tricked. I didn’t know what I was eating at the time, and after I’d eaten it, it was too late. Only seconds after flesh met tongue, I realized I could, for the first time in my Second Life, taste what was in my mouth. Blood. I looked and the sky was not a twisting silver nebula for once, but burning blue. For that short, desperate moment, I was almost alive.

Too soon, it passed, the little bite I’d consumed wore off, and I was dead again.

And now John makes some joke that I would, in any capacity, desire eating him. No. I think after a hundred lovely mornings full of his moodiness and japes, I’d much rather punch him in the face.

“Not tempted at all,” I retort, my eyes turning dark.

“You sure about that?” he calls back from the room.

In truth, I did taste his blood once. He doesn’t know. When he almost died, Doctor Collin told me there was little hope. He was bleeding and I held him so tightly, his blood touched my lips. Suddenly I could taste, and dawn began burning in the window. When John woke, he saw me and smiled, and with his blood still affecting me—just that trace on my lips—we watched the sunrise together.

That might’ve been our last happy moment. If I’d known, I would’ve clung to it a touch longer. “I’m going,” I announce to no one, moving toward the door.

I hear his feet shuffle along the floorboards. “Don’t think you’re getting out of this.”

My hand is on the doorknob when I turn. He’s at the foot of the hallway, the half-eaten apple hanging from a fist, and I watch his jaw moving, flexing, working.

“What?”

“You’re coming with me,” he says, muffled by food.

“You were the one that was summoned, not me.”

“The Chief represents us living. He needs me, sounds like. Helena represents the Undead and she’ll need you.”

I wrinkle my face. “She’s never needed me before.”

“She’s likely too proud to ask.”

I’m still thinking about how blood tastes. I realize it’s sadly the only thing I’ve tasted in this Second Life. Not the sweet tang of an apple. Not the seductive pull and thrill of chocolate’s kiss. Just the metallic, bitter bite of blood.

He persists: “I’m not going alone.”

His brown eyes still melt me, even when I’m so mad at him that I could chew off my own teeth. I unsettlingly realize that I’m actually capable of that. “Alright,” I say, giving in. “I’ll be waiting on the porch for you.”

He watches me dubiously as I go. Then, the creaky rocking chair that overlooks the creaky railing of my creaky porch takes my weight, which is hardly any weight at all, for all the dead I’m made of … and I wait.

Just seconds later, John emerges from the house. He looks handsome, smartened up by his recent shave and having donned a semi-professional button-up shirt that hugs his muscular frame. His eyes find mine.

He’s never thanked me. I realize that as we walk. Even just strolling down the street with John at my side—a living, breathing, beating-heart Human—wasn’t possible with our last Mayor. He banned everything and anything in Trenton that lived. I risked my existence by secretly (and illegally) keeping John in my house. With the help of my neighbor Jasmine, we got him food. Before he could just waltz into my house with a sack half-full of crunchy apples, he was starving and desperately in my need.

And he’s never thanked me.

The Town Hall sits across from the pink Refinery building where Marigold is still baking fingers, toes, and bowel parts, no doubt. The Square, against which the biggest buildings of Trenton hug, is everything but calm. Children—I can’t tell which are dead or living—race past our feet, threatening to trip us. Irritable Undead and fastidious Humans push forward in busied groupings. The vendors aren’t seeming any kinder: two dead women are making a trade of decorated ears to other Undead, much to the disgust of the Humans in the tent next to them who are trading pottery. Yet further down the street, Humans have set up a spot to vend water and fruit, but forbid any Undead within ten feet of their baskets.

Trenton is far from the utopia we’d hoped it would become after overthrowing the evil Mayor.

We enter the Town Hall and I silently thank the doors that close off the noise of outside. Seated at the desk, the clerk lifts her frail, sunken-in face and grumbles: “They’re waiting. First room on the left.” John just gives a short nod, knowing the way. I smile at the clerk, who looks about as thrilled to exist as a doorknob, and follow John.

The long rectangular room is lit only by a sputtering, ugly fluorescent I barely notice due to my Undead eyes. Under the light is a long, three-thousand year old wooden table (I’m guesstimating its age here). The Chief is seated at one end, Helena the other.

“Please. Keep us waiting longer,” says Helena dryly.

The Chief rises. He’s a proud Living man, his jaw housing a thick grey-streaked pointed beard pouring off his chin like a bib. He’s grown it out a lot, I notice. His eyes are flecks of blue-grey and his nose a bulb of flesh. He has little head-hair to speak of, and a thick ring of steel decorates each ear. The steel jewelry has become a bit of a fashion trend among the Humans, and for a good reason.

“Winter,” he greets me evenly.

“Chief,” I recite back. He has a real name, but stopped using it long ago after his wife and twin boys were eaten by Deathless. No one knows his name and no one asks.

“Representative of the Living and his assistant are now present,” announces Helena. “Me and my assistant too, so let’s get on with this.”

Say what? Assistant?

John takes a chair by the Chief. Reluctantly, I take the one by Hel. “It’s been a long time, Winter,” notes the Chief, his eyes heavy and bagged. I heard he sleeps with one eye open, cuddling an axe. “How’re you recovering?”

“Oh.” I’m not sure to what he’s referring. An excess of splendidly terrible things have happened to me so far in my Second Life from which I may never recover. “Quite well,” I answer anyway. “I think I might—”

“So what’s this meeting about?” John asks gruffly, getting to the point.

And interrupting me. I shoot him a look.

The Chief takes his seat. “Aside issues of inoperable toilets, sick or dying chickens, and bickering townsfolk, we face a far more pressing matter: the change of season.”

“It’s getting colder outside,” Helena elaborates, noting my puzzled expression. “A lot colder. Not such a big deal for us, but huge deal for them.”

“But you’re all taken care of here in Trenton, aren’t you?” I ask the Chief, confused. “You have walls, warm homes, clothing, food—”

“Cold weather is killing the crops,” explains the Chief. “We made the last three winters just fine at our last camp, but our food sources are running thin. The coming winter will kill what’s left.”

“Yes,” says John through his teeth, “and I’ve already offered a solution to this.”

“Garden doesn’t exist,” the Chief states, unbothered. “And I’m not gambling all our lives on a fantasy. Besides, we have secured a far more realistic solution. Helena has spoken with our Unliving neighbors to the north. A city, in fact, beyond the Haunted Waste—sorry, the Whispers. These neighbors of yours are able to supply food, yes?”

I gape at Helena. “We have neighbors??” She just rolls her eyes.

“We need to form a party willing to travel north and negotiate with them. I suggest a party of at least two alive so the food we accept from them is well-handled. I understand it dies when an Unliving touches it.” Helena snorts for a yes. “I nominate John and Gunner as our alive,” he goes on. “Helena, you’ll choose the others. You might find it well to include the one with the garden—”

I’m about to make a point about how we could wear gloves or something when suddenly the door bursts open and the usually-calm clerk shows us a very panicked face. “Chief! Chief and Judge! Emergency!”

Abandoning his seat, the Chief rushes out of the room without a second’s hesitation. I turn to John, sharing a look of concern with him.

Helena just sighs, annoyed. “Whatever is it …?”

Only one way to find out.

At the steps of the Town Hall, there is a commotion. “Quick!” I hear. “Hurry!” someone else shouts. It’s more irritating than alarming, considering I can’t see what the hell’s going on with all the people in the way. “We need the doctor!” I finally make out, someone in the front.

I break through, John at my side. A woman lies on the ground, cradled by what I take to be her husband. When he lifts her at the urgent request of some mouthy Undead, I realize she’s pregnant.

“Everyone, make room,” the Chief calls out. “Get out of the way, please, everyone. We need space.”

“We need a doctor,” the woman groans between short breaths. “H-Hurry!—Augh!—It’s just down the road!”

Her husband scoffs angrily and spits back: “I am not taking you to that Dead Doctor.”

It’s John who intercepts. “Listen, Gill. I get your trust issues, I had them too. But Collin knows what he’s doing. He has actual medical and surgical experience from when he was alive, back when the world was whole. He’s the safest hands Laura can hope for.”

The man, Gill, has a face as stern and deadly as a wolf. But even a wolf knows when to bite and when to stand down. “John. Please. It’s our baby … our baby …”

Gill. That name … That’s the name of the boy I went to prom with when I was alive. Obviously it’s not the same person, but just hearing the name spoken aloud … Gill was the last person to see me alive.

“She can hardly move,” this Gill complains, tears in his eyes. “John—”

“I’ll carry her there.”

It’s me who volunteers.

The Gill man burns me with his oily eyes, reeking of his distaste for the Undead. Yeah, I get it, but what choice does he have? Undead can carry far more than Humans.

“John. You carry her. I won’t have anything touching my wife and that baby boy.”

“Girl,” grunts the wife, huffing and groaning.

Gill doesn’t respond to his wife’s little jest, too focused on the argument of who’s carrying who, and not minding in the least how insulted I am that he just called me an ‘anything’. “John, please. I carried her this far, I can’t carry her farther. My leg—”

“Fine.” John throws an arm around the woman—Laura, I believe he said—and she’s helped out of the Square, step by agonizingly slow step. The Chief is pulling the crowd apart, making room for them. The half-gym, half-hospital is only a merciful minute’s walk away.

I realize Gill is limping, wincing every other step. “What’s with the leg?” I ask, hurrying behind them.

“No one asked you to come,” he spits back.

I saved the city of Trenton and welcomed in all the Humans from the wretched wilderness and this is the respect I get. “You’re bleeding,” I point out, noting his soaked-red pant leg.

“Fell on the way out of the house. Dropped my wife.”

John huffs and puffs along with the Laura woman, whether out of encouragement or because he’s struggling to hold up her weight, I can’t tell. Gill is rasping for his own reasons, tears in his eyes; it’s obvious the pain he’s in. Helena, I only just now notice, is following behind.

“Stay away,” he breathes, noticing her as well. “All of you Crypters. Stay away from me and my—”

“Screw it. Hel, get the wife. I’ll get the whiner.”

Yes, he protests mightily, but within seconds Helena’s carrying the wife with ease and I’m carrying the husband. I’m sure the scene appears very comical, but there’s nothing funny about a woman in labor.

Only one and a half minutes later, we’re surrounding a table, and the Undead Doctor Collin takes charge.

Laura’s baby comes into this world like most babies do: screaming.

“A girl! She’s a girl! Oh, her eyes!”

I listen to this and remind myself that I’m a kind and patient person and that I love the miracle of childbirth and there’s nothing gross or repulsive about it at all. Also, my hands and arms are covered in the man’s leg-blood and I’m not happy about the stains it’s leaving on my shirt.

“Ooh, look. Gill … Gill, she has your eyes …”

It’s not that I’m annoyed, not exactly. How could a decent person be annoyed by the birth of a beautiful baby girl in this beautiful dead world? Is it that the husband treated me with such contempt the whole way here? Is it that no amount of help seems to be enough for the Humans? Do I resent them so much …?

Do I resent John?

“Oh, she’s so precious,” says the nurse, then quickly beckons for more towels or tools or something. I don’t know, I’m not really paying attention.

And the Human Laura whispers something. I look up. Her watery Living eyes find my icy Undead ones. She reaches out a hand, says it again, a gentle smile finding her face. What did she just say?

Then the life slips from her eyes, and her hand falls.

“Doctor Collin. Doctor!” The nurse makes a grab at something, a tool drops from the tray and clatters loudly against the tile, startling me. Suddenly the room is in commotion and the screams of a newborn girl are long forgotten.

“What’s happened to her!!” screams Gill, shaking his wife. “Where’d she go?! Honey? … What happened??”

Undead Doctor Collin stoops forward to examine the mother and I’m up from the chair in an instant to give the experts room, watching wide-eyed as the nurses bustle about, panicked, unorganized.

I’m still holding out my hands, painted red and frightful, afraid to touch anything.

“What’s happened to her!? What’d you do!??”

He doesn’t seem to be accusing anyone in particular. The baby cries and cries and cries, but the man’s attached to his wife, tears in his eyes. “Honey?? Honey?? Laura??” He’s shaking her, throttling her.

I don’t realize it, but I’ve stepped away so much, my back hits the wall. My hands still up, touching nothing, and the Human Gill is yelling and screaming, accusing everything and everyone now. Despite Doctor Collin trying to save her, there is no saving Gill. John moves in to help, but he’s elbowed in the face and screamed at, too.

Helena’s in front of me suddenly. “Winter, we’d better go. This isn’t going to end nicely.”

“But John’s just—”

“Go, Winter.”

“The baby’s—”

Hel pulls at my shoulder and guides me out of the room. The door shuts behind us and she’s moving me down the hall. I can still hear the screaming of men.

“Is she going to make it?” I ask, feeling like a child, feeling as lost as Megan in the Whispers this morning.

“Go, Winter,” my Reaper tells me. “Go and clean up. Bathroom’s at the end of the hall. Wash the blood off.”

“Yes, alright.” I’m in a daze. So much has happened so fast, I find myself thankful for Helena’s direction.

The bathroom door opens, I move inside, then close it with my back. For a while, I just stare at my strange, pale reflection in the mirror that’s warped by a lightning-shaped fissure running down the middle. My hair white, my clothes red, blood running up my arms and fingers.

I remember the First Life Gill … the other Gill. I feel the heat of his body in those last minutes of my life … when Gill, my prom date, took me out to those cold, icy woods. I remember where he opened me up, pulling apart my prom dress. I remember not wanting it anymore and feeling the guilt of all my ugly, teenage defiance rush in. I can still hear the panting of his breath, still see the mist it made in the deathly cold. I changed my mind. After he left me, abandoned in the woods, I started running, shivering, my dress and my coat torn open. I changed my mind, I kept thinking as I raced through icy woods, not knowing that I didn’t have the rest of my life waiting for me. I didn’t have several more years to grow, to make amends, to ‘make right by all my wrongs,’ as my mother would say. I wasn’t even aware of the cracking surface of a frozen lake resting just beneath my cold, stupid feet.

My hands are bloody. I move to the sink, twist the faucet on … but I’m still staring at my face in the mirror. When I look up, I notice a skinny horizontal window at the top of the wall. It reveals an endless, silver, nothing sky. I think about how winter skies always look grey, and how the cold is so like death, warm summers so like life.

Helena must’ve named me Winter for a reason.

I think about Gill … and realize I’m not putting my hands under the running water of the faucet. I’ve brought one to my mouth instead.

I part my lips.

I press a red finger to my tongue. Two red fingers.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

You did this to yourself, I remember mom saying.

The only one left to blame is you … Yes, I remember, I remember it all.

And I know exactly what I’m doing.

Blood … I can taste it.

The silver of the sky turns grey-blue, then full-blue, then a blue so burning bright it threatens to dislodge my senses, or already has, and I’m brought to imaginary tears.

Almost alive.

The running water of the faucet is long forgotten, and instead, I’m licking my hands clean, gazing longingly through that tiny window, imagining what my own heartbeat might sound like if I had one.

C H A P T E R – T W O

H A P P Y

Helena joins me on the trek back home. It’s like my first day as an Undead all over again.

“You don’t mind if I call you Hel?”

She smiles wanly. “If you insist. Hell. What else has our Second Life become?”

I appreciate so much that she’s taken a kinder attitude toward me, especially after what happened at the hospital. “I can’t believe she died.”

“Birth and death,” murmurs Hel. “They go hand in hand. Sort of like—oh, what’s the word—rotting carcasses and unrequited love.”

“Yes, that’s it.” I can never tell when she’s joking, or if it’s another of her strange Undeadisms.

We pass a couple of ladies chatting on their porch, both of them wrapped up ridiculously in thick jackets and scarves and puffy hats.

“I don’t think some of the Undead get it,” I whisper quietly to Helena. “They look ready to brave a blizzard.”

The two ladies lift their chins as though they heard my remark … then give us a polite wave. We wave back, though a tad less enthusiastically.

“Most of the Undead are simply excited,” Hel explains. “They see the Humans bundling up, and they want to join in. You’d think they were celebrating the winter.”

I laugh, and the laughter dies quickly. “Laura almost said something to me,” I suddenly confess. Helena lifts a brow. “I didn’t hear what it was. She died before she … Well, I thought maybe she was going to thank me. I’m not sure. She seemed so happy in that last instant.”

“Not all of us get the joy of being so happy in our last instant.” Helena’s remark is laced with venom.

“The husband blames us,” I point out unnecessarily, as Hel’s already plenty aware. “I’m worried about that. So many Livings already hate us enough.”

“We’re steadily improving Human-Undead relations. We have the Chief’s full support. Nothing to worry on.”

I’ve been told that before: don’t worry, just relax, smile, everything’s fine. I’m so tired of being lied to. “There’s plenty to worry on, Hel.”

“I suddenly prefer Helena again.”

We’ve already reached my house, much to my surprise. I wasn’t paying attention; the whole journey home, I’ve been marveling at the rich blue of the sky, Gill’s blood still affecting me. Even now, I can smell the dust of the Trenton outskirts. I feel the wooden, dry aroma of my own house filling my senses for the first time. I think I can even taste it … the taste of nature.

I also know that soon, and sadly, it will wear off.

When the door permits us and we’re seated across from one another at my tiny table, I hear her let out a big, dramatic, unnecessary sigh. “Oh, the nature of politics. I never wanted to be Judge.”

Judge Helena. I keep forgetting that’s her official title now. “You can still turn the position over. I’m quite sure we have other candidates.”

“Oh? You mean like Jasmine, who refused to take part in politics? Or Headless Ann, who can’t keep her hands to herself? Ugh. Of all the things I thought I’d have to worry about, hormonal Undead teens was not one of them.”

I’m distracted by the blue that still strikes my eyes through the window. The sun is directly above, which frustrates me desperately. I so want to be outside right now while this experience lasts. “So … we do have legitimate worries?”

“No.” Helena crosses her legs, sighing tragically. “Listen. Our sweet little haven in this world is very, very fragile. There are a staggering amount of things that can ruin this for all of us, Living and Not. And I’m talking far more than just dropping temperatures.”

“Horny teenagers?” I offer helpfully, still staring at the endless blue. I think I see a cloud …

She ignores my quip. “This is serious.” I face her, ears perked. “Very serious. Only you and I and the Chief know that we have had no new Raises in nearly a month.”

If Marigold or Roxie or anyone else at that squatty pink building have half a brain, they’re well aware, too. “The workers at the Refinery have to know. Why else haven’t they had any new Raise work in so long?”

“I know,” Helena says, biting that last word with too-white teeth. “It still remains imperative that we’re quiet. Without Raises, it seems that even the Undead’s days are numbered. We must prevent widespread panic, Winter.”

“Okay.”

“That brings me to my next point.” Hel leans across the table and lowers her voice, as though others were lurking in the house. I wonder if she expects the spiders and cockroaches to eavesdrop. “There are only a handful of us who know about … the Deathless practice …”

I stare at her hard in the eye. “Deathless practice?”

“Of feeding.” She licks her lips, lifts a careful brow. I keep my face plain and dead as a porcelain mask. “The Humans are not all aware of what happens when an Undead feeds on the stuff of the Living.” She nearly gags after saying that, then resumes: “I know of it, Jasmine knows of it, John and Megan and the Chief know—thanks to you—and of course, you know.” Her dark eyes narrow. “That is already far too many people to share a deadly secret. Should that news spread, the Humans will fear for their lives and—forgive me—some of our Undead may be far too tempted. I don’t know everyone in Trenton. There are too many people. I cannot trust them all to behave and to keep their … teeth … to themselves.”

“Of course,” I agree, staring at the table now. “That makes sense.” The old Judge Enea could smell the blood on my breath. It’s ridiculous because the Undead cannot smell, but she seemed to be able to. I wonder if Helena is picking up any similar trace. “Of course, of course, it can’t be known.” I suddenly find myself very self-conscious and scared and, well …

Mostly I feel ashamed.

“And I think it may go without saying,” she goes on, “that you will be joining John in the party heading north to our neighbors for assistance.”

I didn’t realize—I’d thought—“But Hel … The Chief said we’d form a party made of—”

“Human and Undead, to include at least two Humans. John and Gunner, I believe the Chief decided. And I have chosen you, as well as Jasmine for her … green thumb, shall we call it? You four leave tomorrow at sunrise.”

“Jasmine? Are you sure she’s up for it, after …?” In the Battle of the Deathless versus the citizens of Trenton several months ago, her sort-of daughter, a gloomy girl with black braided hair, was destroyed by a Warlock. Yes, I know how ridiculous that sounds, but it’s the world we live in, and not even the Undead are safe from permanent ends. Warlocks can turn any of us to dust with a flinch of their green, glowing eyes. Something to do with voodoo or necromancy or jealous ex-lovers—whatever, I don’t know how it works, no one’s cared to explain. Besides, the Warlock is dead—and by Jasmine’s own hand, in fact. She javelined a sword through his beady little face.

“She is, on the contrary, more than up for the journey. A distraction is just what she needs.”

Some distraction. Jasmine may be ready, but … “I don’t understand why I’m going. You ought to go. Or Marigold, for all her charisma. Or that big guy who makes gloves and boots—whatever his name is. Or even—”

“You’ll be passing by the old Human camp,” Helena presses on, ignoring my protests. “The city is not much farther north from there. It is called After’s Hold and it’s where Grimsky was Risen.”

I was about to interject again, but at the sound of his name … Grimsky … I find myself frozen in place. I loved Grim. At least, I’m pretty sure I did. I’ve tried not to think about him since the day we threw him out of Trenton. I see his eyeless face, and the little emerald Warlock-eye I set into it. I still see the glimmer of that green Lock’s Eye, wondering if it worked, if I’d restored the vision the Deathless took from him. I thought I could feel him looking at me, looking into me. “Didn’t work,” he had whispered, but I wasn’t convinced. I undid his binds and set him free. I could’ve ended his existence right there, just as we did with all the other Deathless, but Grim … Grim was different. “Deathless I am.” That’s one of the last things he said to me. And then: “Goodbye, Winter.”

“Grimsky,” I say aloud. Helena’s studying my face, likely wondering where my mind just went. “I hadn’t thought about him since—”

Oh, who am I kidding. I’ve given a thousand thoughts to Grimsky since he left. Thoughts like, where is he? What’s become of him? Was it a mistake to let him go?

“I know,” says Hel, interrupting the turmoil of my thoughts. “I cannot easily trust the place that Raised him, but they are our closest and most practical neighbors. If there’s anything amiss, your presence will be needed. You have a connection with the Deathless that no one can match. It’s imperative that you’re there … just in case.”

Those are the three most deadly words in this world. Except for maybe: no more chocolate. “I understand. I’ll go. What else am I going to do?” My insides are wrung up like a wet washcloth. I bury my face in my hands. I think I still smell the blood on them.

Then the front door creaks open and John’s standing there, eclipsing the sunlight with his brawny frame.

“Helena,” he says, a cold courtesy.

She simply nods at him, then turns to me to say, “Don’t underestimate yourself, Winter.” She gives me a wink. “You have a talent for managing disaster. Speaking of which,” she leans in, her pointy nose nearly stabbing me in the eye, “don’t forget about the Brains issue.”

My voice low as a breeze, I reply, “And what, exactly, am I supposed to do about the Brains issue?”

“A good mother always knows,” she says unhelpfully.

And with heels stabbing the floorboards, Helena rises, crosses my little house and shows herself out. John closes the door gently behind her, then just leans against it, his shoulders slumped, watching me from across the room.

I peer outside anxiously, avoiding whatever words John has for me. The silver of the sky is returning. The blue is laying itself to rest and I’m turning dead again. I am both relieved and miserably disheartened by this.

I’m making this worse by being a creepy quiet thing. “Hi,” I offer, still staring out the window.

He clears his throat, wipes a sheen of sweat off his forehead with the back of a dirty hand. “Hi.”

He says nothing more, but just keeps staring at me. I realize I can’t even ask what happened after I left. That’s a horror-bucket waiting to be dumped. I can’t ask how Gill is doing, or whether or not the wife survived—I suspect I already know. Hel and I already assumed. I can’t ask what they named the baby because anything I ask feels like I’m intruding somewhere that I will never, ever belong … the world of the Living.

Not that John’s shown me much kindness at all, either. The one Human with which I thought I could share everything … I thought he’d understand, but at the end of the day, with all the Humans here now in Trenton, I know where his true loyalty lies, and it is certainly not with a dead girl in a creaky little house.

I’m not sure I can stay here much longer. I have Brains to deal with. Oh, if I had a nickel.

I get up from the table, deciding to go to the sink. I can wash my hands six or seven more times, they won’t feel any more clean, not after what I’ve done.

“Winter.”

I stop halfway past the kitchenette, turn to look back at him. He’s still watching me. His brown eyes show fiercely, even from across the room.

After a very long pause, I respond. “Yes, John?”

“I’m alive because of you.”

I press my lips together. I’m not sure what his angle is, what he’s getting at. Even the way he says it, it sounds half an accusation. As though my helping him to survive were yet another bad thing I’ve done. Shame on me.

“Okay,” I say back curtly, needing to hear where he’s going with this.

He looks away. I can tell he’s troubled. What he faced in there … Gill losing his mind and attacking anyone in sight … Even from across the room, I can see the bruise forming on John’s nose where Gill’s elbow unkindly bashed him.

I can’t stand waiting for him to speak. “Is there … something I’m supposed to be saying?” I know I sound less kind than I ought to be, considering what he’s gone through, but the hurt feelings he’s put into me are starting to stubbornly scratch their way to the surface.

His face is pale and stern, his eyes not able to rest on anything in the room. “There are demons in me, Winter.”

Leaning against the counter, I wait for more.

“Demons. Bad, bad demons that I can’t get rid of.” He crosses the room, which is startling because he’s suddenly very close to me. Next to the table now, he starts picking at the wood, pensive, staring down at it. “They don’t let me sleep. They’ve made me … awful.”

Is this an apology? “We all have demons.”

“But yours are a lifetime ago. Literally.” He chuckles without a smile, empty and feeble. “Winter, what I’m trying to say is …” He looks up finally. The effect his eyes have when they burrow into mine is staggering. Those Living earthen orbs of light in his face, they smolder. John and his wet, totally-alive, tear-capable eyes.

“Yeah?” I encourage him.

He takes another step closer to me. I resist an urge to back away, resist another urge to press into his solid, inviting body. “Please don’t mistake my demons for hate. Winter, you’ve shown me so much care … You’ve given me a home … You risked everything. I’ll never be able to repay you, ever. In ten lifetimes. I don’t hate you.”

So many words are caught in my throat suddenly. The only one that escapes is: “Okay.”

“Okay,” he agrees.

I could almost trick myself into believing that I feel the warmth of his body. That I feel the racing of my own heart. That my knees are noodles in his presence.

“I don’t hate you,” he repeats. “I … I don’t hate you at all. You’re … you’re not a bad roommate. You’re actually very …” John looks down at his feet, his face scrunched up. He rubs his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

I hang on his words. I want him to say something else. I want him to keep talking. I want to hear more. “Yeah, it has,” I agree. “What am I, John? You were about to say—”

“You’re very—I don’t know. You’re very kind.” He meets my gaze again.

Kind. I’m very … kind.

“Thank you,” I reply.

“I should, um—” He keeps rubbing his eyes, gives himself a little slap on the cheek. “I should take a nap. I think a nap would do me well.”

“Mine aren’t a lifetime ago,” I point out, bringing his beautiful brown eyes back to mine. Yes, I’ll keep them there, keep them interested, awake, aware. “Demons,” I clarify. His eyes shimmer. I love when he’s looking at me in this way. I could almost believe right now that I’m not dead. I could believe in this moment that I’m just a girl in this room, and he’s just a guy, and nothing separates us—not life, not death, not even air. “I have a new life now. I have … new demons.” My eyes drift to his muscular chest, his torn and dirty shirt.

“Of course you do,” he agrees, taking a breath.

I smile, watching his chest rise.

He smiles, letting his chest fall.

This is the first positive interaction we’ve had in weeks. I can’t believe this is real. Is the John I’ve been needing back, or is this just a brief moment of weakness, and tomorrow he will turn dark and horrible again?

“Rest well,” I tell him as he passes by, pushes into the bedroom, then gently closes the door behind him. I feel a little bit better and a little bit worse after John’s words.

In the top corner of the den, a cockroach scuttles over the wall, slips into a crack. The sight of it makes me smile. Yes, smile, because my first roommate in this little house, even before John, was a roach. Not the same one; John squished the first. That first cockroach was actually the only living occupant of my house, if you think about it … I didn’t count.

It’s a weird feeling. To not count.

I’m surprised by how unsqueamish I’ve become of things like cockroaches. In such a lonely, dead world, I guess I almost welcome them.

C H A P T E R – T H R E E

S H I V E R

First thing I see when I step onto the porch is my wise neighbor across the barren cul-de-sac that is our ring of little homes. She’s relaxing on her porch, reading. If she were alive, I’d put her at sixty-five, maybe seventy years. She could be forty for all I know, I’m awful at guessing age. Her hair is stringy and brown and her olive skin, spotted and bumpy. She notices me right away and gives a little wiggle of her fingers.

“Hey Jasmine,” I call out.

“Ready for our little outing?” she asks, as if we’ll just be hopping over to the store for bread and toilet paper.

“Excited as ever.”

“Don’t forget about my party!” Jasmine gives a little giggle, pushing a finger at the glasses that rest on her crooked nose. “It’s my birthday. All the girls from the Refinery will be there, and even some Humans!”

She’s made a lot of Human friends, likely because she’s the least Undead-like of any Trenton citizens I’ve met, and also because she happens to specialize in the care and nurturing of plants, which I guess the Living respect. Since the fall of the last Mayor, she’s been allowed to open a greenhouse and a garden that she tends in her backyard, though the weather’s been less than favorable.

“Birthday,” I mutter. “Of course.”

“B.Y.O.B.!” she calls out before returning to her book.

I stroll into town, tortured by the dialogue I had with John, mixed in with imaginings of what a party at Jasmine’s might be like. This puts me into arguably the worst frame of mind to be visiting my failed Raise. Adding to my emotional pressures, I’m feeling more and more guilty for consuming all that blood. What am I now, a vampire-zombie? I feel sicker and sicker, furious that I’d given into such a reckless impulse.

But if I’m known for anything, it’s reckless impulses.

When I descend the steps leading to the dungeon cells beneath the Town Hall, they sound suspiciously like cold cement heartbeats. There is only one occupant of the forty prison cells. That is, thirty-nine empty cells, and one very occupied one.

Stopping just before cell number thirteen, I inhale, steel myself, then take the step forward, peering into the little window at the top of the door.

My Raise is weird. There’s no other way to put it. She is certifiably, undeniably, incoherently weird. She isn’t sitting. She isn’t lounging, no. She’s facing away, so close to the wall her nose is likely touching it. Her posture is absurdly straight, like a plastic mannequin set away in a closet. Half her right arm is still missing.

For a while, I’m literally scared to say anything. Last two times I visited her, things did not go so well. Even now, I notice several patches of hair missing from the back of her head. Apparently she’s fond of pulling them out in maddened clumps.

“Helen?” I deliberately use the name I originally gave her; I find it far more dignifying. There’s no response, so I give in and try the other name: “B-Brains?”

She turns around. It’s very sudden, and now I realize it may have been kinder to hold a conversation with the back of her head. She’s apparently pulled off her right cheek somehow, and her forehead looks absent entirely, giving us a new reason to call her Brains. Her clothes have become shredded tatters and I can basically see everything the front of her has to offer. I avert my eyes very quickly, revolted and horrified and saddened all at once.

“I am Deathless,” she says in that creepy, tinny voice of hers.

“Yes, that’s nice,” I agree, my gaze resting somewhere on the opposite side of her cell. “Except you’re not, actually. The Deathless are gone. By all rights, you ought to be free from their … um … influence?”

“I am Deathless.”

“Okay.” I bite my lip, thinking what else I can possibly say. Helena was cruel, really, to put this responsibility on me, as I don’t know the first thing to do to fix this. “Do you remember … Do you remember our time in the Whispers? When we first met? Listen, I made a terrible mistake and I—well, it’s a simple mistake, actually—but I didn’t name you right away. Then you escaped from me and you ran into the Deathless—are you following this?—and so now you’re confused and you think you belong to them. But you don’t. You belong here. You are Helen.”

“I am Deathless.”

“No. You are Helen.” I still can’t look at her. Really, when you’re talking to someone, you shouldn’t be able to see their brain through their forehead; it’s just rude. “You probably had a sweet, lovely life, and I’d like you to stop being Deathless because, well, the Deathless are not kind people. They’re just like any other Undead, of course, except they’re horrible and they eat Humans and they’re all vulnerable to steel. You don’t want to be vulnerable to steel, do you? It’s mighty inconvenient, especially if you’d ever like to wear … say … steel jewelry, for example.”

“I am—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I close my eyes, exasperated. “Please. Brains. You’re the last remaining Deathless in the whole horrible world. Please, please, just make it a little less horrible by—not—being Deathless. If you just try …”

“I am not the last.”

I’m about to say something else, but her words catch me. I open my eyes, then shriek and back away, realizing she’d come right up to the window and her face was an inch from mine.

Did I hear her right? “What do you mean by that, Brains?” Until now, I didn’t realize she was capable of saying anything other than, well, what she’s been saying over and over. “You’re what?”

“I am Deathless.”

“No, no, I mean—You just said you’re not the—”

“I am Deathless.”

“You’re not the last? What do you mean? The Deathless Queen is gone. The whole army was destroyed. There is no—”

“I sense him. I feel him. I am Deathless.”

I stare into her horrible, gooey eyes. I stare and I stare and I stare. I’m holding imaginary breath. I’m clutching my neck and staring at Brains, and staring at brains.

Does she mean … him? Does she mean … Grim?

“I feel him,” she repeats, her tinny little voice ringing in my ears, filling the hall. “I feel him, I feel him, I—”

“Who?” I finally say, half a breath, half a sound.

“Him. I am Deathless. I am Deathless.”

I’ve backed away so far from the window, I’m leaning on the cell door opposite hers. She keeps repeating those three horrible words. Grimsky, until now, has just been some strange, distant imagining. I’ve regarded him like a bad dream I’ve long ago woken up from … a dark story told to me once in the quiet of a wretched night … a tale I’ve since cast to the likes of fantasy and fable.

Who else could she possibly be talking about? My Raise senses him. My Raise senses Grimsky.

“Where is he?” I ask, clinging to the terrible, gut-wrenching assumption. “Him? He? Where …?”

“That way,” she sings, pointing.

I squint. Huh? I look where she’s pointing, somewhere at the north wall of her cell. I realize she’s turned her head completely around, 180 degrees, while keeping the rest of her body facing front. Showing off now, are we?

“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.

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.

I actually have no idea what that last sentence was; I’m not a professional lip-reader. “Say what?”

She repeats herself: I. Want. The. Kitten’s. Toe. Bag.

Seriously. No idea at all.

“CAKE TIME!!” cries a voice, scaring all the dead out of me. I turn to find Jasmine surrounded by a ring of friends, with Marigold presenting a large colorful cake. The candles are already lit and the few Humans in the room regard the boring little flames while all of us Undead see a ripple of mesmerizing rainbow fingers dancing along the walls. The band, which I see consisted of two drummers, an Undead guitarist with exposed skeleton fingertips, and two bald lady singers with long fluffy eyelashes, breaks into a creepy rendition of Happy Birthday.

“How do you people eat cake?” I hear Jim ask from behind me, his voice full of wonder.

“We just do,” Ann answers evasively.

“But where’s it go?” He doesn’t easily hide the equal parts fascination and disgust in his voice.

Gloomily, I reply: “I asked that same question when I was a new Undead. I didn’t like the answer very much.”

“So, like … where?”

“You won’t like the answer any more than I did.”

My important chat with Headless-Horny-Ann will have to wait. I move through the crowd, passing by Marigold who quickly warns a Human against eating the cake, as it’s not actually edible. For another Human, it was sadly too late a warning, and they spit a mouthful of wax—or whatever it is—back onto their plate, gagging. Somewhere in the mess of cheers and cake serving, the birthday songs are unfortunately resurrected.

The singing that follows becomes so loud, I’m forced to move out of the backdoor of the house, finding some semblance of quiet in the backyard. I see the garden Jasmine tends. It’s a sad spread of vegetables. I couldn’t identify any of them; they all look like leaves and vines and bushels of grass, only some of them here and there bearing anything with a color other than green. The sight of the little plants struggling to grow is heartrending; the poor things look so starved, so agonized, so near to giving up. I’ve heard the plants she grows in the greenhouse are far better off, hopefully far more than these here.

If I were a plant in this world, I would’ve given up the moment a person dropped my seed into the foul stuff we call soil. But these plants are helping the Humans live, I must remember. Even these sad, wrinkly things.

The door flips open, and Benjamin’s beady eyes find mine. He grins upon seeing me. “Hey, hey, hey. Long time, Wild Winter.”

“Hey there, Bonkers Benny.” He giggles, coming up for a meek side-hug. “How’re you liking your legs?”

“I make sure to jog every morning, just to show my appreciation.” He slaps each of his thighs. “Solid things, they are. Good joggers. I tell it’s morning by when all my Human neighbors are up and about. They’re like a clock, really, if you just pay attention.”

“Never thought of it that way.” I smile, appreciating his company suddenly. “Sorry I’m out here. Not really feeling the party in there. Too much of a crowd.”

“Yeah. Even us dead can get sick of too much dead.”

A question suddenly occurs to me. “You aren’t a native of Trenton. You told me that once. Are you by chance from somewhere called After’s Hold?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. All my comrades were travelers. Nomads. We coalesced over time, our numbers grew, and before we knew it we were thirty strong. Each of us was someone else’s First Hand, which is really incredible, if you think about it. The kind of bond we shared … We were brothers and sisters, all of us. Mothers and fathers. Half of us had learned our False Self, though I wasn’t among the lucky. Still haven’t had my—what do you Trenton peeps call it?—my Waking Dream.”

His story heals me. Impossibly, unexplainably. I can’t stop smiling, imagining it. Like Undead Gypsies. “So the thirty of you just … traveled about? Roamed the woods?” All this time, I’d assumed Benjamin was from a strange skeleton city akin to Trenton, much like I imagine After’s Hold will be. I wonder if it’s too late to beg Helena to let me stay. “The Second Life you’ve had sounds … so free.”

“Yes. So imagine my horror when my First Hand and I were captured by the Deathless. His name is … was Brandon.” His gaze drops to the garden, thoughts holding him hostage. He was made to witness his First Hand Brandon’s demise, if I remember correctly. It was a cruel practice of the Deathless. “Anyway.” He pulls himself out of it. “I’m still looking forward to learning my False Self. I want to know what my name was, most of all. Hey, we kept our promise, didn’t we? We survived long enough to hopefully soon learn our False Selves. We’re still alive.”

“Not technically,” I point out, and we both crack up, finding the joke way funnier than it is.

The backdoor swings open and Marigold emerges with two tiny plates, a slice of cake slapped onto either one. “They taste like sugar wonderlands, these adorable delicacies!” She shoves a plate into Ben’s hand, the other into mine. “Don’t be shy, you two.”

Knowing the cake is likely made of wax or clay and will simply drop into my belly and sit there for all eternity until it’s somehow removed, I politely hand my plate back to her. “Why don’t you eat a sweet little slice in my stead, Mari? I’m … ah … trying to watch my figure.”

She giggles, her eyes squeezing halfway into her nose. “Yes, yes, cute thing like you! Of course. I’m so excited with all the Upkeep I’ll get to do after this party!”

She’s undoubtedly referring to all the cake she’ll have to remove from Undead bellies tomorrow. Marigold never ceases to amaze me with the grotesque things she finds “fun” and “exciting”.

Ben, far less reluctant than I, grabs the fork from his plate and joyfully helps himself to a bite.

Then all the happy leaves my face.

“Oh my,” Marigold exclaims in half a gasp, the happy vanishing from hers as well and instantly being replaced with horror; not an expression she often shows. “Oh …!”

Ben belatedly yelps out in pain. The plate and fork drop to the ground. The pretty cake splatters everywhere. His mouth full of frosting, dribbled up his chin … he stares at his trembling hand in total bafflement.

Steam rises off his palm, right where he held the fork.

“Benjamin?” I manage to say, still staring. Asking a question with the one word … with his name. I’m dead and my bowels don’t function and yet I have a sudden urge to be sick, and I ask again: “B-Benjamin?”

“What’s happened?” he asks no one in particular, gawking at his hand, shaking, terrified.

“The f-fork …” I stammer. “It’s … It’s …”

“Made of steel,” he finishes.

And the Undead can’t cry, but when he lifts his gaze to mine, he looks on the verge of a million tears that will never, ever meet his face. We’re both thinking the same awful thing, and we’re both confused by the same awful fact. He is not Deathless. But why, then …?

“This is not a good thing,” Marigold decides, takes a bite of cake, chews, swallows, then repeats, “This is not a good thing at all.” Her rattled eyes never leave Benjamin.

“I’m not Deathless,” he announces very suddenly.

I nod at once. “I know.”

“I’m not.”

“We …” I look at Marigold, beseeching her. “We can’t let anyone know what just happened. We can’t tell anyone about this. No one.” She takes another bite of her cake, nods slowly, then swallows. “This … Benjamin, listen to me. This is just some strange—some very, very strange—and random occurrence, and … and …”

“Yes,” he agrees, clinging to my every word. The steam is still rising off his palm like a freshly put-out fire and we’re all pretending to ignore it. None of us are ignoring it.

“So, um …” He wants me to say more and I have no idea what to say. “Just, um … Listen, Ben, just don’t touch anything—metallic—for a while and … and we’ll figure this out. Don’t tell anyone. Neither of you.”

Marigold nods again, but she’s the real one I’m worried about. The dear thing is so flaky, so scattered, I can’t be confident she’ll keep it a secret at all. I wouldn’t put it past her to accidentally spill the gossip in some bubbly wave of excitement, blabbering on at her next Upkeep appointment, cheerily pouring her every thought into someone’s wide-open paunch full of cake and pastry.

“Say it aloud, please.”

“Hmm?” Marigold’s mouth is full. She shoves another forkful of colors through her lips. I think in her stupor, she’s forgotten how to chew and swallow.

“Mari, please. Say it out loud. Assure us that you’ll keep this a secret.”

She says it out loud, though through all the wax in her mouth, every word is a guess.

Benjamin hasn’t moved an inch since dropping his slice on the ground, literally; he’s turned to stone. I make a very brave and important gesture, bringing my hands over his, covering the steam and clasping them. “We’re going to be okay. We’ll figure out what’s happened.”

“Okay.” He nods finally.

“Yes, okay, good.” I pat his cheek reassuringly. “Let’s go inside, alright? Marigold, can you take him in?”

“Yes!” she exclaims suddenly, reviving. “Come, Ben! They’ve started dancing! Do you know how to dance?”

The two of them vanish into the house. I don’t follow.

The night swallows me up, though it’s just like day. I move through the yard, careful not to tread over any precious vegetables. When I come around the house, I’m met by a sight for which I was not prepared: Ann and the boy Jim leaning against the wall making out. It’s at this queer moment that I decipher what Ann was trying to mouth to me earlier, and it had nothing to do with wanting kittens’ toe bags. She was saying: I want to kiss him so bad. Clearly, mission accomplished.

Not wanting to disturb them and invite a fresh serving of embarrassment onto myself (and sweet Headless Ann), I move back into the house, cut through the party, and emerge out of the front door. The crazed old man who was hollering about fire earlier is collapsed on the porch, snoring. I delicately step over him, then descend the steps and saunter into town. No, I’m not ready for the dread silence of my home just yet. Neither do I care about relocating John at the party, wherever he’s gone; he can manage on his own now.

Feeling strangely unneeded and horribly burdened by too many things on my mind, I take advantage of the late hour by strolling down the empty, lifeless streets of Trenton. The Humans are all housed up or sleeping, and not a soul’s in sight to disturb me.

I start humming to myself, singing a little tune. My soft voice echoes off the walls of buildings, returning to me like little ghosts in the night. Maybe I can calm myself.

Even for the late hour, the swirling silver above me betrays the peace that a starry night sky ought to be supplying, so I just pretend there’s a hundred countless constellations watching me as I pass closed-for-the-night bakeries and marketplaces and trade shops.

I come to a stop in the Square, right at the foot of a great wooden stage. Sitting on its edge, I dangle my legs and stare at my imaginary constellations high above. In the morning, we depart for After’s Hold, but for now, I’m just Winter on a winter eve, fake-breathing in the night air and not recalling the horrors that occurred here. This is the stage on which I murdered the last Mayor. I beheaded him with a steel sword, the way you cut off the bruised end of a carrot stick. Whack.

I remember too well the sight of his neck steaming like a chimney. It haunts me, like Ben’s palm haunts me.

Only earlier today my Raise had said she could feel him … and I was certain she meant Grim. But what if she was feeling Benjamin?

Frustrated with the view, I hop off the stage and run across the empty Square. I climb atop a dumpster, then swing my legs over the low-hanging roof of a tool shop. Rushing across the loud, metal surface, I find a ladder leading even higher up. Climbing, climbing, I wonder if I could reach that silver sky. I’m mad like Mad Malory, high on desires and bubbling with thoughts and overwhelmed and dreamy, and I’m climbing so high that one slip of my foot could drop me to the cruel ground and shatter my every limb. Not that it matters, I’d survive. Even from the height of a cliff, I’d survive. I wonder if Mad Malory survived her fall.

I wonder … I wonder if Mad Malory survived.

But that thought is quickly abandoned when I find myself suddenly at the very top of the building. This high up, I can look over the Trenton city walls. Far into the distance, I see the tops of the leafless, creepy trees that hug our humble dwelling. Maybe if I strain my talented, Undead eyes, I can spot the Whispers, even from here.

Then I notice it. Fluttering in the sky some distance away. I gasp. With the silence of the area, my gasp is so loud, even in my own ears.

I see it … the bird. The freaking bird. It’s so far away, I can’t tell what kind of bird it is. Flapping its wings, beating the dead air, it makes a large circle somewhere far, far off, circling the deadwood. “No, poor bird,” I say to the night air, “you won’t find a thing to peck on in there.”

From down below, I’m suddenly caught by the sound of singing. I peer down and find that some lady has taken to the stage to sing. Her melody is eerie and mournful, filling the stark silence of the dead-of-night Square with resonating notes of grief and longing. The music fills me up in the best and worst way.

When I bring my eyes back to the sky, I find the bird is flying off now into the silver beyond, vanishing. The woman’s song haunts me while I view the sky, like an aching, reminiscing friend. My eyes trail off, scanning the forest skyline.

And that’s when I see the other thing.

There’s a rainbow glow mixing into the void … a spread of faint, distant colors bruising the horizon with its peculiar beauty. “What are you?” I ask, curious, studying the pretty colors. For a sick and hilarious moment, I wonder if some of Gill’s blood is still tickling my senses inside somewhere, teasing my eyes to life.

For a solid minute, I genuinely consider whether or not a night sky can look like a rainbow until it finally dawns on me what I might really be looking at.

Fire.

C H A P T E R – F I V E

D E F I A N C E

“I’ve been watching it for weeks.”

My jaw drops. “Weeks??”

“And it has not moved.” The Chief lifts his chin, his eyes guarded and heavy, likely with a hundred other things he has conveniently decided not to mention to anyone.

“Let me get this straight. You’ve known about that fire—for weeks—and haven’t said a thing? You haven’t even sent someone out to, like, investigate it? Anything? Do you realize if it comes anywhere near Trenton—?”

“The whole dry lot of us will go up in flames. Yes, I realize. I don’t want a town panic, so this news stays here.” He lifts a cup of water to his lips, makes a loud gulping sound, then sets it back down, heavy. “There is something odd about that fire … something I don’t trust.”

I look over at John incredulously, who I’d dug up from Jasmine’s party and dragged here to the Chief’s home. Still being plenty intoxicated, he simply stares at the wall pensively, unresponsive.

“But surely the gatherers have seen it,” I point out. “Wouldn’t they notice the smoke and flame, even during daylight? In fact, just now at Jasmine’s party, a man was going on about it.”

“A crazy man no one listens to. And no, the gatherers haven’t seen it. From the ground, its view is blocked. Did you look closely, Winter? This fire doesn’t smoke. It’s an odd fire.” The Chief shakes his head. “How does it stay in the same place for weeks? No matter what it’s burning, it ought to have put itself out by now.”

I have to admit, that part strikes me as odd, too.

“And that’s the least of our concerns,” the Chief goes on. “Gill’s been thrown in a cell. You might’ve noticed his absence at the … party, if that’s what you’re calling it.”

I blink two totally what-are-you-talking-about eyes at him. “Not that I would have expected his attendance, considering how vile he thinks our kind is, but why was he imprisoned?”

“Two neighbors of his, Murphy and Theresa—Murphy the Undead, Theresa the Living—got it in their minds that what Gill’s dead wife needed was a proper burial. But Gill won’t allow that. Got into a pretty bad tiff, and now Murphy’s decapitated and Theresa lost an ear.”

“Well. At least Murphy’s fixable.” I sit down on the couch next to John, who’s making half a snoring sound. I nudge him unkindly with my elbow, inspiring a snort and a grunt from him. “So why doesn’t he want her buried?”

“Well, isn’t that how you folk do it?” The Chief lifts an eye at me, like I have any idea. “Gill thinks they’re trying to raise his wife up as an Undead. Is that even possible?”

“I …” His question strikes me. “I … don’t know.”

“Gill prefers to do it the old way. Back at camp, when superstition taught us that our own dead could rise up against us, we would burn the deceased. He wants to burn his dead wife.” The Chief’s eyes hang heavy and he leans against the back of a chair, pensive, furrowing his brow. “I don’t know how to help the man. He’s lost it.”

“It’s understandable,” I admit. “I don’t really know the mechanics of … how Raising works.”

“Listen, I was going to save this for the morning, but seeing as you’re here …” His eyes harden. I already know I’m not going to like what he’s about to say. “I’m sending Helena to After’s Hold in place of you.”

Oh.

“Before you protest,” he goes on—and I’m totally not protesting—“I’m sending her because of her knowledge of them. She knows who they are and can work with them.”

Then it occurs to me what else this means. “You’re still sending John?”

“Yes. John will be accompanied by Gunner.”

Yes, he said that. “And who the hell is this ‘Gunner?’ ”

“He is our watchman and hunter. You might not have known him by name at the time, but he is the one who landed an arrow into you when you first happened on our camp long ago. The day you and I first met.”

Yes. I remember that fondly. The arrow plunged into me and, after a moment of confusion, I yanked it right out, thereby confirming what I really was to the whole of the camp: a Crypter, a Dead Thing, an Abomination …

“He is quick,” the Chief goes on, “nimble, and never misses. He will protect John and the others.”

Such a person must have had practice. I’m suspicious instantly. “And how many of us has he killed?”

“Sorry?”

“I asked how many—Crypters—he’s slain.”

The Chief narrows his eyes. “Helena will be safe.”

“And what of John? What of Jasmine? You know as well as I do how highly some of your camp people think of us. That is, not very. And now you’re sending—let’s get this straight—a trained assassin ninja archer-dude named Gunner into a city ripe with Undead to ask for help. Not the kindest impression to be making.”

“They are safer in his care. I assure you, he knows and respects the difference between Undead and Crypters. And though we may have wiped out the Deathless, we can’t be sure what else lies out there. If it were up to John, he’d likely pick the same companion.”

“John shouldn’t even go,” I protest. “He’s—well, look at him … drunk.”

On cue, John groans the words: “I can hear you.”

“And,” I go on anyway, incensed, “Helena is in charge of civic peace and decision-making among the Undead. Who’s going to run all of that?”

“You.”

For a wild instant, I want to pull off both my arms and my legs and pitch them at the Chief’s face, screaming. I realize, however, that I’d have no arms left with which to pitch them. These are the thoughts of an angry Undead.

“I can’t run a town!” I holler out. I literally feel like a child throwing a tantrum. Dad just grounded me to my room while everyone I know and love take off on a little journey. “I don’t know the first thing! You can’t do this. I should be heading out there.”

“The decision’s already made. Helena has agreed. It will be them four, no one else. It isn’t personal, Winter. It’s business.”

I cross my arms, acidly glaring at the Chief. He says something else about duties, something about keeping the peace, something about the respect the Humans have for me, and all I can do is slowly realize why I’m really upset: just when things were improving between John and I, he’s being taken away from me.

“Alright,” I murmur, defeated. “Okay.”

The Chief nods, his blue-and-grey-flecked eyes gleam. “Thank you, Winter. Take John home, make sure he gets all the rest he can. They will be leaving town an hour past sunrise.”

“Might need two.” I take John’s hand and pull him off the couch. He mumbles something, then throws an arm over my shoulder and together we step out of the house. I give the Chief one last doleful glance before shutting the door. Not that it makes a difference.

The trek home is horrid. I feel heavy and pained, and I know it’s an illusion because I can neither feel heavy nor pained, but suddenly this night with John just became a “last night with John” before he’s off, and I can’t handle that notion. Not now. Not with him being so …

Kind.

“Are we back yet?” he asks as I dump him onto the bed. He stirs against the bed sheets, a stupidly adorable grin finding his face. “Yes, we are. Mmm. Good. Mmm.”

“Good night,” I mutter sullenly, moving to shut the door.

“No,” he whines, reaching out a hand. “Come back.”

I roll my eyes. What’s he need now? I come to the side of the bed. “What do you—?”

And then he grabs me. I let out half a shriek, half a laugh, and John’s pulled me onto the bed, cuddling me into his body like a boy’s teddy. This was about the last thing I was expecting on a very long list of things I never thought John would do. With his arm clung tight around my waist, he nuzzles his face into the back of my neck.

Oh my god. We’re spooning.

“You smell nice,” he slurs drunkenly.

“Thanks.” I’m as rigid as a brick wall.

“For a dead person,” he adds.

Did he really just say that?

“How does that work?” He giggles sleepily, snuggling even more into my neck. “How do you smell so niiiice?”

“I don’t know.” For a dead person? Seriously? “An oil or, uh … perfume or something. I don’t know.” I’ve never felt this nervous in all my Second Life. I’ve achieved some sort of dream state. I can’t believe this is happening. “Ask Marigold. She does my Upkeep every other day or so.”

“Upkeep.” He giggles. I have never heard John giggle. “Upkeep. Funny word. Upkeep, upkeep, upkeep. Mmm. I need Upkeep, I smell bad.”

I smile ruefully. “Lucky me, I can’t tell.”

“I haven’t showered in days.” The arm he has around my waist grips even tighter. He moans groggily into my ear. “You’re so comfortable.”

“… Thanks.”

“I’m really glad.” He giggles again. That’s twice in a one minute timespan. Twice. “I’m so lucky. I’m so … so lucky.” Then I hear something like a choke.

It takes me a minute before I realize he’s crying.

“John?”

He’s still crying. It’s quiet, he barely moves, but it’s there. I hear him sniffle once, but he says nothing more. It kills me that I can’t see him, as I’m facing the wall, back pressed tightly into him. He squeezes again with his arm.

Then he whispers, “I’ve waited for you all my life. I’ve waited so, so long, and you’re …” He chokes again, a throaty sound that’s something between a laugh and a sob. “I’m so lucky.”

I don’t know what he was about to say. I suspect if he’d finished his sentence, he might’ve said, “Dead.”

It doesn’t matter. I let him hold me, uncaring, and he squeezes one last time before the sleep suddenly takes him away and his slurred moans are traded for deep, slow breathing in my ear.

I close my own eyes and pretend to dream.

Minutes turn into hours. Even a nighttime of being held in John’s arms doesn’t feel long enough. He stirs only twice, and both times he realizes anew that he’s holding me, and both times he changes his mind and clings to me again. I like that. A lot.

There’s a sharp rap at the door. I glance up at the window, then realize with a heaviness that I’m not going to be able to tell if it’s a visitor in the night, or if the cruel and hasty morning’s already come. With great effort, I slip out from John’s thick arms, cross the creaky floorboards, and open the door to find Helena standing there.

“I’m not happy about it either,” is the first thing she says, her lips pursed.

“Promise me you’ll look out for John, alright?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Is he ready? Sun’s up and the Chief is getting restless.”

“Not even awake yet,” I admit. “He’s … well, he had a rough night. Drank too much. Blame Jazz.”

“Wasteful, the Living. Wasting their wine, wasting their food, wasting their lives.” She shakes her head of black, perfectly-pruned hair. “That’s the real reason we’re scurrying up to After’s Hold to beg. ‘Please help us. We have wasteful Humans who don’t know how to manage their own resources.’ So humiliating.” She lifts a brow. “You know I’m going to be counting on you to keep the Trenton peace, right? It’s tougher than it looks.”

I cast my gaze to the floor, troubled. I’m still not ready to say goodbye to John.

“I’ll give him another hour,” she says. “Tell him to be ready and meet us at the North Gate. Jasmine and this Gunner character are set to go.”

I nod slowly. “Alright. I don’t know—Gunner—but I don’t much like the sound of him.”

“Let’s not make enemies just yet. If I recall,” she goes on, “we do owe the Living for helping us rid our city of the Deathless. That includes mister Guns and his quick quiver, Miss Winter.”

I force a smile. “I’ll see if I can wake him up.” Helena winks, then turns to go and I shut the front door quietly. When I turn, John’s already standing in the hallway. His scalding brown eyes pour into mine from across the room and his shirt hangs halfway off his body.

“You’re not coming?” he asks.

I gaze at the floor, then shake my head. Apparently he heard the words between Helena and I, but failed to pay attention last night. “The Chief’s ordered me to stay, to help run the city. He’s sending Hel instead.”

“Oh.”

We stare at each other. I don’t know what else I can say. I have a sudden and hilarious urge to thank him for cuddling me all night.

“Get ready,” I tell him instead. “They’re expecting you in an hour.”

“I heard.” He hesitates, as if about to say something else, then staggers back into the bedroom and closes the door behind him.

Bye, John. I won’t say it. I’ll do best just thinking it.

Twenty minutes later, after John’s taken a shower and donned his last set of clean clothes, I accompany him through the city to the north gate. Jasmine and Helena are in the middle of a conversation when they both turn, noting our arrival. Helena’s dressed from head to toe in black—even her lips are black. Jasmine’s nearly the same, but in green, and she has two satchels and a basket attached to her back. Her hair has several streaks of green woven through it and it’s been twisted up into a pretty bun shape. Long grey strands hang down to her shoulders and a few over her left eye. She smiles kindly at me.

My first impression of Gunner is, he looks like a twelve-year-old boy trapped in a man’s body, his eyes alert and constantly seeking their next target. His short, slender, nimble figure is wrapped in black and grey close-fitting linens. He has smeared some kind of color on the tops of his cheeks and his hair is a spiky, tousled mess. A heavy-looking crossbow is slung over his shoulder, a quiver of arrows bound to his back.

“The journey there and back won’t take longer than two and a half days’ time,” explains Helena. “Three at the very most.”

“See you all soon,” I say politely.

John nods at me. Jasmine and Helena move through the gates where I notice a wagon of sorts that’s been loaded full of plenty of items that shimmer. Weapons, from the look of it. Gunner even gives me a nod and a short wave of his hand. I still don’t know what to make of him and I don’t have any time to study the kid further because all my attention is on John suddenly, watching as he moves through the gate. Its hinges scream. The four of them trek down the path, the wagon squeaking, its burden clinking, clanging, further and further they go, the band of them growing smaller, the wagon smaller, all of it, going and going … then gone.

I fight a horrible urge to run after them. It takes everything in me to simply put one foot in front of the other and carry myself back to the Square. The activity there is no less than it ever is, even this early in the morning; all the marketplaces are open for business and the tents and kiosks are set up for their day’s trades.

I pass a kiosk selling steel bracelets, and am reminded of a very serious situation I’d neglected to solve last night.

Recalling most of our conversation at the party, it just takes a minimal amount of asking around before figuring out where he lives. In the second quarter, east end, adjacent to the Human’s quarter, I approach the carved wooden door and give it three solid knocks. A voice within, muffled, tells me to let myself in.

I’m reminded of John and my own house, how he used to let me in. A pang wiggles through me. I should’ve gone after them … I should’ve defied the Chief’s orders.

I’m being so dumb. He’ll be back in a few days.

I step inside. A long table stretches across one end of the room, a couch with two recliners on the other end, and a giant shell of a TV sits in the middle of the room in the way of everything, decorating a very old and tired-looking nightstand. Curled up against the wall is the tiny shape of Benjamin, like a cat who’s found a napping spot.

“Uh, hi,” I greet him tentatively. “You … comfy?”

“No.”

“How long have you been like that?”

“Since last night.”

I come partway across the room, run a hand along the top of the couch. “You realize it’s morning, don’t you?”

“No.”

I crouch down next to him. I realize I’m keeping a bit more distance than a normal person ought to. It’s like I’m subconsciously afraid of him now and I can’t stand that. “You should get up, Benjamin. We need to talk.”

“I could barely let myself into my own house.” His voice is broken, dejected, miles away. “The doorknob. I was so afraid to touch it. I know it’s brass or whatever, but I’m … so afraid to touch anything. I’m not Deathless.”

“I know. Get up.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No.” He points. “I took extra measures.”

I glance down. He’s gone and nailed himself to the floor. A larger iron nail is impaling his abdomen, stapling it to the wall. The sight is ghastly, and I thank everything I know that we neither feel pain nor bleed.

“I’d call this a bit of an overreaction.”

“It’s not,” he retorts. “I’ve seen how Brains is.” He winces apologetically. “Sorry, didn’t mean that to offend. But I know what she’s like. Crazy, blood-hungry. They eat people, Winter. I don’t trust myself now.”

“Where’d you get the nails? Never mind, I’m freeing you.” I grab the one in his abdomen while looking the other way; I can’t watch what I’m about to do.

“But what if I, like, leap onto some poor, unsuspecting Human and, like, eat them?”

“I’ll eat you before that happens,” I promise him.

The huge iron nails come out so easy, I’m convinced they wouldn’t have held him anyway if he’d somehow inexplicably lost control. I coax him to a chair, since he insists on not being allowed outside yet. He lights a candle by the table and we both stare into the dancing rainbow light. He assures me it’s the only thing that can calm him right now—a trick his First Hand Brandon used to do, setting fire to a little twig in the woods, and they’d watch it burn to nothing, their worries burning away with it.

I’m reminded suddenly of a much larger spread of rainbow on the horizon that Ben might find as fascinating, except that particular fire never dies.

John’s heading near that fire. It was in the north.

Surely the Chief would’ve realized that. He’s aware of it, after all. What if it’s After’s Hold that’s burning? Hasn’t he considered these things? Ugh … just like that stupid fire, my own worries won’t die either.

I shut my thoughts up with some conjectures: “Do you think, maybe, something was done to you at the Necropolis? Something you don’t remember? Or, or maybe there’s, like, a possibility that …”

“I don’t know. I really just … I don’t know. They took my legs. They …” He sucks his lips up in thought, his eyes diving into the rainbow candlelight, distressed. “So much happened. I don’t know.”

“Listen. Calm down.” I reach for his hand. He pulls it away, shuddering. “Ben … Whatever it is, whatever it was, it can be undone. It has to be. If there’s anything I’ve learned, nothing in this world is permanent.” I carefully consider some other options. “Maybe Marigold can do something. She could … I don’t know. Open you up, maybe. Look at you from the inside, perhaps? See if there’s something that maybe shouldn’t be in there. It’s her expertise, after all, and she already knows, so—”

“Last resort.” He shudders. “I think I’ve been plenty cut up enough, after our time spent at the Necr—N-N-Necrop—Nec—” He clenches shut his eyes. He can’t even say the word.

I’m about to put a hand on his back, then realize I’m wearing John’s steel ring, so I pull it off first. Surely he doesn’t notice. “Last resort, then.”

“Will I still get my Waking Dream?” he asks, quietly, uneasily. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted. To know what my life was. I heard the Deathless n-n-never get their Dream.”

I’ve no idea whether or not that’s true. But I feel like what he needs isn’t truth; he needs to be comforted.

“Of course you’ll get your Dream,” I tell him, pulling him in for a little hug.

I sometimes feel like Benjamin is the younger brother I never had, even if he’s been around as an Undead far longer than I. This little moment together, I console him the way I would my family. And in this new world, we are family. He and I. Jasmine. Helena … all of us.

One big dead family.

We watch the candlelight until it’s halfway gone, and I take that to mean half our worries ought to have burned away with it. But that’s far from true; my worries have all but tripled in the twisting flame. The more it burns, in fact, the more it reminds me of the rainbow in the sky, and how I just let John and my friends tumble toward it unknowingly.

I should’ve said something. The Burning Unknown … Emotions grapple within me like a storm and I can’t ignore them, not anymore. I can’t just sit back and wait. I’m so tired of waiting.

The Chief is expecting me at the Town Hall. I’m sure he can cope with a little disappointment.

“Do you want to get outta town, Ben?”

He stares at me, perplexed. “Huh?”

“I think … a little adventure would do us some good. You can’t say no to a little adventure, can you?”

Suddenly he looks eager. “When do we leave?”

“Now.”

In a fit of excitement, he gathers several items into a backpack, dons a shirt that hangs big as a curtain on his gangly frame, whips on a vest and some dirty jeans, then ties a so-called “lucky red bandana” across his brow. I tell him he looks ready to join a karate class, and he blinks at me and asks, “What’s karate?” before gently putting out the candle with a pinch of his fingers.

The little rainbow is gone. The big rainbow awaits.

We leave his house quietly. We’re also leaving behind his fears and mine, and no one can know. We’re deserting the memory of what transpired last night, of birthdays and cake and steel-forged cutlery.

To assure that no one knows of our departure, we sneak out the demolished quarter. There’s no city walls here, and the homes that were burned down long ago during the time of Mad Malory still remain like graves. Even the Undead won’t go near it, claiming it’s haunted.

I guess it sorta is.

As we trace the outer perimeter of Trenton, heading north, the only thing ahead of us is an Eternal Flame we cannot see from the ground … the Burning Unknown, the whatever-the-hell-that-fire-in-the-distance is. It’s a thing I only feel slightly guilty for not mentioning to Ben. There’s also a new Undead city that awaits us. And Helena, and Jasmine, and a Human called Gunner who tried to kill me once. And John.

“This is definitely what I needed,” murmurs Ben, his mouth twisted by this permanent smile that won’t leave him alone. “Where are we headed, exactly?”

I hear a snap behind us, a crack of branches. I glance behind, lifting a brow suspiciously, but find nothing there. “You hear that?”

Ben twists around, squints, shakes his head no.

It’s impossible to hide out here. With the lack of forest life, even the batting of eyelashes carry. “Alright,” I say finally, making sure I’m good and loud … and heard. “Nothing it is, then. Nothing at all. Let’s keep on.”

Two can play.

And in a matter of minutes, Trenton becomes just another thing in the horizon behind us. The Dead Wood and ruined terrain lies ahead. We both needed this. Yes, the Chief will be mad at me, but really, when have I ever been known to do what I’m told?

Ben gives me a smile. I wink back at him, and pretend not to notice the little Human following us.

C H A P T E R – S I X

A L L I A N C E

The old campsite of the Humans is eerie and silent. The tents were taken down and brought to Trenton in case the fabric was needed. The pots, the kettles, the weapons and even the clotheslines were taken too. All that remains is a ring of stones where their daily cooking fires blazed.

“Hungry?” asks Ben, poking a stick at the dirt. I realize there’s a plate and fork half-buried by ash and dead leaves.

“I’m surprised you can make a joke about it so soon.”

“Maybe I was a master of comedy when I was alive.” Ben dances around the circle of rocks, giggles loudly. “So should we stay here a while? Bake a cake?”

Having reached the old Human camp, I’m feeling a great sense of relief, because it means After’s Hold isn’t much farther on.

“We should keep going.” I wince at him. “Sorry, Ben, but I deceived you. We’re actually following John and Hel and Jazz—and some Living named Gunner. They’re heading to a city in the north called After’s Hold.”

“Oh, hmm.” Ben nods, sits down and continues to poke the soil with his gnarled twig. “I guess we must be catching up to them quick. Since there’s Humans among them, they must be taking resting breaks, unlike us who travel tirelessly and without pause.”

“Yes, well …” I peer halfway behind me. “Our little vacation here might soon be crashed.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t go on,” I admit, “if the little Human hiding behind that tree doesn’t go back home where it’s safe.”

Benjamin stares quizzically at me. I turn around, watching a tree where I know for a fact the little one is hiding. I wait ever so patiently. I’d wait for an hour if I had one to spare.

“I know you’re there,” I call out.

After a bit, she meekly replies: “I’m not going back.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I am not.”

“Your mom and dad are probably asking the Chief right now for my head.” I keep my voice even. “They hate me enough, Megan. I’m a terrible influence, blah, blah. I’m the reason you survived and, to them, I’ll be the reason you die too, no matter if I’m involved or not. And I’m not going to have you going where we’re going, as I can’t in any way guarantee your safety. Go home.”

Finally, she shows herself, stepping out from behind the tree. “You said Gunner is with them?”

I lift a brow. “Yes, that’s what I said.”

“He’s a bad person.”

This is news I do not want to hear. “What do you mean?” I come up to Megan, kneeling down in front of her, alarmed. “Tell me, please.”

“Gunner’s bad.” I can see it in her eyes, her fear of him. “He kept us safe. But he isn’t right in the head. I caught him stealing from the Chief’s tent a long time ago. He doesn’t know I know. I saw him steal twice. Leonard told the Chief once that he didn’t trust Gunner, and then the next morning, Gunner shot Leonard in the leg. He told the Chief he only mistook Leonard for a Crypter, but I know he was lying. The next time the Crypters attacked, the real Crypters, Leonard couldn’t run fast enough, and he was eaten. It’s all Gunner’s fault. He’s a bad person.”

“Okay.” I take Megan in for a hug, peering at Ben over her shoulder, concern bleeding from my eyes. I pat Megan consolingly. “Thanks for telling me, Megan. We’ll make sure no harm comes to them. Don’t you worry.”

“I’m still coming with you.”

“No, Megan. You can’t.” I keep hugging her, patting her head gently. “Please, Megan. Especially if Gunner is the kind of person you say he is, I can’t risk you around him. Please, Megan, please, please, please go home.”

“But it’s almost dark. I can’t.”

I look up into the sky. I’m so, so frustrated that I can’t tell if she’s lying or not. What a terribly inconvenient trait of the Undead.

“Megan … It’s not almost dark. It was hardly morning when Ben and I left, and I know for a fact that eight hours have not gone by since—”

“I don’t WANT to go back!” she shouts, enraged. “I CAN’T go back to that STUPID town. I’m sick of school and lessons and gardening … It’s all stupid and I don’t need it. I want to HELP, Winter! Please, please, PLEASE!”

I gape over her shoulder at Benjamin. What am I supposed to do?? He only watches with lifted, alarmed eyebrows, like a permanent shrug. A lot of help he is.

“Alright,” I finally say. I’m not gonna like this. “But … if you come along, you have to make me a promise.”

She pulls away, her face lighting up. I see the tears in her eyes. “Anything! I promise! I already promise!”

“The promise is … you have to stay hidden. And if anything goes wrong, anything at all, and we’re in danger, you have to run away. You must. Fast as you can, and tell the Chief back in Trenton. Can you do that, Megan?”

“Yes,” she promises.

And just like that, we have ourselves a deal.

“Does that mean we need to rest here?” asks Ben.

Megan pats the pockets of her little pants. “I came with snacks. Nuts I’ve been saving up under my bed. If I get tired, you or Winter could carry me.”

“Better Winter,” Ben says quickly, his eyes shifting.

I sigh. As if Ben could possibly think to sink teeth into darling Megan. “Yes, alright, okay. We’ll move on, then.” I give my little Human a wink. She beams.

Maybe I’m worried for nothing. Maybe After’s Hold will prove as helpful as we need it to be, and my worries with Gunner will simply be fruits of another dead tree.

We leave the camp and press on into the misty wood, which gives away to barren plains and vast spreads of nothing. In about an hour’s time, however, the harsh terrain gives to chunks of concrete and gravel—which I assume used to be part of a street. The sight of them excites me, because I haven’t yet seen remnants of the more modern world yet. Maybe these masses of cement are leftovers of a highway. Megan starts to play the curiosity game, of course, so I soon find myself explaining to her what cars are. Benjamin, being an Undead who hasn’t recalled the Old World yet, jumps in with his own questions, and suddenly I’m a guru of all things modern-world. I describe it all to them: trains, trucks, airplanes …

The pair of them think I’m making it all up, especially the part about machines that could take to the sky and quickly transport tons of people from one end of the planet to the other, until I explain that I’d ridden several. I remember not fondly the act of moving from one end of the country to the other. From a beachfront condo to the snowy hell in the north with bad internet.

The snowy hell in which I was asked to prom. The snowy hell in which my life would eventually end …

After all the reminiscing and explaining, I’m struck for a solid moment by how many things the world’s lost.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I realize I’d come to a stop, overwhelmed. “Yes,” I assure her, but I’m not certain at all if I’m okay. I’m having a rush of … something. An emotion—many of them—or maybe it’s a panic attack, I can’t tell. It’s the same feeling I had when my Waking Dream found me. I’m recalling conversations with my mom. A last moment with my dad in the hospital room. Some horrible thing I said to a teacher once, right in front of the whole class. I felt so smart and proud until she sent me to the principal. I remember a car ride down a very fast highway, and I couldn’t stop insulting the driver, telling him how stupid he looked in the new uniform my parents provided him. I’d known the driver since I was five.

I was a horrible person when I was alive. Claire was a horrible, horrible person.

“Winter?”

It’s Ben now who puts a hand on my shoulder, stirring me from the wretched thoughts that just held me hostage. I fight an urge to smack his hand away.

“I’m fine. Sorry.” I smile, pushing down the rage and the horror and the guilt and the fury that just tried to volcano out of me. “Got lost in a thought, nothing, it’s okay. We’re almost there, I think.”

In half an hour, I’m carrying Megan on my back and something is peeking at us in the distance. What I take to be the city of After’s Hold looks like a strange, pointy mountain. The buildings are tall, some of them jagged, some dull and blunt. There is a lot of dust in the air, quite different from the mist that settles around Trenton. This dust seems the product of factories, almost smoke-like. Its source doesn’t seem to be a fire, strangely. I’m somewhat relieved and twice as perplexed that there appears to be no evidence here of that enormous flame I saw back at Trenton, the one that twisted the distant sky. I suppose it isn’t here … whatever it is … but then where is it?

“We’re here?” Megan clings tighter to my neck.

Ben peers at me too, his eyes reflecting Megan’s same question. “I suppose so,” I answer, “though we still have quite a ways to walk.”

The closer we get to the city, the lighter I feel. Already I’m feeling elated. It’s hardly been a day and I already can’t wait to see John. What seems like ages and miles of walking later—I can’t be sure—it still feels like we have an eternity to walk. I wonder if After’s Hold is just some big dumb mirage and what we’re actually crossing is a huge ginormous desert of despair. Someone could tell me that right now and I’d believe them without question.

Suddenly there’s two people approaching us in the distance. We come to a cautious stop. Is this the … After’s Hold Welcoming Committee?

Megan slips off of me, tired of being held, I suppose. Benjamin steps next to me, his arm against mine, and he whispers, “They’re good people, right? Like you and I?”

Would a good person abandon her wheelchair-bound mother to chase into the night with a boy named Gill? Would a good person scoff at her dad’s final words to her as he lays bedridden in a hospital, alone?

Instead, I say, “Yes, Benjamin. We’re good people.”

He frowns at me. “I said they. Are they good people.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Deep down, we’re all good people. We all tried our best.” I watch them approaching, listen to the soft tread of shoe soles against concrete.

“Are … you okay?” Ben whispers.

The two individuals are close enough to be seen. Two women who look half like aliens. One has skin that seems eerily the color of a soft purple light refracted through a soap bubble. I literally cannot describe it any other way. Her eyes even appear soapy, like two transparent bubbles, and her smile is broad and full of lip. She wears a long, tight-fitting gown that’s all white but for a muddy rim at the bottom near her feet. The other woman’s skin is shiny and brown, like polished oak, and the whites of her eyes flash with kindness—I’ll call it kindness—and her hands are long and she also wears a gown, though hers is blue and spotted with tiny glass shards.

“Why, hello!” the soap bubble exclaims, flashing her teeth. “Are you two also fellow visitors from Tonton?”

“I …” I wrinkle my brow at Ben for a second before answering, “Yes, yes we are. Trenton,” I politely correct her, eerily reminding myself of my little Human’s dad, Ken. “The name is Trenton.”

“Trenton. Nice, very nice. My name is Oureoliaua,” she says, like I’ll ever remember how the hell to say that. “This is my sisterling, Beatautrilua. You both are so very welcome here in After’s Hold. The others arrived just twelve minutes ago.”

Twelve, she says? Not thirteen, not eleven? Twelve exactly? “Thank you. I’m very anxious to reunite with my friends.” I tell this to … Oreo. Let’s just call her Oreo. “Would you mind leading us to them?”

“And your names?” she asks, eyes wide and curious.

Oh, yeah, rude of me. “Sorry. I’m Winter. This is my friend Benjamin, and …”

I turn, only to find my little Human is not there. I let my eyes wander, alarmed … to the distance, to the one or two dead trees, to the giant slabs of concrete that sprinkle the land from here to infinity.

Where did she go? Has she already deemed these two women “danger” and fled home?

“And, uh …” I realize my mouth’s hanging open. I bring my attention back to the ladies who still curiously and patiently await the end of my sentence. “And … we are good people,” I finish uncertainly.

“Very, very, very nice.” Oreo looks at—whatever the other’s name is. Be-a-tortilla? I can’t even. “Winter, you said your name was?”

I smile flaccidly. “Yes. That’s me.”

The two of them exchange a tiny, candy-coated look. Their eyes reflect sugary glee. “Very, very nice. Let’s take them to the hotel. There are plenty of rooms open, yes?”

“Yes!” The other one beams. I’m not going to say she looks scary when she smiles, but I’d suggest for her to use her current facial expression sparingly. “We’ll put them with their friends, of course. The four who came with the wheeled carriage from Tonton.”

“Are you the sort of Dead who eat?” asks Oreo. I give a short glance at Ben, then politely shake my head no. “That is quite fine. We’ve both variety in our city. I would recommend a fine restaurant or two, but it seems that will not be necessary. Let us welcome you to After’s Hold! You must be rather weary from your journey, of course. This way, yes, please.” She flashes her eyes and spreads her hands demonstratively, leading the way.

I follow, giving one last short and troubled glance behind me. Where did Megan go??

Oreo doesn’t offer much time to think on my missing Human, as she pecks me with all sorts of questions about Trenton. Or as she keeps saying: Tonton. The entire time we approach the city, I’m telling her about the habits of the Trenton people. I explain the two main things our Undead “eat” … namely, wax and who-knows. When I ask about “real food” I am relieved to learn that they, indeed, have plenty of resources for Living occupants. The two ladies even excitedly confess that a portion of their population—albeit a very small portion—are alive.

“We will be most happy to share with the people of Tonton,” the tortilla lady exclaims. “We have more than we need.”

“Far, far more than we need,” Oreo lady confesses.

There are no protective walls surrounding this city, unlike Trenton. When we walk down the main street, which is surprisingly vacant of anyone at all, we find ourselves gawking at the height of the buildings. Just a typical one is twice the size of Trenton’s tallest. Oreo explains that in the center of After’s Hold, there’s a thicket of skyscrapers, in fact. Bank buildings and business towers from the Old World. The Seven Mayors that rule After’s Hold reside in the center tower, which they call Everhold. The Living aren’t allowed there, apparently, because the air becomes so thin near the top that they’re known to pass out from lack of oxygen. It’s quite a changed world.

“This way!” cries the tortilla merrily, spreading her hands as if to present a magic trick. “In here, yes!”

I find myself clutching Benjamin, though I can’t say whether it’s protectively or because I’m feeling in need of protection. Call me paranoid, but in my short time on this ruined planet, I’ve learned to trust nothing. And if there’s anything I trust less than nothing … it’s kindness.

“Here.” The women present the hotel, each pulling open a glass front door. All the buildings in this part of the city are brick, and the interior of the hotel appears in great condition, I must say. Clean-looking carpets. Sturdy walls, nice furniture … It leads me to believe the rest of the city might give just as good a first impression.

And if there’s anything I trust even less than nothing and kindness, it’s a good first impression.

“We will let you spend time with your friends, now,” says the Oreo. “The four of them are on the second floor, rooms 201 through 204, just as you get off the stairwell.” She gives us both a wink and a kiss. “If you need a thing at all, simply speak to Esandramelda here at the front desk.”

I thank her, give a short nod, and watch her leave the building with her tortilla friend. Ben has been pressed so close against me since we’ve entered the city, everyone’s likely to think he’s my conjoined twin.

“Where’d the little girl go?” Ben whispers into my ear.

I clench my jaw. I knew I shouldn’t have brought her along. I knew it. I knew it in my unbeating heart, in my stone of a bowel, in my feet. But Megan was acting so stubborn back at the camp … she simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“She went back home,” I answer, though I’m in no way certain. Where else could she have gone? It was like she literally just … disappeared.

“Think John and Helena and the other one are really up there?” Ben goes on, anxious, voice thin as paper. “Or do you think it’s some kind of—”

“Trap?” The smile I wear is sickly, I’m sure. “Funny, we both think so alike.”

“We share a certain memory of … being held captive in a c-certain p-place. Megan, too. And Helena. I think it’s rather … understandable, all our levels of … mistrust.”

For a sudden moment, I consider what my real reason is for bringing Benjamin along. Did I bring him with me because I really wanted to help him overcome his crazed emotions? Or is it because … is it because I don’t trust him among the Humans of Trenton anymore?

Just the thought makes me feel so, so guilty.

“Think Helena will be pleased to see me?” asks Ben.

I am Deathless, I am Deathless. Brains is still haunting me. I genuinely believe she’s still facing a wall of her cell, even now, saying that stupid chant over and over …

I push open the heavy door to the stairwell. “Only one way to find out,” I tell him, pressing on, and the familiar, unfriendly sound of cement heartbeats swallows us as we slowly ascend.

C H A P T E R – S E V E N

C O E X I S T

With every step, I’m telling myself over and over that Megan is just fine. She simply slipped off my back and made a quick run for Trenton. She was scared away by the approaching ladies. Considering one of them was basically purple and her eyes looked like soap bubbles, I don’t blame her. I’m guessing the ladies must’ve seen us coming from far off or were somehow expecting us. I’m trying to justify why they came out to greet us and bring us in. Hopefully there is no … ulterior reason. Hopefully there is still such a thing as true hospitality in this world.

When we push the stairwell door open on the second floor, the four rooms, side by side, are spread before us. I quickly rush up to Room 201, unsure which one houses John—assuming the rooms house who they were said to house at all. I bring my knuckles to the door and knock.

The door to Room 204 opens instead, and Jasmine’s head pokes out. “Winter??”

If I were alive, I might gulp. I’m suddenly nervous about what their reaction is going to be. I’m, after all, not supposed to have followed them here. “Hey, Jazz! I, um, hey, here’s Benjamin. You remember him, of course.”

“Hi,” he says, giggling with relief.

I have to agree with feeling slightly relieved. The sight of Jasmine confirms that they, indeed, made it safely here, and that no harm has come to them.

Yet. “Where are the others?” I ask quietly, as if I might disturb someone’s sleep, as if all the rooms in this hall hold irritable families on vacation or scandalous, raunchy love affairs in progress. Listen to me, I’m so jaded.

“Gunner and Helena have gone downtown,” Jasmine explains with a shrug. “Business with the Mayors. I heard some paperwork is in order, something that needs be done before we can trade resources.”

I wrinkle my brow. “Trade?”

“Yes. Well, see, we brought a very large supply of our steel. It’s one of the only commodities Trenton has. And they’re willing to give us a very, very generous helping of their foodstuffs. Enough to feed our people properly for many months.” Her face lights up. “Winter, I don’t know why we didn’t think to do this sooner. We have such great neighbors here in After’s Hold!”

I’m listening to what she just said. I’m listening again. “But, but Jazz … that means …”

“Yes, yes. They’re basically accepting all of our steel as part of the trade.” She laughs, pulling on a long strand of green-grey hair. I realize she’s in the middle of fixing a braid that had come undone. “They’ll make much better use of it, in such a big city as this. Without the Deathless, sweetheart, we have no need for it. What we do need is food for our precious Living, and the kind After’s Hold is generously providing.”

I don’t trust this at all. “Jasmine … that’s our steel.”

Her face hardens, puzzled. “Yes, I know. Steel we don’t need anymore.”

“Says who?” I find myself angry in an instant. Angry, panicked, suspicious. My Raise … Helen, Brains … she keeps saying she is Deathless—and isn’t the last. She even pointed north. “Jasmine. Something isn’t right. My Raise, she said to me she wasn’t the last of them. She pointed north—here, most likely. I can’t be sure, but … Jasmine, I think she was trying to tell me there’s Deathless here.”

“Oh, Winter, rabbit. Really, you can’t fear the world your whole life. Winter, please, you can’t live like that.”

“I can’t live like anything, Jazz. I’m dead. So are you, by the way. So’s he, and her, and them, and—”

Jasmine crosses the hallway at once, places her hands on mine. Her face comes really close, her gaze intense and uncompromising. “Winter, listen to me. Your dear Raise is going to sense the presence of Deathless all her Second Life, and she will sense their presence everywhere, no matter if they’re nearby or not. She cannot be relied on. Her mind is simply gone. For now, and for good. I feel terrible to say this, but I never had hope for her from the moment we started trying to rehabilitate her. Once a Deathless, always, I’m afraid.”

I close my eyes. I don’t know what to believe, or who. Jasmine has always been so wise, a person I could turn to for answers, but … but this time, I feel so convicted. I feel like she’s the one with the blinders on. She’s the one who doesn’t see it …

“Once a Deathless,” I hear Ben repeating, his voice heavy and detached, “always. Deathless she is, Deathless forever be—”

“Alright,” I say, cutting him off, opening my eyes and feeling plenty is not all right. “Alright. I … I won’t bring it up again. I’m sorry.” I’m not sorry. And no matter her words of comfort, I will keep looking over my shoulder until we’re far gone from this city I don’t trust.

“By the way, that’s Helena’s room,” Jasmine points out, nodding at 201, “and as I said, she’s stepped out to manage the trade. 202 is the archer’s, and 203 is John’s. I believe he’s napping right now. If you like, I’m certain that 205 and 206 are unoccupied. Don’t even need keys.”

“Thank you, Jasmine.”

She puts a hand to my cheek, likely sensing I’m not yet at ease. “Why don’t the two of you rabbits get some rest? It was a long journey, I do know.”

“You can go ahead,” I tell Benjamin. “Take 205, if you like. I’m …” I’m at a loss. “… gonna check on John.”

Benjamin seems nervous to part from me, but he agrees and, with only slight hesitation, slips into his room, gently shutting the door behind him. Jasmine smiles at me one last time before disappearing into her own.

Quietly, I put a hand on the doorknob to John’s room. I open the door, surprised it isn’t locked, and let myself in. With a rush of relief, I find him sitting on the edge of the bed. His elbows are resting on his knees, hands hanging and limp, and the second I enter the room, he’s lifted his eyes and his body goes rigid. His eyes brighten, and I can’t tell if it’s more from surprise or relief.

I, for one, feel deep relief. I smile. “Hi, John.”

He doesn’t smile just yet. Instead his brow furrows and he asks: “What’s wrong?”

That’s so John. “Nothing’s wrong.” For some reason, I don’t want to lay all my issues on him just yet. I have a sudden and selfish desire to just … enjoy some time with him. “Can I come in?”

“You already are.”

“True.” I’m inside, sure, but I’m standing by the door. Please, John. Don’t be awful today. Not now. “What time is it?” I ask him, peeking at the totally untelling window.

“Sun’s got at least an hour or two before it sets.” He’s studying me with his every word, suspicious. John isn’t dumb; he knows I’m here for a reason, and it’s likely not a good one. “Want to take a seat, then?”

Ah, some hospitality. “Yes, I do.” I lower myself into a chair by the window, surprised by its cushiness. Really, even hotel rooms here are better-kept than the houses and businesses of Trenton. We could really take a lesson or two from this place. “Nice to get off my feet.”

“We’re trading our steel,” he says.

The tone of his voice suggests he isn’t thrilled about the idea either. “Jasmine told me. I … I didn’t know that was part of the plan.”

“Neither did I. Helena was the only one aware of it. Even Gunner protested when he learned. Feels a bit odd, doesn’t it?” He bites his lip, scrunching his face up in thought. I see his dimple peeking out the side of his face. I’d really rather be sitting next to him on the bed, my arm against his rough ones, than over here in this cushy chair. “Feels a bit like we’re giving up the only thing that’s made us feel safe. Do you really think the Deathless are gone?”

“Well …” I find myself trying to think of things to comfort John with. “In all fairness, it isn’t all of our steel. Nearly every citizen in Trenton has steel jewelry, so …”

“We can’t win a Deathless war with earrings, Winter.”

I lift my hand. The dull steel ring John gave me long ago still lives there. “I’ll kindly remind you that I was able to incapacitate a humungous, ugly Deathless monster with this little thing.”

“Oh. You still wear it,” he remarks with half a smile, as if just now noticing.

His coy little smile is the best thing I’ve seen here yet.

“Never removed it since that day.” I won’t mention that I took it off for ten minutes while consoling Benjamin in his house this very morning. Tiny unimportant details, I figure. “Do you think we’re safe here?”

“We complete the trade tonight. It’s in and out. Swap a wagon full of steel for a wagon full of food. We leave first thing in the morning, giving Gunner and I time to rest. And … well, I guess it’s to show our appreciation, too. Don’t wanna seem ungrateful for their generosity.”

“Of course not,” I agree.

I get up from the annoyingly comfortable chair, pace around the room, poking at things. John’s eyes follow me. He’s still trying to work out why I’m here, I can feel it. Though I’m proud to note that he does not seem to be at all unhappy that I’ve come. In fact, I’d rather prefer to say he seems comforted by my presence.

When I stroll by the window, I watch a pair of ladies walking by, each one weirder-looking than the other. It’s not soap-bubble Oreo or her sweet companion. These are two other, stranger-looking women.

What is up with the fools in this town?

“Don’t you find them a bit …” I search for the word. “… too nice?”

I hear the bedsprings, then suddenly John’s come up to the window next to me, peering down. “Since we’re here for a night, maybe we should …”

“Poke around,” I finish for him.

He shrugs. “I was gonna say snoop and investigate and figure what the deal is with these people, but okay. ‘Poke around’ works. Let’s go poking.” He pouts his lips at me and squints.

I think I’m supposed to interpret that as humor.

Assuming Jasmine and Benjamin will do fine relaxing in their own respective rooms, we make our way down the stairwell and cross the lobby. When the desk clerk lifts her eyes from a book, she seems instantly concerned.

“Is something the matter, Miss Winter?” she asks.

Startled by her remembering my name, as I hadn’t been directly introduced just yet, I smile politely at her, reflecting her kindness like sunshine. “Oh, not at all, you sweet thing. We’re just getting a little dinner.”

She smiles bright, showing all her teeth. Her lips are the yellow of lemons, her white hair greased flat to her head, and ill-fitting oversized reading glasses rest on her nose. “I might recommend Jeremy’s Diner. Just around the corner on King’s and 4th Street!” When she smiles big, her eyes are gone. May she never smile again.

“Thank you.” I take John’s hand and briskly make our way out of the hotel.

Strangely, it isn’t until we’re on the street that I realize I’m even holding John’s hand. Like I’m his little lady-thing. I let go, embarrassed. “Sorry, it was just—”

“A good idea,” he agrees, taking my hand again. When I give him a look of surprise, he adds, “We’ll look stronger if we’re—y’know. If we look like a thing. People won’t mess with us.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe they think I’m one of you.” He shrugs his big shoulders, pouts his lips again. “We didn’t tell them one way or another.”

“Trust me. If they get you in a quiet room, they will know.” I think fondly of the day I first noticed the gentle drumming in his chest. It’s still my favorite pastime.

Though now, I might consider holding John’s hand my new favorite pastime.

The streets are not quite devoid of people. We see a person here, a person there, a couple here and there, but no bustling crowds like that of Trenton. It seems the size of the city is deceiving; it could conceivably have less of a population than Trenton, in fact. Also, these Undead seem to take a certain pride in their appearance, just like us, though clearly their aim isn’t to look “Human” but rather like afterschool craft projects.

We opt not to visit the suggested Diner, and instead take a seat on a pretty wrought-iron bench in the center of a small courtyard sandwiched by four short buildings that may have been, at some point in their history, libraries or banks or trendy fashion stores. I’m sure one of them is a famous fast food chain. I recognize the drive-through.

“The quietness is … eerie,” I whisper.

John grunts for agreement.

We’re still holding hands. I’m so, so, so very aware of this fact. Way too aware. He’s made no effort to let go.

I lean into him slightly and whisper, “Let me know when you want your hand back.”

“Alright,” he grunts.

But neither of us let go.

I feel a breeze snaking through the narrow streets. For a moment, I imagine cars driving past us. I pretend I can hear alarms and honking in the distance, police sirens, the noise and chatter and laughter and steam of a city. When the dream of it all lets go—when that imaginary past fades away—the silent, ghostly streets meet my eyes again.

“I wish I could show you what the world was,” I tell him, thinking somewhat fondly of it.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … well, I just now am realizing. You, being alive, you’re trapped here, in the present. All you know and all you’ve ever known is this … empty, dead world. But we Undead, we’re trapped in the past.” I draw quiet.

“You mean … you remember your past?”

Better now than never. “Yes,” I finally confess. I let my eyes drift across the courtyard, observing how very alone we are. “I … I recalled everything. It was a while ago, actually. I hope you’re not mad that I didn’t tell you.”

He’s silent for a moment. “How long ago?”

“When … I killed the Deathless Queen.” John doesn’t react. I continue. “I remembered everything in an instant. Just like they warned me. I … I was an awful child. I grew into a worse teenager. I died before I turned twenty.”

His hand clenches mine tighter. I feel his arm pushing against my side, like he’s drawing closer to me. Though it’s imaginary, I feel like I can sense his warmth. The hard drumming of his heart pulses through his arm, tickles me.

“Go on,” he mutters.

“My name was … C-Claire.” I swallow unnecessarily. “Claire Westbrook. When the memory of my life came back, I … I couldn’t tell anyone, actually. I was filled with so much shame for how I’d lived my life. Claire was … Claire was awful, John. She was really, really awful.”

“How’d you—” He stops himself, licks his lips, then changes a single word. “How’d … she die?”

“She froze.”

He puts his other hand over mine, clasping my pale little hand with both of his. I look down, surprised. Then suddenly I feel his chin rest on the top of my head. His hand begins to rub gently, slowly. I watch his hand move.

“It’s okay,” he mutters quietly, so quietly I hardly hear it. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

I catch sight of a store window across the courtyard. For a moment, I feel like there’s a pair of eyes watching us. Then suddenly they’re gone.

“John, I think we’re being—”

“It’s okay,” he tells me again, letting go and wrapping his arms around me.

Squeezing now, my face is pulled into his chest and he’s hugging me. Hugging me. John the Human is hugging me with his big arms and I listen to the loud, thunderous drumming of his lifeblood. It’s okay, he says, and I have to question who he’s saying it to. Surrounded by the song of John, I forget completely about the suspicious eyes or the fact that I think we’re being watched.

“No one is alone in this world,” John says finally. “I’m not. You’re not. We all suffer together, Living or Dead. The world’s closing its eyes to sleep and we have to keep ours open as long as we can.”

I lift my head and look him in the eye. John’s tortured, wetted eyes. His cheeks, blushed red from the subtle bite of cold that I’m certain is in the air. His lips, full and parted and breathing.

“John …”

“You can let Claire go,” he tells me, “or you can hang on forever. The only you I know is Winter.”

And then he puts his lips onto mine. I don’t even have time to gasp or prepare. His arms squeeze me tightly. His large hands gripping my back like a tool in a sweatshop. My hands find his solid chest, playing up to his broad, impossible shoulders. And our lips make wet, angry fire.

He pulls away, staring into my eyes. He looks angry. He looks hungry. He looks maddened and vicious and …

And then he kisses me again.

Suddenly my back’s fallen to the bench and he’s over me. His body lays on top of mine and his lips give me no room for air, and I realize stupidly that I need none.

Even in my First Life, I’ve never kissed so deeply.

Our mouths part and he stares into me again, like some enraged lion pinning down its prey … against a park bench. I’m the prey, by the way. For one self-conscious moment, I wonder if my face is still intact.

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly.

I lift my eyebrows. Is he serious right now. “What?”

“Am I hurting you at all?”

I could say a hundred different things right now, make my usual Winterish jokes about being dead, but all I can manage to say is, “No. Not at all.”

Just like a normal Living girl.

Like his normal girlfriend.

Then he finds my lips again, and if there’s anything I ever wanted in this vast pain-riddled second existence, it’s for those warm Human lips of his to never lose mine again. I feel so alive, and that’s without the help of—

While kissing John, I’ve suddenly distracted myself with thoughts of Gill. Both Gills. The one who’s cruelty left me to die, and the one who’s blood left me to live. I’m inappropriately considering how different … how much more this experience would be if I’d had a taste of blood. Just a tiny little taste.

Would I feel the warmth of his breath on my face?

Would the rush of blood awaken my every nerve? His electric hands? His ravenous kissing?

Would I be more alive than I ever was … when I was alive?

He snorts and pulls away from me in an instant, his eyes bewildered, surprised, flashing. I stare up at him, confused at his reaction.

“You bit me,” he mutters.

Did I? “I didn’t even mean—” He’s brought a finger up to his lip, inspecting it. Did I seriously bite him? Did I hurt him at all? A rush of agony and remorse thunders through me. I shake my head, rattled. “John, I really didn’t mean to. I was just caught up in the … We were both so …”

And I realize with equal parts dismay and amazement that—even with the tiny nibble I made of John’s lip—the sky appears faintly orange … still grey mostly, but the tiniest hint of color has invaded it. A ghostly sunset.

Really? Is that all it takes?

“It’s okay,” he insists quickly, even though he’s moved off of me now, even though our moment of passion is so abruptly ended.

I murmur quietly, “It’s not okay. Biting means … it means something else in this world. But when I was alive, it was just …” I can’t even justify it, not when I can’t even trust my own intentions. What was I hoping to do, really? Draw a little blood? I can’t even be sure.

“It’s okay,” he insists again, that stupid thing he keeps saying.

I sit up. I can’t look at him. The eyes in the window of the store are back, and the moment I spot them, they go away. “I think we’re being watched,” I whisper.

He looks up, his maybe-bite forgotten. He casts his gaze to the left, the right. “Where?”

“That window, straight ahead.”

His eyes focus. “We should head back. I’m not feeling comfortable here.” He rises from the bench, and I have to wonder sulkily if his comfort’s been broken by the eyes in the storefront, or by my little … love bite.

Then suddenly he’s grabbed my hand and I’m on my feet. We’re holding hands again, and the sky is orange.

I keep up, clinging to his side, ignoring the orange-grey sunset. “L-Let’s not appear too panicked,” I whisper.

“Good thinking.” He lets go of my hand and puts his arm over my shoulder instead, pulling me in tightly as we walk. “This is better. Just a guy and a girl, huh?”

Just hearing him say that, I feel like I could blush.

Having returned, we push through the doors of the lobby. The creepy yellow-lipped desk clerk is absent, so we hastily move up the stairwell, returning to room 203 and quietly shutting the door behind us.

He sits on the bed, staring ahead at the window. I just hover at the door, unsure whether I should stay, or find a little peace in my own room. I’m fairly sure our moment of passion has long gone and I’ve ruined everything.

I’m turning to leave when he asks: “I thought you’re supposed to be taking Helena’s place at the Town Hall?”

His question catches me by surprise. I come up to the foot of the bed. “Yes, but—well, basically the Chief said that I—” At this point, I feel pretty much awful lying to John. Especially since I can still see orange outside, the sun setting, a Human’s day ending. I should tell him the truth, though I struggle with figuring out which truth to tell him. “To be honest, the Chief … doesn’t know I’m here.”

John twists around to look at me. From the look in his eye, he’s already assumed that much. He doesn’t know the full extent of my worries, however. No choice but to tell it all. I wring my hands, considering what to say next.

“Go on,” he says cautiously.

“There’s a … a very big fire,” I finish. “It’s enormous. And it is somewhere up here, in the north, and I don’t know what it is, and it’s been burning for weeks and hasn’t moved. The Chief knew about it, but—”

“He told us.”

Oh. “So … have you figured out what it is?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s helpful.” I move to the window, staring down dubiously at the street. A pair of men pass by, and one of them peers upward. For an eerie second, it feels like he’s looking right at me. “I don’t like this place.”

“So you came here because of the fire?” he presses on.

Really, John, the reason I’m here is because I couldn’t stand to be away from you for too long. How ridiculous is that? Separation anxiety, much?

“Not just the fire,” I confess, facing him again. “I … I had a little situation with Benjamin. So I … I brought him along. He needed to get out of Trenton. Desperately. Megan saw us, followed part of the way, but she’s gone back home.” I feel sick that I can’t actually confirm that. For all I know, she’s lost in the wilderness between here and Trenton, hugging her knees and crying.

“And?” He’s sensing there’s more, clearly.

“Well, I guess I was worried about … you. I have trust issues. I don’t know these After’s Hold people. I don’t—I don’t trust Gunner.” I press my lips together. “Megan told me some things about him. To be fair, the first time I met him he tried to kill me.”

“If it makes you feel better, I don’t like the kid either. I think he’s cocky, I think he’s immature, I think he’s got problems, but so do I. I’d trust that kid with my life. He’ll put an arrow through anything that tries to harm me, or you. He’s changed since he’s been in Trenton. We need a chance to kill our demons, Winter.” His eyes detach from mine, his last words hitting him. “We need a chance.”

I think suddenly of Claire. “You’re right.”

Unexpectedly, he grabs my hand again and pulls me up close to him. I’m surprised (and thankful) that my left hand hasn’t come off yet, with all the yanking. He brings me closer, even though I’m close enough, and suddenly I’m on his lap and the bedsprings are moaning in protest.

“Everyone deserves another chance,” he whispers into my face. His Living breath tickles my nose, dusts my cheek like a gentle spread of fingertips. His eyes pour with longing, smoldering me. “Everyone.”

Is this his way of saying I’m forgiven for trying to sorta-eat his sexy lips?

“Agreed,” I murmur back.

His face crashes into mine, the world somersaults, and for the next long while, I can’t remember where we are or who I am. I’m just a girl in his arms, and he’s just the boy I’m kissing.

He pulls away from my lips only long enough to toss his shirt aside. I kick off my stupid shoes and we’re lost in each other’s faces again. Would Claire have been so bold? I guess the best and very worst part about remembering your First Life is realizing how reckless dying has made you. I can do anything I want now. I can be anything. I can have anything. Even him.

Maybe this is better than living. I don’t care anymore. Whether it’s Claire or Winter who kisses John with such passion, I don’t care at all.

In this moment, I’m alive no matter what I am.

Later, when John sleeps, I find myself once again trapped in his arms. It’s the only place I ever want to be trapped for the rest of my Second Life. I grin stupidly and I close my eyes and pretend to dream. Yes, yes, Pretender no more, but I’ll pretend tonight. I dream about another life … a Third Life. John and I are together. We have a backyard and a swing set. We have children, and they grow up in a world without worries. They laugh and they breathe the air and they never want for food. They have a cute pet puppy and they don’t mind that it isn’t the one from the magazine. They grow up happy.

When I open my eyes again, a haze of angry colors fills the window.

I bolt up.

“What is it?” John asks, awakened instantly.

I race to the window, but no one and nothing’s in the street. Only a vague, multi-colored wash, like a fog or a sheen of mist. “I don’t know,” I say, confused. “Stay here. I’m heading out to see what it is.”

I quickly make for the door, but … “John, it’s locked.”

“That’s good,” he grunts, rubbing his eyes with a fist. “I didn’t think they even locked.”

“Locked from the outside,” I stress, panicked.

Suddenly, there’s a lot of noise outside the door. I step back, alarmed. It sounds like many feet. Heavy feet.

Armored feet. I spin around and urgently whisper: “John, go! Go!! Hide!! Run!!”

It’s too late. The door swings opens and I’m blinded by fire. I try to defend myself, but suddenly I’m pinned to the wall by a man engulfed in flames. “Get off me!” I throw a knee into him. I fight his grip, but nothing frees me. This is a dead man in flames, and many more are pouring into the room. I can’t even see where John is. I start screaming out for him, horrified, imagining that he’s being burned alive. “Stop!!” I scream, even though I have no idea what they’re doing because I can’t see beyond this man-on-fire in front of me. “Let him go!!”

Suddenly the colorful flame-men begin to move like a strange, bright liquid structure, and I’m swept out of the room. I catch one brief, horrible glance at Jasmine, who is being similarly abducted by fiery men. I yell something at her, but only seconds later I find myself helplessly forced down the stairwell and through the hotel lobby.

The yellow-lipped desk clerk makes no effort to help, only watching calmly as I’m dragged away.

The city streets are a blur of color and madness. I’m thrashing my feet, stabbing anything I can with my expert heels and screaming so loudly, I’m certain I’ve broken my throat in half by now. No one comes to my aid. The men have me by the feet and arms and neck, half-dragging me, half-carrying me down the streets of After’s Hold.

I beseech the sky, only to find I’ve become dead again.

“John!” I scream out at the ever-grey nothing above, begging for his life. “Jasmine! Helena! Benjamin!”

The men carry me through a set of doors, and I listen to their heavy feet marching up another flight of stairs, their every step like a hammer of sound through my bones. I have not made this easy for them, still fighting against their grip to no avail. I think my clothes have caught fire. I don’t care about my condition, what I look like, if they’re carrying a naked woman up a staircase, it doesn’t matter. I feel nothing but terror and I have no thoughts except John.

After ascending what feels like six thousand steps, suddenly I’m dropped to the floor. Without missing a second, I jump to my feet and race for the wall of the room where I find a picture hanging of a bowl full of kittens. I throw a fist into the glass, grab one of the shards it creates, and brandish it for my weapon. “Get away from me!” I’m terrified to the point of hysteria. My eyes don’t know where to look—so much color, so much fire.

With my back to the wall, glass shards at my feet, the longest in my hand, the raging flames of the room dance hypnotically. They’re each a person … each flame is a man or a woman embraced with fire. An Army Of Fire.

One flame stands out from the rest … a green flame. He is shrouded in a heavy cloak, a hood that swallows the whole of his head. The green flame takes only two steps in my direction, then mutters a single word: “Drop.”

The flame-people drop to their knees, obeying.

And the green one lifts his burning hood. A pale and handsome face shines through the fire, and I see within it a single, shimmering green stone … his eye.

C H A P T E R – E I G H T

G R I M

“Hello, Winter.”

You know. Like he’s just visiting the neighborhood, checking up or something.

Seeing as Grimsky and I know one another quite well, I suppress all the complex, knotted feelings that just made a quick home of my belly and blurt out: “Please don’t hurt the others, Grim. You know some of them. Just let them be, please. If I mean anything to you at all, please …”

“Alright.”

I wrinkle my face. That easy? I glance over the room, surveying the ten or twenty men and women that simply stand there, like it’s perfectly normal to let a fire rage around you all the days and nights long. “What’s with all of the …? Who are all of these …?” I can’t even finish a sentence, for as dumbstruck as I am.

“My friends.”

Okay. “Can you make your—friends—leave?” I eye them with contempt. “I’d rather speak with you alone.”

“I can make them do whatever I want.” He sounds almost proud, except for the lazy, almost bored drawl of his voice. “Out, please.”

The flames, as if robots that have just received some kind of signal, uniformly move out of the room.

Suddenly I find myself twice as terrified as I was with them in the room. “Grim … if they even touch one of the Humans, they’ll burn them alive. Please tell me they—Have they already—?” I’ve struck myself silent, horrified.

“Oh? There are Humans among you?”

Is he playing with me? “Yes. Two.”

“Strange.” Grim bites his own lip in thought. The green flames lick his face and swim through the air around him like emerald serpents. “The only people we found were you, Jasmine, and Helena.”

I watch his eyes carefully. Or rather, his eye.

“If there were Humans among you, we did not find them.” He seems to be watching me just as carefully, though I can in no way say for certain. The green stone in his eye socket from which he “sees” has no pupil. The only means of expression he has with it is in the subtle slant of an eyebrow. “I see you care deeply for them.”

I say nothing. I realize anything I say can be a weapon he can use to hurt me.

“You’ve become even more beautiful,” he tells me. “Time’s only done you pleasant favors.”

Half my dress is singed or burnt, most likely. The flesh on my neck is probably charred and I’m pretty sure I look like I fell through a chimney. “Thank you,” I say anyway, running a hand through my white tangle of hair.

“No thanks needed. I was always fond of you. I know I betrayed you, but … if I recall … I also saved your life. Twice. I’ll never forget that cliff where we met.”

“Or the vile Warlock you stabbed in the gut. Didn’t kill him, though. Jasmine finished the job you started. Got him right through the eye, in fact.”

I know I sound hollow, I can’t help it. The last time I saw Grim, I’d clipped his binds and set him loose. The crowd of survivors in the Square booed and hissed and treated him not so kindly, throwing things, chasing him out of the city. The image is forever burned in my mind.

“Winter, there is so much I want to tell you, and—”

“This is all my fault,” I say suddenly, cutting him off.

Grim smiles at my words. Somehow, despite green flames and that creepy glowing Warlock’s Eye, he’s still strikingly handsome when he smiles. “There is no such thing as fault,” he says, as if educating me. “Otherwise, I’d hunt the world wide for someone to blame for Raising the first Undead that ever existed. Whoever he or she was, I pity them. Must’ve been quite a lonely day, don’t you think? I wonder who named them? I wonder if they named themselves? I wonder if they walked the planet nameless, lifeless, deathless …”

I realize I still haven’t let go of the adorable horror-movie glass shank I made. “I gave you that Lock’s Eye. It was mine. It saved my life, that little green thing.”

His smile quakes slightly. “I don’t hold any hatred for the people of Trenton. You saved them, Winter. You. All I did was invite fear and … and mourning. I will never be able to atone and they will never forgive me. But I can do them the ultimate kindness. I can do it now. I have the power.”

When he says the word ‘power’, his eye shimmers boldly, like a promise. Part of me feels like I should’ve ended his existence in the Trenton Square that fateful day long ago … but I didn’t. And to be honest, I’m still not sure if I could, even now.

“What’s with these ‘friends’ of yours? Why are they all on fire?” My Raise’s warning creeps into my mind. I am not the last. “Are you, like, the new Deathless King …?”

He chuckles lightly, as if I’d told a cute joke. “No. I have abandoned that name. They died along with … their Queen.” He winces. “She made a ceremony of consuming Living flesh and giving those who bled a reason to live in fear … No, no, that’s not my purpose. Not anymore.”

I glance at the window, worried sick over where John is. Did he escape the hotel somehow? Did he make it out of the bathroom window, perhaps, scaling down the side of the building? From the strangely intimate attachment Grim’s followers seem to have with him, I wouldn’t be surprised if they hear one another’s thoughts. If the flame-people found John, Grim would know, I’m sure of it.

Of course, Grim has lied to me before.

“What’s your purpose, then?”

He steps toward me, crossing the room. His boots slap against the wooden floors. Yes, wooden floors, and I can’t by any stretch of my dead imagination explain why the whole damn city hasn’t burned down yet.

“The end is always near,” he says. “Whether a man or a woman or a child … or a tree, or a little bug waiting for a foot to crush it, or a spider web. Death is a gift, Winter. You and I have it. Let’s share it with the world.”

“Um, okay. But some still happen to be alive, so—”

“And we’ll give it to them, too,” he murmurs. “Your friends. All the people of Trenton. They will thank us.”

“Um, no.” I grip the glass tighter, ready to give him something equivalent to a paper cut for our kind with this stupid glass shard. “It isn’t up to you who lives or dies. Grim, you sound just like the Deathless King.”

“You see the terror in their eyes, don’t you? How they fear for their lives every single day? How they slump with exhaustion, and grovel when they’re sick? How they turn rash enough to kill a friend when their stomachs growl?”

“It’s called being alive.”

“And we can save them from that. We can save all of them. If the whole population were Undead, every last one of us, there’d be no more suffering. Don’t you see? Until each tree has fallen, until every flower has wilted, until the sky is painted in permanent silver, we will know no peace. It is inevitable, Winter. Death is inevitable.”

“So … this is about killing all Humans, is it? Genocide? All you care about is hunting them down like some crazy person and ending their lives?”

“No.” He smiles almost kindly. “More than that. I’m describing a complete and total annihilation of all life on the planet. Tree. Grass. Berry. Fruit. Animal. Every last breath. Every last drop of blood. Every last ounce of fear.”

Without anything alive, there will be no more blood. I will never be able to see the sky again. Never be able to …

He says: “No one will ever suffer again.”

“You think the Dead don’t suffer?”

He shakes his head. “Not all suffering can be avoided. For instance, I really want to kiss you right now, but I am politely refraining so as to … respect you.”

“You’d burn half my face off anyway,” I spit back.

“My flame won’t touch you. It won’t touch a thing unless I will it to, in fact. Must be one of my Warlock powers. The fire is mine to control, just like my friends.” He reaches for my hand and I quickly raise the shard of glass higher, ready to slice and dice and whatever else I’ll be forced to do in self-defense. “It’s simple, Winter. Our fire burns until every last Human is freed.”

“ ‘Freed.’ Oh, Grim … Don’t you value life at all?”

“Yes,” he tells me very seriously, his face hardening. “I value life very much. But Winter …” He takes my hand, and I let him this time. He brings it to his chest. “This,” he declares. “This is life now. You and I. We, we, we are the life. They?” He points. I presume he means to point at all the Living that are left in the world. All the Living and Breathing and Beating-Of-Hearts out there. “They are not life. They are not even living—They are dying. They will always be dying … and I want to save them from that.”

“I don’t consider myself ‘saved’ Grimsky.” My eyes detach from his green one. Staring off at the window, or maybe miles beyond, I confess to him: “I consider myself Damned. I am Damned, eternally … Damned to no pulse and no passion and no hunger. This is no life.” I shut my eyes, furious … horribly, horribly furious …

Furious because a wretched, shameless and disgusted little part of me … agrees with him.

“Bring both of your friends to me,” he says; a request, not a demand. “If they die naturally, I cannot guarantee their eternal existence. If you bring them to me, however, I will Raise them Undead.” I open my eyes, staring at Grimsky long and bleakly. “You’ll watch the life dissolve from their bones and the Undeath take their bodies anew. Witness it yourself, Winter. It’s rather beautiful.”

I notice he’s still holding my hand to his chest. It’s the hand that bears John’s ring, and I’m watching steam rise from his chest. He isn’t so much as flinching from the obvious pain he’s feeling, pressing my hand there.

I’m drawn to it. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Yes,” he confesses, smiling.

“May I have my hand back?”

He lets go. I reluctantly reclaim my hand. The steam seems to follow, hovering around my fingertips like little hissing ghosts.

“I wish I could see you without all that stupid fire.”

His smile is gentle, hopeful. “Someday, you will.”

I move across the room, feeling somewhat braver now and hoping beyond hope that John has, somehow, found a spot of safety out there. I’m clenching my own hand, steam still softly rising from it.

“So they do whatever you say?” I ask.

“My friends? Yes.” He’s approaching me from behind. I’m letting him. “Think of them more as … extensions of my conscience. Just extra sets of hands. Once the mission is completed, I’ll let them go. All of them.”

“You control them? Like … zombie-slaves?”

“The gifts of the Warlock’s Eye are different for each person who uses it. I suppose when I got the hang of my own powers, it manifested in the creation of Undead. I don’t think the last Warlock could Raise anything.”

“Your Warlock powers seem pretty fond of fire too.” I say it with an acid tongue. “Or is the fire an illusion, and that’s why it doesn’t burn anything but yourselves?”

“I can’t explain why it works the way it does. I’ve had lots of time to … play with my new Eye. There could be many explanations. For one, the last Warlock was alive, blood in his veins. I am not.”

“You are not,” I agree, saddened, desperate to reunite with my friends and just go home … except I wonder if, in a matter of time, there will even be a home to return to. The Human-Undead drama of Trenton is even far more preferable to a world blanketed in Fires of Damnation.

“Winter.” He puts a hand on my bare shoulder. It almost feels cold, his skin. “Please, please, Winter. I’ve waited so long. When the others first arrived, I was so disheartened to hear you were not with them. Imagine my joy when I got news that you, in fact, had come.”

I wonder, had I not made the choice to follow my friends here, would Grim have captured John? Would his life be ended by now, Raised as an Undead …?

“I have nothing left to lose,” he recites like a poem, so gently into my ear I find myself shivering. I remember a time when I thought he was a poet. “When a person turns Deathless, they make a certain and permanent sacrifice.”

“What sacrifice?” I think on Helen … Brains. I think on Benjamin and what he may or may not be.

“They sacrifice their First Life. The Deathless will not experience the Dreaming Death. Somehow, the Deathless Queen convinced us how useless our Waking Dream is … the False Self, the Old World, the Spirit Truth, the Life Flash. So many names, none of them able to contain it.”

I turn to face Grim now. “You mean … You haven’t had your Waking Dream, and now you—?”

“Never will,” he finishes.

I stare at him. A part of me truly wonders, what did I gain from my Dream? A very long series of cruel, prickly memories? A horrible girl named Claire from which I try, every day, to dissociate? A tangled web of guilt and pain?

Maybe Grim’s the lucky one. Maybe I’m the one who ought to be pitied.

“I can’t let your Humans leave the city,” says Grim. “It would betray the philosophy of my whole existence. I have my Eye on them, Winter. You will see. They will see. Death is a gift.”

Suddenly, there’s the point of a sword coming out of his ribcage, and he’s screaming.

“Run!!” shouts a little girl’s voice from behind him.

Instantly, I’m horrified. The sight of Grim in pain, in fact, makes me hurt too. “Grim!” I shout, for a moment not knowing where to put my hands, how to help him. Then in the next maddened instant, I’m wondering why the hell I’m trying to help him.

“Winter!! Go, go, go!!”

But I can’t. Not just yet, because suddenly I’m taken by the obvious way to solve all our troubles. I grab Grim’s howling face like a high school crush’s, then reach in to take his eye.

He’s too quick, though, knowing precisely what I aim to do, and while clenching his eyes shut, while issuing screams that could shatter the glass of every nearby building, while cursing the world and the mystery-killer at his back—and me—he wrestles away, shouting words I cannot make out; I doubt they are kind ones.

I lunge again for his eye, and suddenly Grim’s armed himself with something very sharp and he’s thrashing it at me, swinging it blindly, his eyes shut protectively.

The blade cuts a slash through my dress. I can’t get to his face. He swings again and the blade slices through my cheek. Before I know it, the green fire he wears is burning so bright, I can’t even see his face anymore …

“RUN!!” the little girl screams.

And then I’m going. I grab the hand of the girl—Megan—and bolt for the door. The sword still impaling him, the green and fiery figure of Grim collapses to the ground in a rage, still screaming, twisting and reaching for a way to free the blade from his chest.

Neither I nor Megan stay long enough to learn if he ever frees himself.

C H A P T E R – N I N E

E Y E S

“This way, this way,” she beckons me, unafraid, as we avoid the stairwell and, instead, sprint down a hallway toward an open window.

“I don’t have a favorable history with jumping out of tall towers,” I confess.

“We’re not jumping. I found a door with a big long hole and a rope thingy we can slide down!”

“Huh?”

When we reach the opened door of an elevator shaft that’s missing the actual elevator car itself, I realize what Megan was describing. “I’m not a very good climber, admittedly, but—”

“Just let me ride your back and you slide down!” She pushes me toward the door, eager. “Hurry, hurry! They’ll be coming for us!” She begins climbing onto my back, not even sparing me a second to prepare myself.

Staring down the—oh my god, are we on the sixtieth floor or something??—elevator shaft, I feel my stomach drop to somewhere around my knees. Even knowing I could survive the fall from a cliff, it does nothing to ease my natural fear of heights. Tentatively, I reach out for the cables, hoping to get a hold of them first. My fingertips keep missing them barely. The steam still lingers, hissing from the ring on my finger. Grim, the effect my hand had on your chest still isn’t leaving me be, apparently …

“Brace yourself,” I warn my Human backpack.

“Go, go, go!”

Gripping the cable now, I leap and wrap my legs around it like a dear, sweet lover. Instantly I begin to slide downward, my hair flying up and the air of the tunnel rushing past my face. I think I hear Megan shriek for a moment, but I soon realize it isn’t from fear; the fall is downright exhilarating, actually.

“THIS IS FUN!!” she screams.

“Hush! Don’t draw attention!” I say, even with a grin of excitement plastered across my face, and I’m pretty sure my voice is lost in the rush of wind moving by our faces, throwing our hair.

I wonder for a moment if I could’ve negotiated with Grim, had I had more time. But when I consider the hot conviction in his eyes, how they burned with a dream he’d latched himself onto … No, there’s no changing his mind, I’m certain of it. He talks about the others being under his control, but it’s almost like he himself is the one who’s been brainwashed into some death-seeking world-annihilating zombie.

As we near the bottom, I tighten my grip, slowing our descent, until we safely touch ground. Carefully, I pull open the elevator door and emerge into the first floor hallway. I hurry through the exit door to my left and the street’s cold embrace welcomes me.

“That way,” Megan points, still clinging to my back.

“Did you find the others?”

“John and Helena are hiding in a bread shop that’s just down the street from that horrible hotel you guys were staying in.” She leans in closer. “But I couldn’t find Jazz or Benny.”

Just as I round the corner, we’re spotted. Two blazing men start hurrying down the street in pursuit. I bolt the other way, praying I can run faster and not drop the little Human on my back.

“We need to find her!” I cry out, frustrated. I’m really beginning to panic, now. “We can’t leave without Jazz!”

When I turn another corner, I nearly crash into a lady with bubblegum-pink skin and bright purple eyes. When she looks at me, something is missing—her awareness, her mind, her thoughts, I can’t tell. But I get the eerie feeling that the men-on-fire are not the only ones Grim’s found a way to control.

“Come,” she murmurs almost lazily. “I have a safe place for you to—”

“Shove it, Grim!” I yell at her. “Leave my Living be! Let us go! If you ever loved me at all!”

I shove her into a wall, hurrying further down the street while the lady continues to call at my back, insisting that her hiding place will keep me safe, and I already know it’s just Grim in another face, another body. Is there anyone I’ve spoken to in this city who wasn’t controlled by Grim somehow? The desk clerk at the hotel? Oreo and be-a-tortilla? Were they all just Grim’s “extra hands” …?

“I’m sorry about Grim,” Megan says into my ear, gripping my neck tighter.

I don’t know if I am.

We turn down another street, Megan insisting to know the way, and suddenly a burning man is pursuing us. I have no idea where he came from. Then, from out of nowhere, another appears right in front of me, bursting from the door of a shop.

When our eyes connect, I feel like I’m looking into Grim’s eyes … what his eyes used to look like.

I dart the other way, racing down a side street that empties onto the main drag. “Hurry, hurry,” Megan cries into my ear, and I can’t help but feel like I’m being chased by ten Grims, by a hundred Grims, by a thousand Grims. All of them have his eyes, even the women, even the little fiery children. He is everything and everyone. I can’t get away from him, no matter where I turn.

“There, there,” she directs me.

I try pushing through the door, but it’s locked. I slap my face against the glass of the window to the bread shop and bang, bang, bang my steaming fist against it. “John! Helena! Let me in, it’s Winter and Megan!”

Their faces lift up from behind the cash register. The sight is one of the most beautiful in the world, the two of them. My Reaper and my heart.

“Hurry!” I shout, feeling the eyes of Grim on me, feeling him everywhere. “We gotta go! Now!”

They rush out of the store and, together now, the four of us run down the street. If we continue on, we’re well on our way back to Trenton in just the same way we came. Such a shame we couldn’t enjoy the hospitality of this place a bit longer. I’m sure before it was taken over by Grimsky that it was, in actuality, a decent place. You know, something you might have found in a travel brochure.

When we break from the edge of the city and begin to cross the shattered slabs of highway, I realize we’re alone. Helena’s noticed the same. “Why aren’t they pursuing us further?”

“Likely because we’re out of his range,” I say, coming to a stop. The whole city carries the Undead’s colorful haze of rainbow-fire.

“Whose range?”

Better now than never. “Grimsky’s.” I turn to look at Helena, finding her eyes wide with surprise. Clearly she wasn’t expecting that answer. “Grimsky’s behind all of this. He’s something of a Warlock now, I guess. Except he’s Undead, so … well, that so-called Army Of Fire is his. They’re under his control. And he’s trying to … annihilate all life on the planet, or something.”

“Of course he is. And why wouldn’t he? Sounds like a downright pleasurable pastime.” She glares, then adds, “It was a mistake to show him mercy.”

As if I don’t already feel horrid enough.

“What about Gunner?” asks John between inhales. I forget sometimes how inconvenient being a Human can be, especially when we seem to be running for our lives all the time.

“What about him,” grunts Megan bitterly in my ear.

“And Jasmine!” I point out, alarmed. “I need to go back! This is all my fault, John, Helena. I should—”

“She’s fine,” says John, wheezing. “She has to be fine. We are not going back in there.”

And Ben! “And the wagon of food!” I go on, unable to help myself. I’m in hysterics. “A-And our steel!”

“There is no wagon of food. There never was,” bites back Helena, annoyed. “Those fire-nuts burned it all. Their Humans too, all of them. Dead now, I guess. They stole our steel. We were morons. The Chief and I are stupid and we made a stupid deal. We shouldn’t have trusted anyone, neighbors or not.”

“They’re not dead,” I tell her. “The Humans who lived here. Grim is Raising the Humans he kills. He wants to turn the remaining world Undead so there’s no Living things left. Even the plants, the trees … everything.”

“Undead trees. Never thought I’d live to see—Oh, I made a joke.” Helena sears the sky with her glare.

The haze of colors seems to be deepening, brightening and glowing and rising. I guess that’s the nature of a fire; it burns and burns, and anything in its way burns too.

“This is not good,” says Helena, her voice suddenly calm. “They’ve disarmed us, Winter. Now when these Neo-Deathless raid Trenton, we’ll be defenseless.”

“They won’t raid Trenton,” says a voice.

All of us turn. Gunner stands on a tall slab of cement, his crossbow slung over a shoulder. His hair’s a mess and there’s a nasty cut running down his face and neck.

It makes me feel guilty that for a split second I was hoping it was Jasmine or Benjamin.

“We’ll think of something when we’re back,” says Gunner, “but we’d better hurry and go now.”

I step forward, eyeing him. “Did you see the others? Jasmine? Another Undead who may have been with her?”

“Jasmine and I were running together,” he says, “but we got split up. I don’t know what happened to her.” He squints at me, his oily eyes full of focus. “I’m certain a woman with her smarts and her cleverness will find a way out. We can’t just wait here for her, though.”

Studying his face, I am so conflicted. Do I trust him? Has he really changed, like John insisted? Or is Megan’s hatred of him justified? After Grim’s speech about second chances, and then proceeding to try and capture and kill my Living friends … I find my capacity to trust anything shot beyond repair, even to trust that the ground beneath my feet will still be there if I keep standing on it.

“She knows her way back,” John agrees quietly. “She’s the town forager, after all. She knows the lay of the land.”

“I came with another friend, too,” I say. “Benjamin. Did you see him?” Gunner shakes his head no.

“Good old Ben made it out of the damn Necropolis without an inch of our help,” Helena points out. “And that was without legs. I think he’ll manage.”

“Let’s go,” calls Gunner, leading the way. John and Hel follow. I watch them for a while, uncertain, pained. I don’t share any of their confidence. Maybe Grim’s words are still affecting me. Maybe a part of me is genuinely swayed by his vision of the world … painless, lifeless, no worries, no fears … no tempting blood …

I look behind me at the burning city, almost admiring the spread of sickly beautiful colors that threaten to touch the sky. “I’m sorry,” I whisper to them, hoping Benjamin and Jasmine are, in fact, not in that city, and that my apology is in fact falling on vacant ears.

As we’re walking down the shattered highway, Megan leans into my ear from behind, still clinging on tight, and says, “Maybe someday I’ll be more than Human. Maybe someday I can help put a stop to it all.”

“You’ve done enough for a lifetime,” I say back.

“Winter, we still have the other Warlock’s Eyes. Don’t you remember?”

Long ago, Megan had found three green stones near camp and gave them to me thinking they might grant us leverage during the Battle For Trenton. I kept one for myself—which literally saved my existence. Of the other two, one was given to the old Judge Enea, who sadly was killed anyway, and the other to Jasmine. In theory, they protect us from the powers of a Warlock, and if worn by the right person, can bestow powers … apparently such as in the case of Grim, to whom I gave my own stone. After the Battle, the one from the short Human Warlock was claimed as well, totaling three currently in our possession.

I kept Old Judge Enea’s stone. Jasmine’s stone and the one that was taken from the short, metal-legged Warlock we’d killed were taken back and are being kept safe in the Town Hall Treasury.

“Yes,” I admit, reflecting on them all. “I remember.”

“That’ll save Trenton! We just need to use the Lock-Eyes!” she exclaims, like she has it all figured out.

“No, sweetheart. It’s more complicated than that. We have tried many times, to no avail.” I even remember Marigold popping one of them into her socket. She didn’t suddenly become capable of anything extraordinary, except when she blinked it made an awful squishy sound. We tried the Warlock Eyes inside several different people and nothing made a difference. They’re just dull green stones now, dead as the dead. Whatever connection Grim seems to have with his, it’s bequeathing some strange otherworldly abilities on him that I cannot explain.

“Oh. Too bad.” Megan sounds gravely disappointed that her idea to save Trenton has already been squished by big bad Winter. There’s not much I can do about that. My own heart is too heavy to believe in any miracles, let alone green stones that won’t even glow in our presence anymore.

I really can’t get to Trenton fast enough.

Megan slips off my back finally, giving my hand a squeeze, and joins the others ahead. As I follow, I choose to leave behind my labyrinth of emotions, which feel more like tattered threads on the sleeve of some ruined dress … like a red one, for instance, with a hole through its stomach. Like Hilda’s best dress, impaled by the steel sword. Like Claire’s red prom dress, impaled by my mother’s kitchen knife.

Grimsky in a tower somewhere in that burning city, impaled by the blade of a brave Human girl.

Feeling a mild sting, I bring my hand up to inspect it. It’s still steaming, even now. Frowning, I slide John’s steel ring off, wondering how Grim’s wound could possibly still be lingering on my palm … and notice the skin under the ring is charred black.

I stare at the ring now, pinched between the thumb and index finger of my other hand. A new tendril of smoke, soft and airy, begins to rise. When I drop the ring in alarm, my fingertips are still hissing.

C H A P T E R – T E N

S K I T T E R

It’s actually kinda funny. As we’re walking through the barren landscape, breaking into what I’ll lovingly call the No-One-Lives-Here Woods, and trekking over a dusty lowland that might have once been a swamp that I’ll hereby name Gross-Things-Underfoot-Don’t-Look-Down Dry Lands, I have my own chant going through my head:

I am not Deathless.

I am not Deathless.

I am not Deathless.

If there’s anything my First Life has taught me, it’s that denial is the most powerful force we are capable of. If any semblance of science existed in this world, I’d argue that the reason we don’t remember our First Life when we wake as an Undead is because we’re in instant denial that we are dead at all. At once, we deny our existence, deny what’s happening to us, deny that we ever lived …

Horrified at our new self, we’d sooner believe that this is a Second Life than we would that we ever had a First.

“You alright?”

It’s John who scares me out of my thoughts. He lifts a brow, noticing he jostled me. “Yes,” I say, reassuring him quickly. “I’m still a bit preoccupied with … you know.”

“Jazz and your friend Ben, I know.”

Yes, I’ll let him think that. I won’t mention the other two things that haunt me. Grimsky, for one. And my sudden and inconvenient steel-allergy development.

After another hour of walking, Gunner and John say it’s time for a rest break. Even with the Undead stamina of Hel and I, we’re both as exhausted from the recent events as any Human might be, and a rest sounds downright necessary. My body might be able to walk for all eternity, but my mind is blown to pieces.

Gunner makes a spot against a slanted grey tree to redo his bandages while Megan curls up next to Hel, who is uncharacteristically rubbing Megan’s back like she were a daughter or a favorite niece; I’m thinking she’s just a step away from braiding her damn hair.

John and I share a mound of twigs, peeking through the leafless branches into a swirling grey sky. His shoulder is pressed against mine and his hand is close by. I hope he doesn’t notice I’m no longer wearing his ring. With present circumstances considered, I doubt he cares much; Jewelry’s not forefront on any of our minds.

“We can’t stay here long,” says John.

“I know.”

He sighs, rocking his head to one side, resting it on my shoulder. I lean into it and try to smile, ignoring my worries. I don’t want to calculate whether or not Grim has already left After’s Hold with his army, or how long we have before we’re descended upon. Maybe Grim is feeling patient and won’t think to claim the Humans’ lives in Trenton. Surely his self-proclaimed “calling” can wait a day or two in the very least.

The whole way walking, I stared at Megan’s hair as it swung left and right with her every step, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how easily and effortlessly she struck that blade through Grimsky’s chest. I keep telling myself it isn’t my fault that she’s capable of such horrors; it’s the world’s fault.

We have no other measures left to take but desperate ones. It’s all we have, the whole desperate lot of us.

John’s fingers fumble around a bit before suddenly I find him holding my hand. I glance down at our entwined fingers, feeling empty and far away. “We need to evacuate the city,” John whispers to me.

“The Chief would never allow it.”

“Helena will back us up. She is, after all, half the ruling power of Trenton. I can find Garden.” He squeezes my hand, shifts himself on the ground to get comfortable. “I didn’t think I’d need to pursue it again, since we had Trenton. If that green-eyed madman is going to invade anyway, then—”

“I won’t let that happen.” I’d told them everything that transpired at the top of that building. It already feels like it happened weeks ago. “Get some rest, John.”

“We should be home by now. That madman and his whole burning army could be—”

“We may not have a home anymore.” I release my fingers from his and climb to my feet.

He peers up at me. “Winter?”

“I need a moment.” When I see the look on his face, I lift a hand. “I’m alright, I’m fine. I just … I need a moment to gather myself. I’m fine.”

With that, I walk away. I would love nothing more than to curl up with John and cuddle in the middle of nowhere, but every dead part of me is revolting against the peace. I hear no further protests from him, so I figure I’m okay to wander the area a bit while the Livings rest.

That and I can’t stop the guilt from torturing me.

I kick a rock and listen to it skipping through the woods, finding a new home somewhere else. Likely what we’ll need to be doing soon. All this fighting we have endured the last six months simply to make Trenton habitable and harmonious between Human and Undead, and it’s all going to waste because Grim has some selfish vision he must fulfill. I’m so angry at him I feel like my whole body could burst into green flame itself.

The worst part is, I know how unhappy I’ve been. With the small and precious exception of our final day in Trenton, John and I were not getting along. Most of the Humans never got to trusting us Undead, preferring us to stay as far away as possible. In many of their minds, we were the ones who didn’t belong in the town, as Trenton was originally owned by Humans back in the time of the Old World … before our kind even existed. I can’t say for sure which faction I sided with, for all the bitterness that I harbor for my own kind.

I guess self-hatred doesn’t look pretty on anyone, no matter how you wear it.

My foot kicks into a dead tree branch. Peering down at it, I jump back and my eyes grow double. It is not a tree branch. For several seconds, I can’t even process what it is because I’m too busy telling myself that it isn’t what it looks like. Reluctantly, I crouch down to get a better look, still keeping plenty of distance.

It’s a three-foot-long insect leg.

I glance to my left, then to my right. I peer up into the trees, but there’s nothing there. No spiders, no spider webs, nothing. Without touching it, I check the—thing—again. It could be the leg to a cricket, maybe. A very, very, very, very large cricket. Or a cockroach, perhaps.

A very, very, very large one.

I tap it with a foot. Nothing. Tentatively, I kick it. The thing still doesn’t budge. I was pretty sure every ounce of my squeamishness in this world was dead … until now.

I hear a quiet skittering. I look up.

And that’s approximately when a tarantula the size of a human drops on my head.

The thing that bursts out of me to save the day is not bravery or courage, no sir … It’s a blood-curdling glass-shattering scream. The second thing is a desire to run like some wild forest animal, throwing my legs in whatever direction they care to take me while swatting blindly at the monster on my head. All I see is my own white hair and three dangly, nightmarish spider legs.

Quite suddenly I stop. That, or I just ran into a tree.

The spider-monster-thing flies off my head finally, landing heavily on the forest floor. For one wild minute, it’s like we’re facing off; me and my two terrified eyes locked onto the giant arachnid and its … six billion eyes. I feel like a warrior—without a sword.

Then I’m screaming again and running in the opposite direction. Quickly, I happen across the huge cricket leg thing, and I find myself picking it up by one end. Yes, this now becomes my weapon, and I brandish the huge cricket-leg-thing to battle the huge spider-eyeball-thing.

This is happening.

It leaps at me. I shriek and swing the leg like a baseball bat, but I miss completely and hit a nearby tree instead. The spider circles me and I swing again, grazing two of its legs ineffectively. You’d think I were trying to gently massage the thing for as clumsy as I am handling my improvised cricket weapon. To be fair, cricket-weapon swordsmanship is not a skill I include on my resume.

The thing scuttles to the left, to the right, surveying me with all its gross little eyes. With sudden and psychotic conviction, I charge at the spider and thrust my weapon in a glorious arc, clubbing the spider squarely on its head. It bounces, lurching expertly to the side. My weapon, being a hairy, thorny cricket leg-thing, I find it exceptionally uncomfortable to hold, and suddenly I’m doubting the effectiveness of it at all. The spider is still dancing around me—the subtle sound of its giant feet brushing and playing at the crispy, gritty ground is all I hear. The thing neither hisses nor squeaks … only tittering and clicking.

I throw my weapon aside. Why not. Casual reminder: I’m Undead. I lunge at the spider because my next plan of attack is, apparently, to grapple it into submission.

Yes, this is now happening.

The enormous spider-thing definitely makes an effort to evade me, but after three quick attempts at grasping its prickly—ugh, never again—legs, I get a firm grip and pull it toward me. I can’t arm myself against it, so I figure my best technique is to disarm it. Literally. I wrestle with the critter as it wriggles, fighting my attempts at pulling off its arms. It strikes its massive pincer-like teeth into my arm, then pulls off again—retreat, jab, retreat, jab. Finally I hear a snap, managing to dislodge two of its legs. I toss them into the air like boomerangs I pray will not return.

Then the spider gathers some unseen strength, and without warning it launches up my body. Suddenly it’s managed to topple me over. On my back now staring at spider legs, huge pincer-teeth-things and thirty-hundred eyes, I’m screaming again—less out of fear and more out of a mad, wild-woman attempt to right myself and get this ugly thing off me—while it passionately tries to make a lunch out of my face. With my hands occupied in keeping its teeth far enough away so that it doesn’t actually eat my face, I have no spare hands with which to shunt it off.

I hear a sudden thrum, a sound cuts through the air, and then there’s an arrow through the spider’s head.

The thing ceases movement instantly. Partly proud and partly disgusted, I thrust the enormous dead spider carcass off of me like a dirty bed sheet I want nothing to do with, then awkwardly climb to my feet. When I look for my hero, I find Gunner standing atop a rock, sweaty and focused, crossbow hanging at his side.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

He nods slowly, though I can tell even he is horrified at what he just witnessed, then killed.

“Evolution,” I explain unhelpfully, then stare down at the enormous spider, whose legs have very slowly curled up in just the same way a tiny spider’s might, with two of them missing … the two I rudely plucked off.

“You okay?”

I look up at Gunner to tell him I’m alright when I notice something else far, far in the distance. Half a woman, it looks like, somehow suspended in the air. She’s so far away my thumb could more than cover her.

I just said half a woman. Half a woman suspended in the air. The sight inspires a silent scream from me. That is, a scream that I prepare my mouth for, but don’t actually let out. What am I looking at?

WHAT. AM. I. LOOKING. AT?

She’s staring at me too. I’m so confused about where her other half is until finally I notice the scorpion legs below her. I’m almost relieved until I realize … scorpion legs? SCORPION? LEGS?

Suddenly, she scurries off. Even from this impossible distance, I hear the tiny shift of leaves and twigs beneath her enormous insect legs as she scuttles out of view.

“Did you see that??” I exclaim.

Gunner looks where I’m looking, screwing up his forehead and squinting. “No.”

“A woman-spider-scorpion thing,” I explain, riled up. For as revolted and terrified as I am, I’m equal parts intrigued and curious as hell. I hurry forward in pursuit of the strange half-scorpion-half-lady thing, Gunner trailing me without question. Twice I nearly trip myself, but nowhere is she found. Even when the trees grow sparse and all I hear is Gunner’s heartbeat somewhere behind me, there’s no sign of her.

“We can’t stay here,” Gunner says, firm yet quiet.

Unsettled, I reply, “We should never have stopped.”

When we return to the others, John, Megan, and Helena are already set to go. John studies me, clearly observing that I’ve suffered some kind of scuffle. “Where were you?”

“Sightseeing,” I spit back.

Gunner slings the crossbow over his shoulder. “Let’s head home. Can’t stay here. Things lurking.”

“Things?” mutters John.

“Lurking?” mutters Helena.

“I will carry you if I have to,” I say, exasperated. “But we are not spending another second here.”

A question or two more are asked, but I’m already marching ahead of everyone, ignoring everything except the clear path ahead of me, my feet determined not to stop until I’m crossing through those cold iron gates of Trenton.

The men flank us as Helena and I walk together, Megan holding my hand. She’s clutching a tiny knife, her lips playing on it like a chew toy, and twice she asks how much longer it is until we’re back. John keeps his eyes peeled for anything edible as we walk, but we’re all plenty aware that there is literally nothing growing out here except doubt and despair. I know the Humans must be very hungry, considering we didn’t get our promised wagon of food. Benjamin had brought a backpack full of things when we set out, but seeing as he’s no longer in our company, I cannot make use of them. Even a source of water can’t be found in these parts.

Soon, we break into the far edge of the Whispers, and I feel deep, unequivocal relief. We’re almost home.

Longingly, I tilt my head toward Helena. “Aww, Hel,” I say, a smile finding my face. “This is where we met! When I was first Raised, long ago … you were sweet … I was screaming …”

Helena gives a sneer. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Feels like yesterday,” I murmur. Considering we Undead don’t sleep and our existence feels like one endless day, my remark carries a hint of humor.

She misses it. “Longer ago than yesterday. But not long enough to inspire any sense of nostalgia, forgive me. Or don’t.” Helena huffs irritably. “We’re all doomed no matter, forgiven or not.”

For a second, I want to disagree and encourage her with a hopeful word or two. Instead I say, “I know.”

Megan’s grip on my hand is tighter. When we finally make it across the vast stretch of nothing that is the Whispers, I hear John and Gunner muttering something about how we went a different route and missed the old Human’s camp, but Megan hears it too and cuts them off with: “There’s nothing left there but ghosts.” That puts John and Gunner to silence.

The Whispers give away to the familiar Dead Woods, and then to the wrought-iron gates of Trenton. When we attempt to open them, however, they’re bolted shut.

Someone inside shouts: “No one’s permitted in!”

I blink. Are they serious? “It’s Judge Helena, John, Megan, and Gunner!” I slap my hand against the gates, annoyed. “And me. Let us the hell in!”

“By order of the Chief, no one’s permitted!”

I’d love to know what idiot we’re talking to right now.

Helena steps forward, her patience lost. “Great. And by order of the Judge, I command you to let us in!”

“Sorry, Judge. Orders were strict: no one permitted! Not even the Judge.”

Helena glares, nostrils flaring. I look back at John and Gunner, who appear equally as dumbfounded.

It’s Megan who quietly suggests, “Why don’t we go in the way you snuck out, Winter?”

Helena throws me a look. I pat Megan on the head, owning my little act of defiance that, until now, has gone unacknowledged, and whisper back: “Splendid idea.”

With John muttering angrily about the arrogance of the Chief, we circumvent the city and come upon the Burned Quarter where not even walls protect Trenton. Really, if the Chief took such an effort as to secure the gates and prevent entrance, wouldn’t he have done something about our little “weak spot” in the city walls? I’m certain he’s aware of it.

As we stumble over the blackened ruins of the homes Mad Malory destroyed, there’s a sudden movement ahead of us. Gunner’s whipped out his crossbow as if by reflex, but in a matter of seconds we are surrounded by many townsfolk emerging from rooftops and armed with bows.

“What’s this about?” Helena—or should I say, Judge Helena—demands of them. “Put down your silly arms. Your arrows can’t hurt me anyway.”

“They’re steel-tipped!” shouts one of the bowmen.

“They’ll hurt you plenty!” another cries out.

Helena rolls her eyes. “Again, they won’t. Steel is the weakness of the Deathless, not the Dead. Chief, come out here and explain this. I can hear your heart beating and we have pressing matters to discuss.”

From the city proper, the Chief approaches with a band of two swordsmen. John’s come up to my side protectively and I’ve stepped in front of Megan just the same—though I’m not at all confident the steel-tipped arrows won’t, in fact, harm me anymore. Gunner doesn’t lower his weapon, eyeing the bowmen on the roof.

Helena smirks, lifting two lazy eyes at him. “Thanks for gracing us with your presence, Chief. I am shivering with excitement to hear your explanation.”

“I’ve heard word,” the Chief brusquely begins, “that a certain Deathless who was so kindly spared during the Great Battle Of Trenton is now amassing an army of burning dead to invade us and steal all of our lives for his cause. Is this true?”

How does he already know? “Exactly,” I blurt out, no matter. “That’s why we’ve hurried back. To warn the city and prepare. I saw and spoke with him—”

“There was no deal with After’s Hold to begin with,” the Chief says, cutting me off. “Was there, Helena?”

“Of course there was.” Helena’s voice is a poisonous combination of indignant and annoyed. “Our steel for a share of their food. As agreed.”

“The more time we waste—” John starts to say.

“How can I trust that my people are safe?” the Chief goes on. “You took our most valuable weapons from us, Judge Helena, at a time when we need them most. Sounds mighty convenient. I was smart enough to hide some of the steel. As you can see, we are not defenseless. But it is because of your brashness and because of that one’s folly—” That would be me. “—that we find my city in this position at all.”

“Your people? Your city?” Helena squints, her face hard and dark as vengeance. “Our people, I think you mean. If you’re insinuating in any way that I don’t care about the citizens of Trenton—a far larger portion being Undead, by the way—then you must’ve lost all your wits, Chief. Or whatever your name is.”

John steps forward now. I hold Megan close to me, making sure she doesn’t do anything rash. “Chief. We were blindsided by—”

“No need to explain yourself, John,” states the Chief. “Nor you, Gunner. You both are blameless. Let them in. The little one, too.”

Megan—being Megan—stamps forward and shouts, “Let Winter and Helena in, too! It’s because of them we’re all alive! You can’t do this, stupid Chief!”

The Chief studies me, his eyes heavy and pensive. He is not all bull and horn—I see the contemplation in his eye. His gaze moves to Hel, then back to me, calculating.

Finally he says, “If what you say is true, Helena, then you won’t object to my letting Winter in first to confirm a few things. This new army of Grimlock’s is somehow mind-controlled, after all. Who’s to say you haven’t been somehow … compromised?” He squints, looking smart. “I did my reading, my research. I know the Deathless.”

“Grimsky,” I murmur quietly. Everyone turns to me. John and the concentrated fury that crushes his face. Megan and her little quivering Human eyes. Helena looks especially like she could hiss a stream of venom right about now. “His name is …” I shut up. What’s the use.

“If he has the Warlock’s Eye, like I’m told,” the Chief goes on, “then perhaps ‘Grimlock’ is, in fact, a more suitable name. Helena stays for now. Winter will come, as she was the one in direct contact with this … Grim.”

Helena huffs angrily, rolling her eyes. “So ridiculous. You do realize I could literally just walk in and there’s nothing you could do to stop me?”

“My men will butcher you into sixty-three pieces before you stepped foot on these streets,” the Chief declares, “and then you’ll be quite incapable of anything, let alone walking. Come, John, Gunner, Winter. Time’s wasted out here, on this.” He marches into the city.

I peer at Helena apologetically, prepared to say a thing or two, when she just waves her hand dismissively. “Go, go, go, Winter. You heard the fool.”

“I’ll be back,” I promise her. She rolls her eyes in response.

The four of us, without Hel, follow the Chief into the city. He leads us down eerily quieted streets to the Town Hall. Though there are currently people in the Square, I’m sure some directive to “stay home where it’s safe” was given. I pass a house where the inhabitants watch us, then draw their curtains closed quickly. So much for protecting the people’s peace.

When we are in the spacious lobby of the Town Hall, the too-bored-to-exist clerk has her face mushed into her palm, playing with a pencil on the desk. To the side, there are two circles of chairs like a lounge where people can wait to speak with the Chief or Judge. Someone sits in the closest chair, facing away. When he turns, I see his face.

Benjamin.

He gets up in an instant. “Winter! John! Oh, Megan, you’re all alive, you’re all alive!” His face lights up like a bomb, his eyes flashing with joy and his hands rushing up to cover his mouth. He looks on the verge of explosive tears, were he capable.

I come up to him and give him a little squeeze. “You made it out.” I pull away, giving him a look of surprise. “And you made it back quickly! Damn! What are those new legs of yours made of??”

He laughs. “Luck, that’s what. Hey, John, can Winter be my death-sis? I’ve always wanted a death-sis.”

Megan hops excitedly. “I want to be your death-sis too! And Winter’s! We can be a death-family!”

John, too tensed by present circumstances to enjoy any form of fun, just gives a mild grunt of amusement. Gunner’s eyes are calmly focused on the Chief, and the Chief looks like a statue, feet planted firmly and face as taut as a wire.

“To business,” states the Chief, not caring to bring us to the official meeting room. No one’s here but us and the bored desk clerk anyway, who’s started sticking pencils through her beehive hairdo. “Benjamin explained that he was able to get the story of what was going on from Grimlock’s burning men. A master of tongue and slick manipulation, Benjamin has proved to be. Got you out of the Necropolis, if I’m not mistaken.”

“I have a way with the Death—” Ben starts to say, then swallows his own words. Only he and I know why.

“Yes,” the Chief agrees, unnoticing of Benjamin’s discomfort. “You have a way with those Deathless.” He addresses the rest of us. “Benjamin broke free from them, escaped the city and returned home. He explained what happened. I’ve sealed the gates and armed my people with everything we kept: steel arrows, steel blades … I still have a number of them for each of you. You will arm yourselves and keep watch.”

“I’m armed,” states Gunner quietly, crossbow slung across his shoulder. “Steel-tipped, too.”

“Me too.” This comes from Megan, who is still toying with the little knife.

The Chief kneels down in front of her. “Megan. You are a strong, brave girl. But your parents have been very, very worried. You should not have run off like that. You need to go home now. This fight is not for children.”

She starts to protest, so I jump in, figuring she might listen to me better. “Megan, my little death-sis. You, in fact, have a very important role. You’re too small to fight, but we need someone to make sure all the other kids are safe. The other adults, they’re all going to be dumb and yelling and fighting. They’ll forget all about the children, so it’s up to you to save their lives and keep them hidden with you somewhere, alright? Can you do that for us?”

Megan isn’t stupid. She just smirks at me. “Sure,” she answers sarcastically, sounding too much like Helena. “Put me away someplace. I’ll be happy hiding in a cabinet while you guys have all the fun.”

The Chief rises, his patience only stretching so far. “We won’t know when they are coming, but when they do, it will be quick and strong. Every city the Burning Army raids, their numbers multiply.”

“Lock’s Eyes,” Megan grunts into my ear, impatient.

Oh, of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that? “Megan has a point. We still have the Lock’s Eyes. They were vital to our victory when the Deathless invaded Trenton last time. They should protect us from Grim.”

Benjamin bites his lip, uncertain. “But that was when we were facing a Warlock who could turn the Undead to dust, destroying them utterly. Grim is different. He can suck the life out of a Human and Raise them on the spot. And he can control those of us he Raises, apparently.”

“He might be able to control more than just his own Raises,” I point out too. “He seems capable of controlling the—shall we say, colorful?—citizens of After’s Hold. He is far more powerful than mister short metal-leg.” I smirk at the bitter memory of him. “We should utilize the stones as best as we can.”

“We have two in our Treasury,” says the Chief, eyeing Gunner and John. “We need to think of the best use for them. Quickly.”

Megan pulls on my sleeve. “What about yours?”

“Yes, I have the third. It’s kept in my house.”

“Bring it here,” the Chief orders. “We will sit down, all of us, and decide our best move. And if Helena—”

“Yes, about Hel,” I interrupt, asserting myself a touch more into the politics of Trenton than I ever dreamed I would. “There’s actually a very simple method to test whether someone is, well, compromised,” I explain. “The Old Judge performed it on me, in fact, when I was exposed to the Deathless. It was on the day I met John.” I look at him, surprised to find a subtle smile in his lips.

“What’s this method?” asks the Chief.

“Strike a steel sword through me,” Helena answers.

Everyone turns, surprised to find her standing in the doorway. She does not look amused.

“Here’s the steel sword,” Helena goes on, bringing it to the Chief. “Even though my holding it ought to be evidence enough, I’ll let you have the pleasure of stabbing me, if it puts your sensitive squishy fleshy self at ease.” He accepts the sword she shoves into his hand. “Go on, then. I know you’ve been wanting to for quite some time.”

He squints at her dubiously, sword hanging in his grasp. “You got past the—?”

“I let myself in. No one butchered me into sixty-three pieces because unlike their Chief, they know better. Now stab me and get this over with, you buffoon.” She spreads her hands, letting him at her abdomen without resistance.

The Chief studies her long and hard, then simply says, “You made your point, Judge. You are not compromised.”

“No, I’m not. I’ll expect your apology later, but for now, we have preparations to make. What’ve I missed?”

“Warlock stones,” I mutter.

After a brief moment of staring darkly at Helena, the Chief nods at me, his face lightening. “Yes. Retrieve the one from your house, bring it here. Maybe we can get creative with our use of the ones we have. We will be sorely outnumbered. We need those alive who are unable to fight to help with preparations, then keep them all somewhere safe.”

“Their homes may not suffice,” Gunner points out. “We should keep them here, perhaps. In the basement.”

“We’ll have to relocate the howling dead woman,” says the Chief. He’s talking about my Brains. “She can’t be anywhere near a person of blood. Megan, you should go home now, let your parents know you’re alive.”

She frowns for only a moment, then says, “Alright.”

I’m surprised she didn’t put up more of a fight. Megan lets go of my hand, which I hadn’t noticed she was clutching, then leaves the Town Hall. I watch her go, reminded eerily of the day we escaped the Necropolis and I allowed us to split up. I had watched her race into the woods, unable to protect her any longer, feeling so like a mournful mother in that moment …

I wonder how little I can protect anything anymore.

“First thing’s first,” says the Chief. “We count our stores of steel and figure how many of us we can arm. Here, you take this one,” he tells Benjamin, handing off the sword he almost used to impale Helena. “Winter, John, Judge … Let us raid the arsenal, shall we?”

I smile at my companions, then turn my head to find Benjamin with a look of terror on his face. When I glance down at his hand to find billowing tufts of smoke hissing from the hilt of the blade he was just given, I see why.

Gunner sees it too, and before I can even scream, his crossbow is up and eight steel-tipped bolts zip through the air at once, landing in Benjamin’s face.

C H A P T E R – E L E V E N

T H E   P R O J E C T

I came into this world like most people do: screaming.

“Don’t worry,” a kind voice told me. “You’re just dying.”

I open my eyes and I’m in my house, and Helena’s kind voice isn’t there anymore—the memory of my own Raising vanishing in an instant. I’m alone. Even John’s presence can’t touch me, not now.

What if they had handed me the steel blade? What if my fingers started to seethe in front of them? Would Gunner have hesitated at all before sinking half his quiver of steel bolts into my face?

“Winter?” asks the voice of that Living man I share a house with, and I still don’t react to it. I didn’t react to it the last nine times he spoke either.

It wasn’t Gunner’s fault, was it? Why do I blame him so much? Is it because he didn’t even give Benjamin a chance to defend himself?—to explain himself? Then again, what the hell would he have said? What would I have said? No amount of words could save us.

“You know,” says the voice, the man sitting on the stiff-cushioned couch next to me, “it’s possible he may still survive. I mean, your kind is unkillable, really. He could still pull through.”

Benjamin is at the Refinery, but he’s unresponsive. Good as actual dead. He doesn’t move and most of his face is ruined, turned to ash, still steaming. Marigold is examining him—just like I suggested be done before stupidly taking him on this stupid adventure to the stupid north where all the green fiery hell broke loose.

“He’s in the best hands,” the voice goes on. “You and I both know, Marigold is basically a genius in her … craft.”

I close my eyes again. Don’t worry. You’re just dying. I wonder what were the first words Benjamin heard. Your eyes are adjusting, girl. Just relax. Benjamin, who will never know his First Life. Undying. You’re undying. I’d made a promise to him that we’d live long enough to learn his False Self, but now … Really, it’s sort of the same.

“I need your help,” the voice says. “I can’t find your Warlock Eye. I looked everywhere.”

Finally, I turn to John, focusing on his face where a new wave of stubble is taking root. He looks so handsome when he’s wearing that stern expression. “The one that couldn’t save Enea’s life?” I rise off the couch, move into the bedroom and check where I know it’s kept, only to find myself staring into an empty drawer.

John appears at the doorway. “Did you move it?”

“Maybe,” I admit, uncertain. Everything is a horrible haze. “Great. Something else for the Chief to hate me for. I’ve lost a very important eyeball.”

John comes up behind me, slips his arms around my waist. He doesn’t say anything for a while, both of us standing still. I peer out the window, whisper something about the time, and John tells me it’s almost sunset. Still no sign of a burning army approaching from the distance, so I guess that’s a good thing. More waiting.

Even though part of me is bitterly saying: Just get it over with, Grim.

“John.” I turn to face him. “Would you mind if I did something horrible and masochistic?”

He frowns. “I don’t know what that means.”

“I want to visit the Refinery.”

John nods. “Alright. Um, like, right now?”

“Maybe the Chief and … and Helena might need you. I’ll be fine. You don’t have to babysit me.” I turn to the dresser to fetch some gloves that might match the thing I put on to replace the tatters that had become of my last outfit. “Might want to get yourself a coat,” I point out. “I hear the temp’s dropping more and more every day.”

Suddenly he turns me around and places his lips on mine. I feel his body press against me, strong and full. My eyes close. There must be something alive within me, something that stirs to create the thoughts I have, to make me fear and long for and crave, because I can swear that I feel the racing of a heart in my chest. It thumps passionately when he kisses me, thumps so hard I feel sick to my stomach with ecstasy. I feel even the shape of his lips with my own.

When he pulls away, I realize it was his own heart I felt. I suppose one heart beating for us both will do.

“I’m pretty sure the whole Human race is disgusted with you,” I tell him, staring somewhere at his neck.

“For what?” he asks.

He knows for what. He’s daring me to say it. He’s daring me to say how vile I am … how vile the idea. How repulsive it is, a Living man letting his lips anywhere near that of a dead girl’s.

“Nothing,” I tell him. He really has a thing for bad timing. “Keep looking for the Warlock-Eye, if you don’t mind. It has to be here.”

“Alright.” John looks disappointed somehow.

I leave him in the bedroom, pulling the gloves onto my hands—my feeble attempt at protecting myself from steel, as if anything can—and slip out of the house.

The streets are still unsettlingly quiet. I don’t bother looking anywhere but my feet as I walk. I’ve never felt so empty, and I’m not sure it’s all because of Benjamin’s demise. Maybe I’m thinking that I’m next. This sensitivity I’ve developed for steel … this Deathlessness … it feels like some frightful, incurable disease I’ve acquired. And I feel guilty, as if I’ve brought it on myself, but I can’t be too sure. Did Grim somehow inflict this on me? Did I turn this way because of the blood I’ve consumed?

I guess with either explanation, it’s still my fault.

The doors to the squatty pink Refinery push open without squeaking horribly today and I step inside to find Marigold at the work table with her back to me.

“Hi.”

She turns around. Fingers are coming out of her face.

I scream.

“You don’t like it?” she asks, hurt.

I slap a hand over my mouth to end my screaming. Closing my eyes to spare myself the sight, muffled I say, “What did you do to your face?”

“Oh! You’re talking about those, of course. I installed fingers on my forehead, that’s all. I wanted to see if they work. And they do! Look, I’m wiggling them right now!”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I say. “There’s something else I might’ve been screaming about?”

“Yes! My craft project!”

I have a feeling it doesn’t involve yarn and buttons.

“Will you open your eyes to see it?” she asks, excited and giggly. “I’ve been so bored all day. You simply must lay your eyes on my project.”

“Oh, must I.”

“Yes, yes, you must!”

I open my eyes. What I see before me is the most frightening conglomeration of body parts I’ve ever seen. Not even my worst nightmares could think up something so grotesque. The torso of a man, with six or seven arms sewn down one side, two legs growing from its front. There is an array of hands and fingers coming up from its backside like feathers.

“Pre-color, of course,” Marigold explains, as though it excuses the amalgamation of horror she’s given birth to. “I can see all of its appendages in a nice spearmint, or even a lilac! What do you think?? Oh, if I could give my project life, imagine! It could be quite resourceful for us. Maybe it could even help fight in the war! I will name it Nightmare. Please tell me you think it’s the most inventive, genius—”

“It’s perfect,” I lie, blurting it out and feeling on the verge of retching at the same time. “Beautiful. A work of art. Picasso would be proud.” I turn half away. “Listen, Mari, I know you’re quite proud of your work, but—”

“Yes, yes, I know. I wouldn’t dare go out in public with it just yet. Once I give the thing life, though, I simply must introduce it to—”

“No. No introducing. We are trying to help Human relations and we have an imminent invasion on our hands. That thing—while being very, uh, creative—will scare the Humans to death. So will the fingers on your face. Please, Marigold, for the sake of all things polite and breathing, I suggest putting the fingers back where they belong.”

“They’re extra ones, anyway.” Marigold sounds a bit deflated. “I simply thought it was a … a breakthrough, if you will. I mean, since I was a product of creation and wasn’t Raised from a first existence … I thought, why not try and create something of my own?”

Poor dear Marigold has this wild theory that, since she’s lived over ninety years without having her Waking Dream, that she was created from scratch somehow in this world and, in fact, not Risen from the dead.

I hate hearing Marigold sound even a little bit sad. It’s so uncharacteristic of her. “How would you bring it to life anyway?” I ask, daring to face her again.

She’s mercifully turned back to her project, in the middle of sewing on another set of fingers, it seems. “Not sure, dear. I was hoping maybe Helena had a suggestion, or you. No bother, I’ll think of something! It’s part of the process, isn’t it??” She’s back to cheery in an instant. That was quick. “Think, and think, and think some more!”

“Well … if you find a way to bring that thing to life, maybe there’s hope for Benjamin after all,” I say, though I can’t hide the dejection in my voice.

Suddenly she’s coming at me. Fingers in her face stretched out as if to make a grab at my face. I have half an instinct to scream until I realize she’s come to hug me.

“I’m so sorry about Benny,” she says, enclosing me in her giant arms. “I’m so, so sorry. He was my friendling too. It’s an odd thing to lose an already-dead person. I’m certain, if I had ever been alive, I would’ve liked many, many people to be sad when I died.”

I squeeze her back, finding myself appreciating the hug all of a sudden. For a wild moment, I wonder if Marigold is, in fact, an expert liar. Maybe she has had her Waking Dream and just pretends like it never happened. Maybe she’s even lying to herself. As I’ve said before, denial is a powerful thing.

Then again, maybe not. “Whatever your life was,” I tell her, “or if this is your First, I’d be sad if you left me.”

“Why, thank you!” she says cheerily, pulling away from me and beaming.

I try to smile. “I hope we find a way to bring your Nightmare to life.”

“It’d be the best Nightmare I’ve ever had.” Her eyes glow with the dream in them, wet and glistening. Even the fingers on her face twitch with excitement. And I refrain from telling her that her face, in fact, just became a nightmare I’ve, until now, never had.

“Do you want to see him?” she asks, a hand delicately placed on the swinging door that leads to the backroom, and I quietly shake my head. “Maybe another time,” she agrees, smiling at me, all the fingers seeming to smile too.

In truth, I doubt there’s much left to see. Benjamin doesn’t even have a face anymore. I’d rather remember his smile, his boyish enthusiasm, and even how he was when I first met him, proudly boasting how he’d be the very first to ever escape the Necropolis. Seems like yesterday when we were cage-mates.

“Take care, Marigold.” I let myself out.

With the streets so empty, I realize I actually find it peaceful now instead of eerie. No idea what’s changed, except that perhaps my visit to the Refinery proved more rattling than comforting. I guess I can really use the peace. Outside, the sky looks … greyer than usual. I find that funny for some reason and begin to laugh. Strolling around the Square, not a soul in sight, I laugh and listen to my little giggles echo off the sides of buildings and return to me, knocking at my ears. I wish it was the dead of night already; I’m curious suddenly if the strange woman still comes out and sings.

“Winter, Winter, Winter, Winter, Winter, Winter—”

I turn around to find my teenager friend Ann rushing toward me. She still insists on not wearing her signature scarves anymore, preferring to broadcast her horrid look-I-can-pull-off-my-own-head neck wound.

“Sorry, John said you’d be at the Refinery. I came to you as soon as it happened. Listen, don’t be mad, but Megan’s parents are kinda looking for you, and like, they’re like, totally pissed, and like—”

“Slow down,” I tell her. “Start from the beginning.”

“Okay, okay.” Ann takes a big breath. I almost think her head’s about to fall off because she suddenly grabs it and says, “I didn’t realize at first what she was asking for, and, like … okay, don’t get me wrong, but …” She presses her lips together, thinking.

I lift a brow. “But …?”

“Well, Jim didn’t think it was a bad idea. I mean, we are sort of desperate for a way to help out, right? Grimsky is a bit of a formidable power, considering.” She bites her lip and squints at me. “So, y’know … Desperate times and all that, am I right?” What the hell is she getting that?

“Excuse me,” says a voice from behind.

Really? “What??” I turn around to find the polite face of Megan’s father, Ken, standing so close to me I can smell his dinner with my Undead can’t-smell-a-thing nose. I find myself taking a step back, caught by surprise. “Oh, hi.”

“Oh, hi,” he agrees, his voice quiet as the flap of a fly’s wing. “May we speak in private?” He eyes my friend Ann with a look that is only a touch less friendly than the one he gave me.

“Ann.” I keep my gaze on Ken and only turn halfway to address her. “Do you mind if—?”

“Yeah, I’ll go. Just, like. Y’know. Don’t be mad.”

I hear her walking away. At this point, just bring it. “I know what this is about …” I start to say to him.

“No, I’m afraid you don’t.” Ken makes a motion with his hand, indicating a nearby bench. “Let’s have a seat?” He says it so kindly, I feel like we’re about to sit and discuss gardening.

“Sure.” I put myself at one end of the bench. He puts himself at the other and gently crosses his legs. There is space for half a family between us.

“My sweet daughter Megan just tried to cut out her own eye,” he tells me.

I gape. On a long list of horrible things I was expecting him to say, considering all that’s transpired since Megan snuck out of Trenton to accompany me, this didn’t even touch it as a possibility.

“She took her knife,” the dad continues to explain, calm and as composed as a moonlight symphony, “a knife I was certain I had taken away from her, and gave herself a number of unsightly scrapes and cuts along her cheek, a nip across her eyebrow, nothing more. I am relieved to say that she still has both her eyes. My wife and I have taken the knife from her.” I am impressed by his poise, which I’m certain is taking every last ounce of patience within him to maintain. “When confronted, she explained something about saving all of Trenton from green-eyed demon people. She said it was a friend of hers that gave her the idea, insisting it wasn’t you. Ann, the one from the Heads. Y’know, that teenage gang of troublemakers. But I know better, and I know that the only person who can put an idea into her head is you.” He smiles gently.

“No,” I say right away. “No, no, no. I gave her no such idea. Why would I tell Megan to—? No, no. She’s—She’s desperate to help, desperate to do something. You said it yourself, Mister Ken. She’s very stubborn, and—”

“Just Ken will do.” He smiles again. “Can you tell me what cutting out her own eye would achieve?” He asks the same way a nurse might ask his patient where it hurts.

I know exactly what she was trying to do. Trouble is, I don’t think telling him that his daughter apparently wants to become a Warlock would help. “I told Megan to keep safe. Nothing more. The other children, Ken, I told her to hide with them. I told her she needs to … to hide.”

So that’s where my missing stone must’ve gone.

“I believe you,” he says. I look up, surprised, and meet his eyes. He’s shaking his head. Then he places an arm on the back of the bench, leaning toward me. “That Megan’s been such a brave soul, even before she lost her brother. I don’t think there’s a thing you or I could say to change that.” He smiles again. “Poor girl’s going to be doing these things all her life. Wielding swords before she’s even twelve. Trying to cut out her eye. Chasing dreams and Crypters and fire.” He chuckles lightly, though it makes little sound. “Bonnie and I really have our work cut out for us, trying to keep that one in check.”

“She is very brave,” I agree, careful not to say a single word out of place that may wreck this sudden connection we seem to have found.

“I must admit—though I’m reluctant to admit it—but if she had to chase out of town with any Crypter … I’m certainly glad it was you.” He smiles respectfully, making his words sound like a compliment cased in gold.

I want to correct him and say that I’m not a Crypter, but I’m not certain that’s true anymore.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

He rises from the bench and walks away, but I feel like our business is unfinished. There is so much more I want to tell him about his daughter, about the imminent war and the troubles lying ahead and how I’m not a monster, but nothing comes out. A careless wind throws a curtain of white hair into my face, and then the world is nothing but white, endless winter.

Suddenly I feel a stab against my neck. Stunned, I turn around, expecting to find some crazy person with a knife, but no one’s there.

Then I feel it again, except on my arm. It’s like a tiny needle, then another needle. I look into the sky, alarmed, and realize what’s happening. Quickly, I hurry across the Square toward the Town Hall as the rain begins to pour. It’s so sudden, I’d sooner believe the heavens decided to dump barrels of water over my head.

The pain is unrelenting. I am being burned alive.

It seems like an eternity before I make it to the steps of the Town Hall, and that’s where I collapse. Screaming, I claw at every step, dragging myself. For some reason, my legs no longer work. I pull myself up two steps, a third, a fourth. I have no idea how many are left and I can barely lift my head to see.

I scream for someone to help me. I scream and I shout and then suddenly it’s like I don’t have a mouth anymore. Nothing happens. Nothing comes out.

I grab at the next step, but it’s like I’m trying to thrust my hand through a room of thickened caramel. Then the very hand I’m reaching with falls off.

The rain pummels me mercilessly, and considering there have been no new Raises, and even my Undead friends are dying, I have to wonder if the last surviving bits of dear Mother Nature herself are waking up to battle us, ridding our kind from the world forever.

Washing us away.

Nature’s own self-cleansing system.

Then two mystery hands grip me by the shoulders and drag me the rest of the way up the steps, depositing me somewhere under the canopy and out of the rain. I can’t believe I’m still capable of processing what’s going on. I blink several times, but being flat on my stomach, I can’t manage to turn myself around to see my hero.

Instead, I get this picturesque glimpse of the Square, where nearly every Human in all of Trenton has come out of their homes, awed at the rain. A man spreads his hands, letting it drench him. Two women have gathered buckets, collecting the rain and scrounging around for more containers. Children are running around screeching and laughing. An older couple stands by the stage holding each other, as if slow-dancing to music only they can hear. A pair of ladies are cackling hysterically, spinning around with their mouths wide-open to the heavens.

My savior finally lifts me from the ground, cradling me in his arms. When my head is brought to the right angle, I find Gunner’s oily eyes, and he says, “Sorry I wasn’t quicker.”

I try to make a joke, like, “I was enjoying the view,” but my mouth doesn’t seem able to work. All I can do is form a strange sort of lop-sided smile. I am in agony.

Gunner brings me into the lobby and lays my body down on a bench-seat. I feel like a bag of turnips. “Blink if you’re comfortable,” he says. I’m pretty sure he’s joking, but I blink anyway. “As soon as the rain stops, I’ll get the dead doctor guy. Conner, Collin, Colvin. Sorry.”

I try to thank him and my jaw falls off.

He smirks. I won’t call it a revolted reaction, because Gunner doesn’t ever seem to express emotion. Anger and joy and fear all look the same on his face. Thinking quick, he loosens a shoelace from his boot, then ties it around my entire head, from chin to crown, securing my jaw in place. I bother not to thank him this time.

“I didn’t know rain does this to the Dead,” he says, his voice low.

I did. Last time, it was Grim and I, caught in it. It was the first day I met the Deathless Army.

Gunner sits with me while we listen to the relentless downpour of rain outside. He says nothing. He’s become a statue, hypnotized by the party he’s witnessing through the glass windows. The elated oohs and fits of hysteria that reach my ears are so muted and twisted by the storm that it sounds like the ghosts of liquid memories. I’m drowning, slowly sinking, deeper and deeper into a lake of despair, and the whole world is waving goodbye.

Even after Gunner’s saved me, my eyes still burn with pain at what he did to Benjamin. Or maybe it’s the rain in them. I look at Gunner now and all I see is that final, horrible moment of Benjamin’s Second Life. I see the crossbow risen with expert speed. Too expert. I hear my own shout and Benjamin’s last words being sealed within him, struck to the ground in an instant.

And the promise I’d made to him. Gunner took that promise from me. Gunner … He’s broken my promise. These are the things I’m thinking as the little pellets of rainwater drip down my face, gently burning my cheek on their leisurely way to my chin.

Look at that. I’m crying for the first time in this life.

“The rain is getting lighter,” Gunner points out. Half an hour or more must’ve gone by. “You still with me?”

“Yes,” I croak. I guess I’ve dried up enough to speak.

“Do you know what that thing in the woods was?”

A giant killer tarantula-monster? “No.”

“Me neither.”

I tentatively wiggle a few fingers on my gloved right hand. “Look.”

He looks. He smiles, which kinda looks the same as him not smiling. “Good. You’re still with us after all. I’ll go speak to the doctor. Maybe he can help remotely.”

“Okay.” My words sound bizarrely over-pronounced, what with my jaw that’s literally hanging on by a thread. Then I remember I lost a hand on the steps. “Hand.”

“What?” Gunner takes a glance. “Hand?”

“Hand,” I confirm.

He nods, understanding. “I’ll get it for you. I’m sure that lady at the pink place can reattach it.”

“Thanks.”

“Sure.” He scratches his chin, appearing pensive for a moment. The wind and the rain stirs on the other side of the windows and doors. “Better go before it starts up again. Never seen a rain like this.” He glances at me. “Try not to move. I’ll speak with the doctor.”

“Okay.”

Gunner leaves. I hear the front doors swing open—the sound of still-sprinkling rain rushing in with the chatter of men and women, all of them alive, all of them happy, all of them wet—and then the doors shut behind him.

A silence passes that is not unlike another death.

Slowly, patiently, I sit up. I’m almost dry. I can move, I discover. Trying not to press my luck, I very slowly test some weight on my left leg, then my right. Slowly, ever so slowly and as cautious as a cat, I make myself stagger to the door. One foot, then the other. One foot, then the other. I’m not heading for the door out, though; I’m heading for the door leading further in.

And down.

As I’m ever-carefully descending the stairs into the basement, I realize it’s my left hand that was first to fall off in the rain. My left hand. Again. I could laugh about it if I wasn’t so sure I’d literally rattle apart my ribcage and break an arm and lose my hipbone in the effort.

When I arrive at long last to her cell, she’s silent. I say her name and she doesn’t react. I say her other name and she still doesn’t react. I tell her I love her and that I ate blood and that I feel him too. Yes, I sense him, I know him, and he’s that way, and he’s soon coming this way, and there’s absolutely nothing we can do about it.

She finally turns around. Her brains are still exposed, her nose missing, her left eye melted halfway down her cheek, she moans her favorite words: “I am Deathless.”

I lean my head against the door. “Me too, sweetie,” I choke. “Me too.”

C H A P T E R – T W E L V E

L O C K E D

Staring up at Marigold while she repairs my body, I’m sad to say the fingers are still there.

“I thought maybe I’d replace them with eyes.” She shrugs, hammering something into my hip. “But I doubt they will function. Otherwise I would’ve installed a tiara of eyes on my scalp. I’d be able to see all around me! Or perhaps a belt of ears … I’d never miss the latest gossip!”

Snap, crack, pop. It’s the strangest sensation, lying on a table perfectly awake, feeling nothing except for your body jerking at every pound of the chisel and hammer. I amuse myself for a while thinking Marigold is mining for diamonds and ore in my abdomen.

“Good as new!” she exclaims when I hop off the table. Indeed, I feel as normal as normal can be. All my fingers and toes wiggle, my joints bend, and my neck turns. I stretch my jaw, opening it wide, then shutting it. “See?” she says, giddy. “I know, I know. You don’t have to say it. I’m a genius and—and—and you don’t have to say it.”

“You’re a genius,” I say, smiling.

“Say it again!” She swats me on the butt. “Now go out and show the world how beautiful you are! Do tell them it was my work. Not that self-important Roxie who won’t even come in anymore.” Marigold huffs.

I study my forearm and those bones I’ve stubbornly refused to cover. “Got any … spare flesh for my arm?”

“Never thought you’d ask.” She giggles and opens a drawer to get some other tools out.

I smile wistfully at her backside. “I hope someday we have so much work that you’ll never have to leave.”

Her eyes light up. “You promise?”

I wish I could.

The streets are damp from last night’s rain, and I realize that, despite the slate-grey sky that always feels so like a permanent winter afternoon, it is the middle of the night and most of the Humans are asleep. Most of them were smart and filled every bucket and barrel they could find with the rainwater.

I stop by Jasmine’s house on the way home, sitting across the cul-de-sac like an empty, abandoned box. She still hasn’t returned. I heard three men and a little girl from the Human Quarter dropped by to check on her backyard garden and greenhouse after the storm ebbed. At least someone is tending to it.

The door to my house opens without protest. I find John at the table with a candle burning in front of him, the only light source in the house. The light from the candle spills in a million hues across the walls, the ceiling, the floorboards.

He looks up. “Hey.”

I’ve so missed his face. “Hi,” I return. With Marigold’s Upkeep of me, I probably look like new, showing no evidence at all of my near-second-death experience. She really is a genius at her craft. “Did you take advantage of the rain?”

“Filled two buckets and half a vegetable canister.” He lifts a brow. “Did you get caught in it?”

I think John forgets sometimes what the Dead can and cannot withstand. Or maybe I never told him. Either way, I’m not in the mood to educate. “Megan tried taking out her eye.” John makes a puzzled expression. “I’m pretty sure she’s trying to become a Warlock. To save us. Her parents are upset. Naturally, they blame me. Kinda. I don’t know.” I drop into the chair across from him.

John stares into the flame. His eyes are smoldering, the way the candlelight plays across his face, accentuating his strong cheekbones and chiseled jawline.

“I did a lot of thinking,” says John.

I lift my chin. “Want to share?”

He’s still staring into the flame. At this point, I’m just about prepared for anything he’ll say. To any bad news and horrible tidings and inevitable things like death and wars led by armies of flame, I feel downright invincible.

“I’m not disgusted,” he finally says. The flame plays in his muddy irises, turning them into iridescent pools of brooding molten chocolate. I hate to sound too mushy or nauseating, but the beauty of rainbow candlelight—which used to fascinate me beyond anything the natural world could offer—holds nothing in comparison to the show of John’s strong, handsome face.

“Of …?” I ask quietly.

“You,” he answers. Not even so much as a smile breaks the stone he’s made of his face. “Me … Us … What we have. If anyone—If anyone were to hurt you, or try to come between us, or tell me it’s wrong to feel what I feel for you, or say it’s …” He licks his lips. I watch them now, studying his lips as they move, how they caress his every word. “What I’m trying to say is, I’d die for you.”

“Don’t say that.”

“If it came to it, Winter …” He runs a hand along the table. I can hear the roughness in his hands. The work in them, the texture he makes of the table, of his skin, of the hours upon hours of work those whitesmith hands have performed their whole life long.

Then his eyes finally meet mine, as if he hears my longing. I return his stoic glance with an unreadable one of my own. My foot touches his under the table. He doesn’t react. He only stares at me, his eyes almost appearing dangerous through the harsh glare of the candlelight. I let my foot graze his again.

“I’d die for you,” he repeats, quieter.

“I’d rather you not,” I admit with a smile. “I would … really miss your heartbeat.”

I realize that, when neither of us is speaking, it’s the only thing I can hear. The soft drumming fills the room. Just like the first day I met him … the rhythm of John, my favorite song.

“You can have it,” he says.

His eyes smolder.

“I love you, John.”

What did I just say?

“Winter.”

His fingers pinch the candle flame, throwing his world into darkness. But I still see him.

The table chairs go flying back, and our lips are locked again. I have no idea how he finds me so perfectly in the dark, but he does. And he does again, and again and again. He presses me against the wall. His serrated breathing is all I can hear.

We flip. I’m pressing him against a wall now. He loses a shirt. I lose my shoes. Then he loses shoes, too.

I stumble over a loose floorboard. John topples over me, and we’re laughing. And then we’re very much not laughing because our lips are locked again.

This is a night in which I will forever argue that I, in fact, became alive. As alive as any girl with blushing cheeks and a pulse. As alive as any boy with real tears and a bad, stinging gash down his arm.

I give myself to John. John gives himself to me.

A long while later, the bed sheets are wrapped tight around our bodies. I feel him shivering, but as his own heat gathers enough for the both of us—and his heart calms down from a most gracious height—I feel him smiling into my neck as he drifts into another world of dreams. His strong arms close around me, and for once I’m trapped in a prison from which I hope never to be free. I’m a totally different person. I close my own eyes. I pretend-sleep, revisiting my life with John in the post, post, post-apocalyptic world where civilization has once again found its footing, and children are born.

“Do you think we can coexist?”

I stir, opening my eyes and abandoning the daydream I was having. Really, no matter if it’s day or night, when you’re dead, every dream is a daydream. “What?”

“Coexist,” he repeats. “You and I. Do you think this … Do you think we can make this work?”

I love his voice right now. It’s so boyish and curious and full of hope. I never thought I’d hear John sound like this. “You tell me.”

“I think we can.” He squeezes me tighter.

“I suppose I … can age with you, somehow.” I laugh. “Maybe Marigold is more talented than she knows. I can age a year for your every three.” He chuckles into my neck. “I can’t let my youth go that easily.”

“But this is only our First Life,” he says. “When I die, you can just Raise me. Then I’ll be yours forever.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Of course it is. Everything is.”

The smile on my face begins to wither. “John.”

“Yeah?”

“I have to tell you something.” I make sure my hand is gripping his. I’m not sure why that’s important, but it is. “We … haven’t had a Raise in months.”

“I know,” he mumbles. “So?”

“And we don’t know how Raises are … Raised.” I squeeze his hand again, though I’m not sure which of us I’m trying to reassure. “We looked through all the notes from the old Judge. From Enea, and … It just doesn’t make sense. Whispers. Mists. Helena has tried. I’ve tried. I think it might have been some sort of ‘arrangement’ with the old Mayor, to be honest. I think maybe the amount of Undead in the Harvesting Grounds was, well, finite. Limited. And, well … once the Whispers ran out …”

I draw silent. He’s holding his breath, I can tell. “So … you mean there’s no more Undead?”

“No more.”

He turns me around. I look into his eyes, lost at the sight of him all over again. “Look at the world we live in. Anything’s possible. Look around you, Winter. Warlocks with magic eyes that can raise the dead. People who can walk and talk, just like human beings, with no heartbeats. Beautiful people. The beautiful dead, like you.”

And then he goes in for the kiss, pressing his lips into mine, and how in the world can I counter that?

I’m pacing the den, I’m stuck dwelling on all of the words John’s poured into my ears over the last several hours. He’s basically baked my emotions into a spicy casserole and I have no idea what to make of it.

No matter how many times I dream it, the reality is, John and I will never have children. I cannot bear a child. The Dead don’t bear offspring that way, unless his fantasy of our “life together” included pulling some poor child out of the earth while they’re screaming and reassuring them over and over that they’re only undying, that there’s nothing to fear, that all the haze and noise and horrifying atmosphere is normal.

I somehow doubt that’s the vision he has.

Of course, not all people have children. Not all people marry. When I was alive, I had an uncle on my dad’s side. Well … Claire did. Claire had an uncle. His name was Humphrey and his wife June never had children. But they did have six puppies, two fish tanks and a parakeet.

Uncle Humphrey gave Claire one of his most prized fish for my—sorry, her—twelfth birthday. It wasn’t the one Claire liked with the purple stripes, however, so she refused to feed it. What an awful, spoiled girl she was. My—sorry, her—housemaid fed it instead, then eventually took it home to give to her own son.

At least Claire didn’t manage to kill that pet.

There was a friend of Claire’s mother, a lady from the tropics named Zoe. She didn’t live a very conventional life, never found love, and she always seemed happy as can be. She might’ve been the only person that I … that Claire liked. Zoe was a painter and she always smelled like paint, but Claire never minded because she always gave the best birthday and Christmas presents. Zoe was going to move into a house near us, but then my dad got the promotion, throwing us into the snowy north and far away from everything I knew, and …

My dad. My mom. I can’t keep dissociating from her.

When I think about my dad, I feel a strange, ripping emptiness inside me. He was always there, yet never there. Like a wallpaper you see in an old picture of your house. It was there the whole time, yet you swore the wall was painted banana yellow. My dad was a ghost to me until he was dying in the hospital. How ironic.

And I think on my mom. She was miserable. She was icy. She was kissing my forehead sweetly and then she was tearing a hole in my prom dress. In my last moment of life, I was racing through the snowy woods, desperate for her forgiveness, for my dad’s forgiveness, insisting that I’ve changed. Too late. The winter beneath my feet had found me. Snap. Crack. The world went away.

And in that final-final moment … when I was still kicking, reaching toward the heavens in slow motion, a thousand icy knives cutting into my still-living, still-aware, still-alive body … I had a moment of clarity. Helena mentioned it once long ago, this moment that happens just before you die … this moment of clarity …

Every memory you had, every regret, every hilarious joke you’ve told, every sandwich you made yourself, every song you cried listening to, every argument that ended in a hug, every stumble, every paper cut, every glass of pink lemonade you poured, every class you fell asleep in, every bright light bulb you accidentally looked into, every undisturbed second you spent staring at your own reflection in the mirror, every person you craved who never paid you any attention, every doubt you had about a story you heard, every bitter disappointment you couldn’t voice, every embarrassing thing you ever said to impress someone, every grunt you made ascending that staircase, every bit of bad news you ever gave a friend, every smile you faked … it waits for you.

It waits so patiently.

It knows, because in this final moment of your life, just when the moment of clarity is upon you … it’s right at the point when you go from being alive to being dead.

Floating down into the shadows, I stopped kicking. My legs wouldn’t work. My arms and hands … even my eyes couldn’t find the break in the ice, the thing I ought to blame for my death, the doorway that welcomed me to the wintry abyss of doom.

The tragedy of the moment of clarity is that it is too late. Always. Staring up at the shattered ice, I thought, but there is so much left to do. The prom. Gill.

My friends. Didn’t I have any? My mom at home …

I thought, but there is so much left to do and to say.

And my dad at the hospital. What about him?

There’s so much left to learn. My hair coming undone and my heart slowing, slowing … There is so much left …

Wait, wait, wait. Not yet. Please, wait.

I can’t even see the ice anymore, or the sky. Nothing. It’s all going grey the further I sink, and I wonder who’s going to pull me out.

Who’s going to pull me out.

Is there anyone, anyone at all … anyone who could come down into the cold to pull me out? My dad would say I did this to myself. My mom would say the only one left to blame is …

But who’s going to pull me out?

Who’s going to—?

“Winter?”

It’s John. He’s woken up to save me from myself. I turn and rush into his arms. He hugs me tight. The Undead don’t cry, but I’m shivering and lost in my First Life, and I’m so afraid I’ll never be able to let Claire go.

She’s the one sinking in the lake. It’s Claire who lost all her chances, not me. She’s the one permanently reaching into the sky, waiting for someone to help her, waiting forever for someone to come and pull her out.

I’m Winter, not Claire. And I am out.

I am out.

“It’s okay,” he moans into my ear. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” He runs a hand gently through my hair. I have no idea how he just understands what I need the moment I need it. He wasn’t always this way. He’s grown and he’s softened and he’s hardened, all at once.

“Thank you, John.”

I feel him smile into my neck again. I love feeling his lips move there. “I’m here for you,” he tells me, quiet as a dream. “I’m not leaving. I’m not going anywhere, Winter. I’m yours forever. You won’t ever lose me, I swear it.”

I realize in an instant that I feel better. John’s tight embrace, his gentle words … my face relaxes and my body lets go. I even start to breathe. Pretend-me is taking over, fake-breathing, letting the world seem like a nicer, warmer, better place.

“I love you so much.”

It’s John who says it this time. His warm tears touch my neck. They burn, and I let them. I grip him tight and I whisper it right back, right into his ear. We kiss, and the morning burns and burns to combat the cold winter dream I just let in.

An hour or so later, there’s a knock at the door. I cross the house in seven strides and swing it open.

My favorite dead person, Helena, huffs tiredly at me. “Well, do you have the thing or not?”

“The what? Oh!” I’d nearly forgotten about it.

“Oh?” Helena lifts a lazy eyelid. “Please, keep me in suspense.”

“The Lock’s Eye. No, I don’t have it. But I know who does.” I turn back to John, who is listening patiently to this exchange. “I’m going with Helena to pay our dear friend Ann a visit. I’ll be right back.”

John with all his tousled morning hair gives a small nod and a stubbly smile. Just the sight of that could warm me a whole winter long, provided I ever need warmth.

I step out with Helena and trek into the city. Judging from the mild activity I can hear in the nearby houses, and the handful of Humans who are taking a stroll, I assume morning’s come. I have a guess or two where I might find the little one, and I pray I won’t be forced to experience the awkwardness of knocking on her front door and explaining to her gentle, well-meaning parents that she may or may not have something that does not belong to her. Something I happen to need.

“Why Ann?” asks Helena. “I can’t stand the girl. Just a thorn in my ass for Human-Undead relations. Her little bleeder boyfriend Jimmy-Jim is bragging to everyone in the Human’s quarter about their relationship. I might just pluck that thorn, too.”

“Speak of the devil,” I mutter.

I’ve spotted said Human Jim outside the hospital, which is on the way to Ann’s house in the fourth quarter. His eyes, normally half-opened and droopy, flash wide as full moons when he sees us. “H-Hi,” he manages.

“Hi, Jim. We’re looking for Ann.”

“Oh, uhh … I dunno, W-Winter.” He looks to the left, shrugs, then swallows anxiously and scratches his face. “Maybe home. I dunno.”

I squint suspiciously at him. The way he’s perched here at the doorway to the building, one might think he were standing guard. “What’s going on, Jim?”

“Nothing. Just hanging.” He swallows again.

Hel steps up impatiently. “To hell with it,” she grunts, literally picking him up and setting him to the side. His only protest is a strange choking sound that might be a word or two he’s too scared to say. We push through the doors into the empty gymnasium. Our footsteps ring hard and loud, echoing across the unused machinery until we arrive at the only occupied room in the facility.

Doctor Collin peers up. Ann spins to face us, her short burst of hair whisking around, and when she sees me, her mouth opens, closes, opens.

“Don’t be mad,” she finally says.

The little girl that I didn’t notice lying there on the operating table turns her head. Her right eye meets mine, and she grins excitedly, so very happy to see me. Just her right eye … only the right … because now all that remains of her left is a small green stone.

“I did it,” she tells a dumbstruck Helena and me. “I’m gonna save Trenton. I’m gonna save us all.”

C H A P T E R – T H I R T E E N

R E C K O N I N G

It all happens so fast. In one moment, I’m staring at Megan in a stupor, her Human eye staring back … and her green one. The next moment, I’ve got a screaming Ann by the hair and I’m dragging her out of the room, out of the gymnasium, out to the streets.

I throw her, and she lands on her back. Gripping her head—so as to literally keep it on her shoulders—she says: “Winter, Winter, Winter, wait, Winter, Winter, wait—”

“HOW COULD YOU DO THIS??” Even I’ve never heard myself shout so loudly. “TO HER?? HOW COULD YOU LET THIS HAPPEN!!”

Ann raises her hands in defense, shielding her face. A clump of her hair hangs in a tangle from my fingers and Jim is somewhere off to the side, quivering and hugging himself. I hear the door flip open behind me, then shut. Either Helena, or Doctor Collin, or Megan herself … I don’t know, I’m not looking. I’m baking Headless Ann under my icecap blues, imagining forty different ways to make her actually headless.

“She’s just a child!!” I cry out.

“H-H-Haven’t you ever—” Ann can’t get the words out, still struggling to get to her feet. Half her hair is missing near her left ear, and I marvel for a moment at my own strength. “H-H-Haven’t you ever wanted to be more than-than-than-than what you are?”

“She’s just a—” I shut my eyes, unable to look at Ann anymore. I bring my hands up to my face, too angry to speak, too ashamed, too hurt. I say something else, but it’s muffled and it doesn’t matter. It’s done.

“I was so tired of being a teenager,” Ann tells me. “My whole Second Life consisted of graduating high school over and over again. And then you came along.” She makes it sound half an accusation. “You came and you wrecked it all. You rebelled. You were just like me, except you didn’t pull off your head and play soccer with it in alleyways. You overthrew a wretched Mayor. You freed us. You … brought in the Humans.”

I drop my hands and open my eyes. She’s still on the ground, a hand raised up to me as she explains, as if she’s afraid I might strike her at any second. I still might.

She continues. “For the first time in my Second Life, I’m more than just Headless Ann. I’m more than just an Undead … I’m a girlfriend.” She glances cautiously at Jim, who appears more terrified than proud at the moment. “And now M-Megan …” Just at saying her name, my face hardens. It doesn’t go unnoticed. “Now M-Megan is—is more than just the little girl with the dead brother. With that eye, now she’s more than just … Human.”

I stare hard at Ann. I can’t let her off, not so soon. I feel like I’m gnashing my jaw so tight, my teeth might be lodged halfway up my skull by now.

“Please say something,” she squeaks.

In a voice no stronger than the wintry breeze snaking through the street, I say, “You can explain the reasons until the end of days, Ann. But … her parents will never forgive us. Her parents will never understand.”

“B-But that’s just her parents, Winter. This is more important than-than-than just two fussy people who—”

“No, Ann. No.” I shake my head, overcome with the enormity of this. I can’t believe this is happening. “Ann. This is about more than the parents. This is about all of them. All the Humans. They won’t forgive us for this. Now we’re … we’re turning their children into monsters. We’ve done a horrible, horrible thing. And the timing, Ann. The Burning Army will be here any day.”

“I d-d-don’t care what the Humans think.” Ann gets to her feet, though it does little to steady her shaking voice. “Megan did this to p-protect them. She’s a Warlock now.”

“No, she isn’t. It doesn’t just work like that. She has no idea how to use the eye. It took Grimsky half a year to develop his own, and we don’t have that kind of time.” I plop onto the curb, fed up, and bury my face once more into a spread of pale palms. “What have we done …?”

Why doesn’t she see? Why doesn’t she understand? The parents will revolt. The rest of the Humans will see it as an act of violence. Megan, the innocent little Human, they’ll say she was brainwashed, pressured, maybe even held down and forced, for all the difference it makes. The Humans, already frustrated and cautious of us—as they have an unfortunate history with being eaten—are ready for any excuse to declare war on us. Even the Chief refused to let Judge Helena back in the city. Judge Helena.

Oh … The Chief.

The Chief is going to find out about this.

And then … “It’s over,” I say into my hands, defeated. “It’s over. It’s all over. We’ll be demolished before Grim ever makes it here. We’ll have done half his job for him.”

“Stop your whining.”

I lift my face to find Helena seating herself on the curb next to me. The sight is very strange, as I hadn’t taken her to be the kind who’d dare sit on the grimy, damp curb of a street. But from the exasperation that’s evident in her face, she’s had enough of the curveballs herself.

“What do we do?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “We tell Chief. He decides what’s next. As you can tell, we’re still not being invaded. For all we know, sweet Grimmy is taking his time. Or building his army further. Or sparing us altogether. How convincing do you think you were, Winter?”

I think about the blade Megan struck through him. I can still hear his screams of agony. “Might not have gone so well,” I admit quietly.

“To be fair, you weren’t prepared to confront him,” she points out, defending me in a rare, uncharacteristic way for Helena. “Same way I wasn’t prepared for After’s Hold to take our steel and give nothing in return. I wonder if this means his Raises are like the Deathless: weak to steel. What do you think?”

I’m affronted with the image of Grim holding my ringed hand to his chest, letting it burn. “He still is, if that counts for anything.”

“Miss him?”

I glare at Helena. “Are you kidding?”

“I mean, do you miss how he used to be?” She isn’t looking at me. Her gaze is lost somewhere down the street, her sharp features appearing sharper by her tensed expression. “The gentleman who took you dining? The well-mannered fellow who gave you a tiny spot of life in the woods? With tulips?”

Yes, I remember that little spot in the forest where Grim took me after our first night out. It was a merciful patch of grass that had sprouted somewhere in the Dead Woods. On its perimeter grew a little family of flowers … among them, tulips.

“Tulips …” I mumble.

The next voice I hear is neither Helena’s nor Ann’s, but Megan’s little one as she says, “You can call me that if you want. Your new name for me. My Undead name.”

I turn, daring myself to look at her again. She stares at me from the opened door of the gym-turned-hospital, Collin standing behind her with a hand on her shoulder. Her creepy green eye stares into the netherworld, her real one wetted with sadness.

“Tulip,” she mutters. “I’ll even pretend to like it. I thought you’d be proud of me.”

What did it take for this whole thing to happen? What was the conversation like between her and Ann and Collin? What convinced him to help? How did they sedate her? What sort of backwards medieval method did they employ in this world of limited resource to numb her to the pain? Collin may be a doctor with surgical experience, but who the hell knows what surgeries he performed when he was alive. Doctors specialize, don’t they? Are we just so lucky that he happens to be an eye doctor and an obstetrician? Is he also a neurosurgeon? Did he lose his license in a shady malpractice lawsuit?

Whatever, he’s probably a vet. “Just tell me. Is she going to be okay?” I ask Collin directly. “Is she, like, at risk for any infection or … or something?” He shakes his head. “I mean … because, well, let’s face it. You took out her eye and replaced it with a rock.”

“There are no guarantees,” he admits somberly. “But I also handled the body of the … the last Warlock. Who was also Human. After he was, well, dead. Really Megan should be resting. I told her not to get up, but …” He bites his lip, unable to go on, embarrassed. He’s never been the talking type. Until the Humans came, he was severely depressed and never spoke a word. His brother still runs the gymnasium, by the way. No one’s confirmed whether or not they’re actual brothers; we all assume it’s more of a death-brother, best-buddy sort of thing.

“Megan, no matter what we do next, we need to hide that eye,” I tell her. “No one can see it, Megan, no one. Especially not anyone who breathes.” Despite her look of disappointment, I turn back to Collin. “We need to come up with a story. Like … she fell and, and—ugh, I don’t know.” I slap a hand against my face. This isn’t going to end well, no matter how we spin it.

“I’ll handle the business,” Helena assures me. “We’ll have the Chief in on it. We’ll occupy her with some … fake task at the Town Hall. Maybe we can use Brains to figure out if this green eye has any green left in it. And—”

“My Raise?” I stop her right there. “You’re going to use my Raise as … as some kind of Warlock test subject?”

“Who else can Megan practice on? Don’t worry, I’ll send Marigold to look over her,” Helena decides, making all the choices today, apparently. “She’ll be safe, then. The Chief will have to convince Megan’s parents that she’s being kept busy in the Town Hall to distract her from, say, running off on another deadly adventure with her troublemaking best friend Winter. They’ll buy that one.” I shoot Hel a stinging look.

“I don’t want to be kept busy,” Megan complains. “I want to help. That’s the whole reason I—”

“And that’s precisely what you’ll do,” snaps Helena, rising off the curb to face the little one. “You’ll practice on Brains, to see if there are any powers in that eye. Might as well make do. But rest first. Winter, I suggest you bring John to the Town Hall. We have a lot to discuss.”

“Okay.”

Hel puts a hand on Megan’s back, guiding her off. Megan peers back at me over her shoulder, sadness in her eyes. Sorry: in her eye. I watch with a sickness brewing in me. The sight of that little girl and how she completely mutilated herself, all for the purpose of … what? For all we know, she may not be capable of anything. After all the failed attempts we made at using those Lock-eyes …

“Winter …”

“Go.” I can’t even look Ann in the face. I can’t look at the lung-bag of a boyfriend Jim either, nor can I face Collin at my back. “Please. Spare me.”

“But, Winter …”

“I SAID GO!” I cry out, Ann jerking back. Without another moment’s hesitation, she takes Jim’s hand and rushes off, disappearing into town. Behind me, I hear the doors open, then gently shut, the doctor silently excusing himself from my explosion of anger. I would too, if I were him and had any sense.

The gentle breeze still passes through the alley. I feel the quietness and the aloneness swallow me up. I peel off my stupid gloves and toss them away. Who was I kidding?

Nothing can touch me.

I stare at the ground, seething, my icecap blues feeling more like fiery reds at this point. I’m staring at some weed that’s sprouted from a crack in the cobblestone road. I don’t remember seeing it before. It’s an ugly thing, that weed. Gnarled, half-alive, half-dead, like most of us.

When I finally abandon my perch and walk home, I keep feeling like there’s raging flames behind me. I imagine it to be Grim’s army, slowly advancing on us. Even with the hint of fire growing in the distance, we will be taken over, ravaged, pillaged, destroyed, sucked into eternal lifelessness. I can’t even say confidently that Grim’s whole plan for a peacefully Dead world is still intact after our confrontation in After’s Hold.

Taking a different route, I pass down the street with Hilda’s Singing Seamstress. The sight of its unexpectedly quiet, vacant storefront sends a chill and half a lost memory through me. Further down the street, I pass the schoolyard where I first met Ann. At one point, I had wondered if the day would come when the Humans at last accepted us, finding their place in our society, and the children of a new generation begin attending the schools together—Human and Undead. I remember how I felt when I watched them fight alongside one another in the Battle For Trenton. You couldn’t tell them apart.

Human and Undead. Undead and Human. We fought for a common cause and we triumphed … we triumphed.

So why does it feel like we lost?

Suddenly, I realize I’m not walking home. I’ve made my way to another house entirely: Benjamin’s house. I push through the door and stare into the stagnant room. He’d left one of his windows a crack open, a quiet hum sneaking its way in through it, a wind song. On the table, I see the candle still sitting there, the one we let burn halfway down before running off on our adventure.

Why am I here?

I pluck a match from the table, strike it against my jaw—why not?—then gently bring it to the wick. It catches, glows red, purple, then green and blue, and suddenly I’ve created a tiny world of colors.

I watch the colors, feeling myself drawn into a trance of nostalgia. Benjamin and I at the Necropolis, pondering the future. Helena, me, Megan in a cage to the other side. All of us, united that day, never knowing that we’d paved our futures in that moment. That Benjamin would last until he met his end at the thrum of a quiet crossbow in a Town Hall, chatting about victory and plans and weapons. That Megan would get out of there alive too, help overthrow a city, then transplant her own eye.

We were united in doom. And we will be ripped apart just the same.

I remember how Benjamin nailed himself to the wall. He wanted to protect himself from the world. I wonder if I ought to do the same. I bit John while we kissed. I still can’t believe I let that happen. At least I haven’t seemed to progress from nibbling.

Watch out, world; I’ll nibble you into submission.

I’ve held the match for so long, my hand’s caught fire. I lift it up, curious, feeling nothing, and observe how the flame doesn’t quite touch my skin. It almost seems to burn the air around it. What sort of magic makes this possible …?

The next moment, I’m blowing out the match and the tiny flame on my fingertips. I don’t care.

I don’t care.

The streets are just as quiet and horrible when I leave Benjamin’s house. I force myself to smile because I’m tired of all the gloom and bad news. If Grim were to show up without any warning and burn the life out of every last Living and tree and blade of grass, when he finally comes to me, I want him to see me smiling. I want him to know he can take the life around me, but can’t take my smile.

Because contrary to what he might firmly believe, he cannot burn my spirit.

John’s on the porch, watching me as I approach. The steps creak as I ascend them, then the wood beneath my shoes creak some more as I sit in the chair next to him, a rocking chair. I stare ahead blindly. I don’t even hear John when he greets me, until he asks: “Did you find it?”

I reply, “No. But Megan did.”

C H A P T E R – F O U R T E E N

O N S L A U G H T

The air is calm. Too calm.

The Undead that inhabit the city walls have all been given steel projectiles, feeling it to be the best defense against an onslaught of fiery Undead that presumably—or rather, hopefully—are just like Deathless incarnate.

I try to picture Grim being assaulted by a rain of steel arrows, and suddenly Grim’s face becomes Benjamin’s, and then suddenly I see Grim looking the way he did on the very first day we met—fine black dress shirt, perfectly-cropped hair that cut down his face in tiny spikes—and all the stomach I thought I had for this is gone in an instant.

“How is Megan?” I ask Helena that evening when the Humans have all turned in for the night, and she just gives a roll of her eyes and says, “You can hand anyone a seed, doesn’t mean they’ll have you a garden by morning.”

We’ve made Megan a thick, warm bed in an unused office of the Town Hall. The Chief has convinced us that the parents have been taken care of; in fact, they’re downright pleased with the circumstance, thinking it rather resourceful and clever. “Keeping her busy will certainly encourage her not to … you know,” explained the father Ken, and Bonnie, clinging too tightly to her husband’s arm, nodded and smiled just as stiffly.

There is yet another interesting and just as unsettling development: Gill, the man whose wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl before expiring within feet of me, has been released back into the public. The Chief thought long and hard on it and had many discussions with the man, who convinced him ultimately that he was alright. Of course, he’ll never truly be alright, as he’s lost the only woman in the world he could ever love. Sweet Laura, he kept calling her. Sweet, sweet Laura. Two close friends of Gill had been caring for the newborn feeding her milk substitute powder. I suppose the Chief felt it was cruel to keep a father from his daughter, even despite the fact that Gill was clearly unstable. He’s apparently regained his senses and only wishes to spend time with his little nameless girl, especially considering how precious time has suddenly become, what with the impending invasion at hand. I heard he still refuses to name his daughter.

The day after he’s released, the air grows even calmer. The calm does nothing to rest my restless bones.

Another unit of Undead have taken to sealing the wall in the Burned Quarter, ignoring the fact that we really should have done something about it before now. One foolish Human that had come among a group to observe the work joked that if we can’t finish the wall in time, we ought to simply stack the bodies of the Undead high enough to make one. Two other idiots found that funny, their laughs turning to mist in the cold air, until I quietly informed them that that was, in fact, exactly the way the walls were built at the Necropolis, except I was quite sure not all of the heads were made of Undead. Their laughter died in their throats, and I felt a sick satisfaction from it.

The Square has been effectively shut down, along with all the markets and kiosks and other things that made life feel “normal” in Trenton. All of it has been replaced with stations manned by Human and Undead. Though, admittedly, the Undead seem to only be working alongside other Undead, and the Humans, bundled up in coats and scarves, only sit among their own. There are stations for threading steel to the tips of wooden arrows. Stations for melee training, should the gates or walls be breeched, where even the young Humans are taught basic defense and offense using our limited weaponry. I hear an old man telling his grandson: “No matter what, if it’s one of them and one of you who’s in trouble, you protect yourself and your kin first. No single one of us is gonna die for one of them, you hear me on that? They’re already dead. If there’s no other lesson you—” He draws silent as I pass, his eyes following me. I’m sure he isn’t meaning to glare, any more than I’m meaning to eavesdrop.

The air remains calm as a winter’s breeze, quiet as the dead. Another day drifts into night song and the snoring of Humankind as I crouch at the top of the northern wall. I scan the brim of the Dead Woods, searching the ever-sprawling lands of nothing. Where are you, Grim?

I search the night sky, which is really just the same as the day sky, and cannot find the ghost’s rainbow. That’s what we Undead have officially named it: the ghost’s rainbow. The great fire that once stained our sky and brought with it a haunting promise of doom. I hope Grim’s happy, as we’ve named him too: Sergeant Green.

Well, I guess they weren’t really serious about that.

The Chief has asked me many, many questions since our return. How many did Grim have with him? Do I think After’s Hold was corrupted and occupied before we got there? How long had Grim been gathering his forces?

And now, he asks about Ben: “I know he wasn’t one of the … one of the Deathless beforehand,” the Chief goes on. “He even helped during the Battle For Trenton. He’s handled lots of steel, enough to prove himself. When did that change? Was it something at After’s Hold?”

“It was before then,” I admit. Part of me is saying I should lie, protect myself, hide the fact that I was an accomplice in keeping Ben’s secret, but what would that earn me? The Chief has been reasonable so far, even with Megan’s outrageous recent act; he will be reasonable with this, too. “It was at Jasmine’s party. Ben’s hands burned when he held a fork to … to eat Marigold’s frightening excuse for a cake.” I wince apologetically. “I didn’t know what to do. We both knew what he wasn’t. We have no idea why he … why he …”

“And now we won’t,” the Chief finishes for me, his voice heavy and full of regret. “Gunner is quick, and he needs to be. But I’m afraid he was too quick this time. We could’ve used Ben a lot more alive. Well, you know what I mean.” He finishes his apple with a savage, toothy bite.

The next morning, I wake in John’s arms. We’d fallen asleep on a bench in the back of the Town Hall, right outside the room where Megan sleeps. Well, he’d fallen asleep while I closed my eyes and continued my little day dream of a life, trying with every dead bone in my body to keep away the evil thoughts—like Claire’s life, and Claire’s death, and all the wonderful and horrible things I couldn’t let myself experience back when I used to do interesting things—y’know, like breathing. When I try to slip out from John’s arms, he squeezes, not letting me go. I have to smile, struggle a bit, then manage to free myself.

The Square is quiet and peaceful in the early morning. Humans are already up and about, some of them at their stations, a circle of them at a cooking fire where, I guess, this morning’s breakfast is being prepared. I’m spotted by a few of them, and it doesn’t take an extraordinarily bright individual to deduce that I am not welcome in their circle.

The day goes by with little happenstance. A sleepy old woman burns her tongue on a ladle of soup. A man with humungous eyebrows gets into a quarreling match with an Undead boy who strolled too close to a bucket of water, the man worried the boy might contaminate it somehow and render it undrinkable. Two men and a lady instruct a chilly coated-up group in how to best utilize the collected rainwater to care for the vegetables in the greenhouse. A little boy among them, who stubbornly refuses to wear shoes, trips over a stray shovel and lands face-first in the cold dirt. Two women come to console him, one of them muttering that an Undead left the shovel there on purpose. I’m even glared at before I leave, as though I were that very Undead of which she spoke.

Things aren’t polite. There’s no love in the air, only suspicion and worry and anticipation. No Burning Army invades today, and I’m almost disappointed.

Get this over with, Grim.

That evening, we are all surrounding a table in the lobby of the Town Hall. John sits at my side, Helena on the other. Across from us is the Chief, Gunner, Marigold and Megan. Set in the center of the table is the remnants of a plate of food the Humans shared for dinner while Helena and Marigold and I discussed a plan for tomorrow. Now the Chief is weighing in his opinions while John reports the status of the wall in the Burning Quarter.

Helena is in the middle of recounting—in the most boring of drawls imaginable—our food and supplies when suddenly the front doors swing open and a skittish sort of Human quietly steps in to say: “E-Excuse me?”

A short series of quick things happens: the Chief rises, Marigold leans to the side and Helena spreads her arms, all in an effort to keep Megan from sight. Or, at least, the little green secret on her face.

“Yes?”

The man seems occupied for a moment, studying our grouping at the table, before finally saying, “Judy and the Bransons and I would, uh, like a word.” His eyes are still all over us, curious, prodding.

“I will meet you in the Square, as soon as our meeting is concluded.” The man accepts the answer, though he seems to take all the time in the world just to turn around and leave, his snoopy gaze lingering far too long.

As soon as the doors swing shut, the Chief rounds on Marigold, eyes maddened. “I thought you locked up?”

“I had!” she insists cheerily, his fury lost on her.

The Chief rushes to the door, locking it. “I will see to him once we’ve finished our business here.” It is an effort, but the Chief regains his composure and returns to the table to finish hearing Helena’s inventory.

Once we break for the night, Helena gets with Gunner to discuss the Undead positioned along the north walls, Marigold and Megan get lost in a conversation about Brains and something she did today, and the Chief makes his way out to the Square. That leaves John and I in the waiting area where he’s sitting so close I can feel his heartbeat reverberating through my body.

I wish I could always be this close to him. “I’ve made my point to the Chief,” John’s in the middle of telling me. “Several times, and he keeps putting me off.”

“About Garden?”

“Yeah.” He huffs, fed up and frustrated as a boy who keeps getting sent back to bed. “We wouldn’t even have to worry about any of this. No fighting for our lives. No scrounging the deadlands for scraps. The cold is here, and it’s only getting colder, and … Do you think Grimlock’s starving us out? I think we’ll starve before we’re even met by his Army Of Fire. What a cruel joke. A paradise of food and fruit and life beyond our wildest imagination, and we sit here in the cold and wither.”

I want to tell him: Grimsky. It’s Grimsky, not—but I hold my tongue and instead I say: “We could go right now, if you wanted.”

Pressing into his side, warmed by the hope, I notice Gunner stealing a quick glance at us, even from across the room where he’s discussing things with Helena. I realize that broadcasting our little relationship might be risky, considering the Human-Undead relations thing, and I find myself slackening my grip on John’s arm.

“Steal supplies and make a run for Garden?” John snorts derisively. “That’s exactly what I did the last time, back at camp. Took supplies and headed off in pursuit of the dream. Oh, the luck I had. That’s how I ended up here.” He peers at me coyly through the side of his face.

Yeah, I remember every detail of that day. I remember hearing John’s heartbeat from across that tavern.

“Maybe in time, the Chief will see the sense in it.” I sigh. “It doesn’t change the fact that Grim is out there, his green eye set on anything alive. Garden will be his target, whether tomorrow or a month from now or a year from now. Until someone stops Grim …”

“Everything will slowly die,” John finishes.

At that moment, the door to the Town Hall opens and my favorite Undead in the world right now, Ann, rushes in and slams shut the door. Clearly heated and in no nice mood, she rushes up to Helena to talk to her. The words are hushed but furious. After a short exchange, Helena lifts her pointy chin to me. “Winter. We have a problem. Mister bright-as-can-be Jim has—”

“Jim told his parents,” Ann finishes through gnashed teeth. “About Megan and I told them it wasn’t true, but now they’re telling other people, and the Chief is getting in the middle of it—the Bransons, the Greys, Larry, Lena and Margie, Willis—”

I’ve gotten to my feet and my fingers have magically made fists at my sides. “I told you what would happen. You and Jim run off to conduct this deed with Megan’s eye, all the while rubbing your fling in everyone’s face—”

“It’s not a fling!” Ann cries out. “You’re one to talk, you big hypocrite. Everyone knows about you and John.”

I’m dumbstruck. “That doesn’t even compare, Ann.”

“It’s the exact same thing! You two even live together! You ought to hear what they say about you,” she spits at me, shaking with rage.

“Stop, both of you.” John’s come up to my side. “We have a worse issue on our hands. They’re all fighting, Ann? Where are they fighting?”

“Right outside, if you’d just listen,” she snaps back.

John doesn’t hesitate a second. Hurrying to the door, he lets himself out. I take a quick glance at Helena, who appears quite unsettled by all of this herself, then follow John out of the Town Hall to survey our damage control.

The evening crowd in the Square is nothing pretty. A handful of Humans are banded together, shouting at the Chief and a number of Undead. To my surprise, John rushes down the steps and inserts himself right into the argument. I can hardly make out any of the words, for all the shouting and heated debate.

I focus suddenly on the faces of Ken and Bonnie who appear like two ice cubes in a pond of unstill waters. Finally, Ken is able to gather enough of the crowd’s attention for his demand to be heard: “Show her to me.”

This is all I hear. It’s all I need to hear to know the whole thing is doomed. Ken and Bonnie will take one look at their deformed daughter, and all hope we ever had of reconciling and coexisting with the Humans will be gone in a single glance.

“Show her to me,” he repeats.

The Chief looks back at me, meeting my eyes, and then he seems to peer beyond me. The crowd is struck silent all of a sudden. I’m confused by why until I bother to turn around myself and see who else has joined us.

Megan. And she is not alone. Walking slowly behind her: Brains. Marigold has repaired Brain’s face, though there is plenty of room for improvement. Also, there’s a development of extra fingers protruding from the back of Brain’s neck, as well as extra hands on her shoulders and down her hips. They almost appear like feathers, except for the unsettling way they seem to wiggle and twitch. If this isn’t strange enough a sight, the Deathless ghoul that is my Raise is wearing a collar and a leash, which Megan gently holds, guiding her.

I can’t believe what I’m seeing.

“It’s okay,” Megan explains timidly to the spread of Humans and Undead in the Square. No one at all seems convinced. “It’s perfectly okay. I’ve been training my powers. I can speak to them. I can.” She looks up at Brains, hope in her eye. “Tell them your name.”

Brains looks out at the crowd. Half her hair is missing and her nose is an inch too far to the left, and her right ear appears to be sewn on upside-down, and she opens her mouth and says, “I am Deathleblghalbmgblghglh.”

Her tongue deposits itself onto the Town Hall steps.

“MEGAN!” cries out Ken, or maybe it was Bonnie, I can’t be sure, because suddenly Brains is making an open-mouthed lunge at Megan’s neck.

Several things happen. I jump forward to intercept the two at precisely the same time an arrow is loosed from somewhere in the crowd. The arrow—intended for Brains—lands in me instead, and I scream out, feeling an otherworldly agony that I cannot hope to compare to anything I have in this existence felt. At the same time, the Humans are trampling over the Undead, cursing and screaming, steel swords bared and axes lifted and arrows nocking.

I can’t see anything, curling up on the steps in agony. For a solid handful of seconds, I don’t even try to dislodge the arrow because I can’t even tell where it landed; my entire body is in unrelenting pain.

Suddenly the arrow’s been yanked free—it was in my right shoulder, by the way—and even as the steam rises, Helena seems to pay it no mind, yanking me back onto my feet. I find Megan racing into the crowd in pursuit of Brains, who’s gotten away from her. The sights I witness are so horrifying, I don’t know what to look at or how to look away.

A man’s struck an axe into another’s back—an Undead I should hope. The other is countering with a blunt knife.

Two women are climbing over each other, trying to be the first one to reach a sword that’s fallen to the ground between them.

There’s a bleeding child screaming, clutching a doll.

“Winter, you’ve got to move your legs!”

The pain is still lancing its way up and down my body. Doesn’t anyone notice the chimney that’s been made of my shoulder?

Helena’s grabbed a hold of me, rushing me through the crowd. I cry out John’s name. The horror surrounds us as Helena plunges through. Metal clangs against metal. Screams are cut off mid-scream. I hear a boy shouting for his mommy and I hear an Undead cry out in the name of Trenton, and I want to ask, wasn’t this city supposed to be all of ours?

Helena slams her back against the wall of a building, trapped by people fighting, unable to proceed further, and she says, “Girl, we have ourselves a battle sooner than we’d planned.”

That’s when I see it. “Hel, look!” I cry out, drunk by the pain that’s twisting through me. “Look, look, look, the bird!”

I’m watching the sky, insane with agony, seeing the beautiful thing approaching. “Quiet your mouth,” Helena shouts back at me, freaked out. “Focus, and tell me if—”

“There,” I whisper. “Hel, tell me you see it!”

She squints into the sky, indulging me, and then her face fills with awe. Mine too, as I realize only now that there’s more than one. “Birds,” I say, disbelieving my eyes. It’s such a beautiful sight, I forget that I’m even hurting. Or maybe the pain’s gone away. “They’re coming …!”

I’m not the only one who sees them. The fighting in the Square has ebbed practically to a standstill. A lady brandishing a shovel looks up, her eyes wide. A boy too, breath turning to mist before his jaw-dropped mouth. Soon, the whole courtyard is silenced by the approaching flock. They all see it. I smile broadly, awed, overcome with the vision in the sky. Have the birds come to free us from chaos? Have they come to remind us that life is still something to hope for? All is not lost.

Then I watch the awe in Helena’s face as it slowly dies. “Winter. Those … aren’t birds.”

Confused, I squint at the closest of the birds, watching it flutter closer, closer, closer … and then realize with mounting horror that Helena is right. The thing flying in the sky … is not a bird. None of them are. The size of the flying—things—are already large from a distance. They seem the size of an eagle. Then the size of a vulture as they draw closer. And then the one in front grows to the size of a person as it approaches.

Half a person. With scorpion legs.

And then our attention is stolen anew by screams in the center of the Square—and it’s not of another skirmish breaking out.

I can’t see what’s happening until it’s too late. The Humans and the Undead no longer have an interest in fighting one another; they’re all running away screaming. When I finally manage a glimpse through the crowd, a scream of my own catches in my throat.

Bursting forth from the muddy ground at the foot of the stage are spiders. Giant spiders, like the one Gunner and I fought. Tens and twenties of them. Countless.

Helena needs no instruction. She’s running with the rest of them, carrying damaged-me in her bony arms. Screams threaten to shatter the windows of the homes and buildings we pass as the nightmarish band of insects scurry in pursuit of us, and they are nothing kind. I watch over Helena’s shoulder as a spider leaps on a man’s face. What the arachnid does to the man, I cannot say, as the crowd of running and screaming people block my view.

Helena’s foot catches, and the pair of us tumble to the ground. Instantly—and unkindly—we are trampled by Human and Undead alike, all of them howling with fear and scurrying like the insects. A window shatters to my left as a man leaps into a store for cover—unknowingly pursued by an enormous … wait, is that a cockroach??

Yes, it is. Very, very large cockroaches that I am now seeing skitter by. Beetles. And odd scorpion-like hybrids and fluttering crickets with buzzing legs, all of them the size of cats and dogs. Squeals and shouts explode across the Square as half the Humans run for their lives while the remaining half, to my surprise, begin fighting back. They’re clubbing with their steel weapons, swinging their swords, jabbing and hammering and giving impressive war-cries to the onslaught of insects.

The worst of the crowd has passed, enough for Hel and I to get back to our feet. Instantly I look into the sky, only to find that the flying creatures are gone.

What were they?

“Helena,” I quickly begin to confess. “Gunner and I encountered this really big spider in the woods, and—”

“Get a weapon!” she cries out, reaching for what appears to be a metal rod on the ground, then dives into the business of clubbing a giant tarantula that’s come too close for comfort.

Then I see it. Through the chaos of movement and weapons and limbs, there is a figure as still as a statue. Half a woman, carried by an arsenal of scorpion legs beneath … and her eyes are on me.

I back away, then realize I’m already against a wall.

Instantly, the half-woman-half-scorpion thing flies—flies!—across the Square, and just as I try to run, she’s pinned me to the wall with four of her spindly legs.

From a distance, she was one thing. Upclose, another entirely.

Her face is a pox of blemishes and cuts, yet through it all she is unexpectedly beautiful, framed with bubblegum-pink hair dirtied by dirt, twigs, and leaves. Her lips are lush and smirking with the wickedness of a girl up to no good. A spray of earrings decorate her left ear, and the party doesn’t stop there; down her left shoulder and arm is an ink mural of snakes and dragons and mythical beasts I can’t name. Beneath the punk-girl torso, there is a horror of giant insect legs that all seem to work in perfect harmony, as four of them have me pinned helplessly against the wall. Enormous dragonfly wings fold along her body and, still smirking impishly, her face draws so close to mine, I might think she intends to give me a kiss.

“What the hell are you?” I blurt out.

“Intrigued,” she answers, her eyes so close I can’t tell what color they are, blue, violet, red, pink. Her voice is silky and her strange accent could place her anywhere in the world and I’d believe it.

“Please, tell your—insects—to stop! These people are my family, please …”

Begging a half-woman-half-scorpion-monster-thing for my life is not at the top of the list of things I expected to do today.

“The insects are my family,” the lady-creature replies, licking her lips.

“Oh.” Now I realize what’s happening. “I g-get it. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I—Listen, I was in the woods and—”

“It was the boy that killed it,” the lady-creature says. Then her crazy-iridescent eyes turn sad. “You only took off the poor thing’s legs. Two of them, I watched. Did you keep them?”

I gape. “Keep them …?”

“That’s what I would’ve done.” Her whole face turns light and she starts giggling. All the chaos and murder and mayhem around her, and she’s giggling. “See? Like this.” To demonstrate, she grabs a nearby tarantula by one of its feet—the one Helena was trying to bludgeon to death—and indelicately pulls one of its legs from the body. Then she thrusts the twitching limb at her lower abdomen, working the flesh and, and—no, I’m not going to watch.

“Look here. See?” The lady-creature sounds peeved that I am not looking, so I take a reluctant glance. The tarantula leg has become part of her arrangement now; it even twitches, though it’s too high up to touch the ground. “I never let them go. Too precious.”

I struggle in vain to break free for exactly five seconds before giving up, annoyed. “Can you please let me go, or at least eat me and be done with it?”

Her face screws up cutely, like a child who’d just been told a new word. “Eat? I’ve never eaten anything before. You want me to try it?”

“No.”

“I didn’t want to either. What are you called?”

People are fighting for their lives all around us, Helena still battling a one-less-legged tarantula to the death, and the lady-creature and I are having a freaking conversation over tea. “W-Winter.”

“I’m Shee.” She lifts her left arm, inked from shoulder to wrist. “Do you know what these pictures mean?”

“No.”

“Neither do I.” Shee giggles. “Can we be friends?”

“LET ME GO!” I scream, fed up. My legs can’t even move, pinned by something I can’t see. I have no means whatsoever with which to attack her. John is in that mess out there and I want to know he’s still alive. Megan too, and the Chief, and Marigold … “LET ME GO!!”

“But then you’ll run away.” Her eyes scrunch up, her lips turning pouty. “They always run away. No one ever stays to play with me.”

She looks my age. Maybe twenty. And she’s talking like a lonely child on the playground.

“Maybe we can come to a truce,” I tell her quickly, turning desperate now. “Those are my friends out there. And those—those spiders and things are your friends, family, whatever. Let’s call a truce and all of us can be friends. How does that sound?”

“Sounds nice,” says Shee, grinning dreamily.

“Great. Good. Now tell them to stop.”

“Oh. I don’t control them. They’re free to do as they please.”

Helena is wrestling with the tarantula now. She’s literally hugging it, grappling with the hairy thing and grunting madly.

“I’ll be your friend,” I exclaim. “Let’s be friends. I’m Winter. I’ll be your friend, Shee. I’ll be your bestie.”

Just let me go. Let me go, you insane creature-thing.

She grabs my face with her hands, staring into my eyes. “Great! Did you come into this world like I did?”

I frown. “How’d you come into this world? Can you let go of me, maybe?”

She doesn’t. “I came out of the ground.”

Out of the ground. This woman doesn’t eat. She’s chaotic, playful, unaware, uncivilized. She keeps company with giant insects and even attached parts of them to herself for legs. This woman is Undead. Her bugs are not.

“I did too,” I tell her.

“Were your legs missing when you came out of the ground?” she goes on, tilting her head to the side. “Mine were. I had to find legs.” It appears she’s found many. “Do you have any pictures on your body?”

Suddenly there’s an arrow stuck in the side of her head. She regards it the way one might bat at a fly, then returns her attention to me. “Will you come with me?”

“Please, I should really be—”

Another arrow hits her in the shoulder and, entirely unfazed, she says, “Let me show you something!”

In an instant, her legs maneuver around mine and, tangled among them, I’m dragged along for a ride. Yelling out, I claw at the ground as the Shee-thing drags me across the Square. I’m desperately looking through the crowd—which appears to have dissipated greatly—and see no sign of John, or Megan, or even Brains …

“LET ME GO!” I scream, kicking, thrusting, but there is no action I perform that gets me any closer to breaking free. She has me in a perfected prison of a clutch.

“Right here!” she says, twisting my body around and showing me a bushel of flowers. She’s taken me into the Human’s Quarter, just outside the bakery. “Look at them. Oh, but don’t touch, don’t touch. It’s very bad if we touch them.”

“I know.” I’m so desperate to get away from her. A giant spider scuttles by, pursuing nothing, pursued by nothing, and I turn to the Shee-lady and say, “Let me go.”

“Strange,” she mutters, her voice like a gentle song. “They’re so tiny, your flowers. Very, very, very tiny. I didn’t know tiny ones existed. Hey!” Her eyes light up like two purple moons. “Do you want to see some bigger flowers? I can show you!” She pulls out the arrow from her shoulder with the casualness of minding an itch. She doesn’t seem to notice the one still stuck in her head.

“Please, no,” I beg her. “Please. I want to make sure my friends are okay. JOHN! HEL! SOMEONE! HELP!”

The Shee-thing twists me with her many limbs until my face is close to hers, dangling upside-down, staring at her big, puffy lips as she says: “It’s only a day or two that way. Let me show you the size of my flowers, Winter!”

She’s about to see the size of my fist and the depth at which my fingers can claw. I thrash around once more, like a child throwing an obnoxious tantrum, but she’s got me so firmly, I have no hope of breaking free. None. She is an expert; I have a suspicion she’s caught people before.

“This one time,” she tells me excitedly, “I made this other friend. She kept trying to get away from me, too. I like to play a game where I pull my friends apart and then they have to crawl around and find all their body parts.”

“JOHN! HELENA!”

“I used to play it all by myself using my own parts,” she goes on, dreamily, “but this friend I’d made … she was different. She was able to bleed.”

“GUNNER!! SOMEONE!”

“I’d never met anyone before who could bleed. When I pulled her apart, she stopped moving.” The Shee-lady’s face draws close again, too close. “What does it mean when they stop moving?”

“HELP!”

“Your arm is smoking,” she remarks, a stray spider leg coming up to poke at it. It still stings and I’m feeling a strange dizziness consuming me. “My arms don’t smoke.”

“H-Help,” I manage to get out, though it’s hardly audible. No one is around. I am helpless.

Then her eyes flash happily, her mouth stretching into an enormous smile. “Let’s look at a big flower!”

Despite my unheard screams, despite my kicking and my pummeling nothing-at-all with my secured fists, the Shee-spider-lady spreads her dragonfly wings and lifts off the ground. Letting me dangle now by her scorpion legs, which have an expert grip on me, I watch the city of Trenton fall away. The earth expands. The vast wastes and the Dead Woods. Shee-thing flies me over the wall, over the treetops, on and on into the oblivion of the world. She passes over a too-familiar cliff, nothing but mist lying miles below.

C H A P T E R – F I F T E E N

A   F A M I L I A R   P L A C E

“You have to promise me you won’t touch them!” she calls out through the air that tosses our hair everywhere. “Not a thing or else it dies! All of it dies when we touch it! So we can’t touch it!”

For a moment, I really wish she could be a friend. What a convenient way to travel. If all it took was a pair of enormous dragonfly wings, I could totally give this idea to Marigold and we’d have liftoff. How in the world a simple pair of insect wings is lifting her—or rather, us—into the air is simply impossible to fathom.

I fight an urge to ask her to let me go. I realize, from this great height, I most certainly do not want to be let go. I know all about “shattering” …

“Do you like to fly?” she asks, her voice carrying the lunatic excitement of a person who needs to be medicated heavily and restrained to a bed.

I stare down longingly at the world as it passes by, my heart heavy and strangled with terror of another kind. John is down there somewhere, and I hope he’s alive. As I drift along the colorless sky, unable anymore even to see the rainbow of Grim’s army, I feel like I’ve said goodbye to my friends without having said a word at all.

“We’re almost there!” She’s started to descend. The wind blows harshly, throwing my hair in every possible direction. I can’t even see where we’re going.

“Please, Shee, please,” I respond, hoping my voice carries through the violent wind, “can we please return to my friends when we’re done?”

“You must promise not to touch them!” she goes on.

“Promise!” I cry out. “Please, can I …”

The mist of the land gives way, and I look down at the place over which we’re hovering. Another dark, ruinous expanse of nothing. The earth here is so dry, it’s fissured. A straggling trench cuts through the terrain, something that may have once been a river. It rushes up to me so fast I lift my arms to shield my face from an impact.

Almost gently, however, I’m brought to rights and set down on my feet, and for the first time in what feels like hours, the Shee-thing lets me go. I don’t run. I do a few spins, taking in this new environment. There isn’t a blade of grass in sight. Has Shee deceived me? Has the creature flown me to some faraway nest of hers where her strange, devious plans for revenge can be realized?

“I can’t bring us too much closer,” the spider-lady explains, her scorpion legs clicking anxiously. “When I get too close to the flowers, the voices tell me to stay away.” She giggles, finding that funny apparently. “I already know I can’t touch them, silly things. I wouldn’t dare! But the flowers are protective.” She giggles again, louder. “Silly flowers. Come!”

“There are … voices?”

“Yes. It’s the flower-people. The voices in the flowers. They cry out for me to stay away.” She licks her lips. “I wouldn’t dare touch them, but they remind me anyway. Are you going to come along, Winter?”

“Yes.” I start to follow her. “I’m following my friend.”

She grins so broadly, I see every tooth in her mouth and her eyes scrunch up to nothing. “I knew you weren’t like all the others! Come, come, come!” She lets her many legs slowly glide her through the waste. I follow quickly, knowing full well that I’m following an insane person.

An insane person who speaks to flowers, and hears responses from them.

There are the remnants of trees jutting out of the earth, but none of them have branches or leaves of any kind, and they are not very tall. It almost appears as a landscape of giant, beige thorns. In the distance, however, I see the foliage-that-once-was becoming much thicker, almost like the Dead Woods that surround Trenton, except they are phenomenally taller. Much, much taller.

“Excited??” she asks, glancing back to make sure I’m still following. I smile politely. “Just a bit further!”

I’m watching her from behind, studying the way she moves. She isn’t quick until she’s airborne. I consider whether or not I could outrun her. Ironic it’d be, that two legs might be able to outrun twenty. She’s very skilled at making such an amount of legs move, especially given the fact they are legs of other species. Every four seconds or so, her body lurches to the left, then rights itself a second later, as if one of her scorpion legs has to reach too far to compensate for the awkward differing length of one of the spider legs. A coil of her pink hair tickles down her bare back, bouncing on the hind limb of a cricket. I watch that coil bounce and bounce and bounce, trying to judge how fast I can truly run. If I overestimate myself, or miscalculate my own speed … it may very well be the last calculation I ever make.

We’ve finally broken into the wall of very tall thorns that some ancestor might’ve reluctantly called a forest, and the claustrophobia begins to suffocate me. I don’t want to advance much farther into these woods than I have to, as I might admit my trust with this Shee-creature is less than ideal for anything I’d safely call a friendship.

“Here, here!” she exclaims.

I come only as close as is absolutely necessary, making sure to keep enough distance from her scorpion vice grip. When I lay my eyes on the sight, however …

“There’s so little color in the world,” the Shee-lady says, thoughtful, curious. “I wish there was more color.”

What I’m staring at are the biggest purple petals I’ve ever seen—each one about the size of a hand. It blossoms among a thicket of green stems and coiling tendrils of blue that have no business at all to exist here in the middle of all this endless desolation. Tiny spots of grass sprout around the tree against which these impossibly large flowers have somehow managed to survive.

“How?” I ask, genuinely amazed at the sight.

“There are more!” she says excitedly.

Realizing it might mean another terrifying trip in the air, I assure her, “No, no, it’s okay. You don’t need to show me. I’m …” I shake my head, dumbfounded. “I am simply impressed with these flowers. They’re quite big.” And then I have another thought. It’s a thought I should have had the very first time she ever mentioned big flowers. “You said there’s … a place with more of these?”

“Many, many, many more,” Shee eagerly agrees, her purple-red eyes flashing. “But we can’t get near it. No, no, we can’t touch them. No way.” She brings a finger to her lips, begins gnawing on it. “The flower people won’t let us and I don’t want the flowers to die. My children like to sometimes go there, but I’m not allowed.”

Her children … Big bugs. Big flowers. Big greens.

Is she talking about what I think she’s talking about?

“Shee. I need you to listen to me. Please. The people I was with back at the city. There are many people there, people who are not like us. They are people who can touch the flowers. They are people, um … people that bleed, understand? They desperately need to get to this place with the big flowers, or they will die.”

Of all the random acts that have occurred in my Second Life so far, I could never have predicted that this terrifying one involving a crazy friendless lady-thing with scorpion legs who might still destroy everything I love would lead me directly to John’s lifelong dream.

Garden.

“They will die?” she asks, confused.

“Yes, they will die. They will starve. They will … stop moving.” How can I get this strange, dangerous creature to understand that I really, truly need her help?

“I don’t like things to die,” she reasons, working her lips into a smirk and bringing out a dimple in her cheek I hadn’t noticed before.

What am I doing? How the hell can I trust her?

“There is an army,” I decide to tell her, because why not? “This army is trying to kill everything on the planet. They’re making everything die. Even big, pretty flowers.”

Shee-lady’s face turns sour, terrified, pained. “Why would an army do such a thing??”

“We need your help.” Yes, please, keep her listening to me, keep her responding like a sane person. “The army was headed for the city we just came from. My city. We need to go back and stop that army from killing my friends. The army will even kill your spiders and your crickets and your … your other critters.”

“This is awful, awful news! What is an army?” she asks suddenly, peering off into nowhere, as if trying to picture what one might look like.

“A … big group of people who are on fire. That’s what an army is,” I explain. “Now please, Shee. Take me back to the city. Let’s stop this Burning Army before they make their way here and … and to the place with the rest of the big flowers. We have to protect the flowers and the, the, the spiders.”

Shee nods, to my great relief. Is there an ounce of self-control within her, after all? “Yes, yes, yes, yes.” Suddenly, her dragonfly wings begin to flutter. “Yes, yes,” she keeps agreeing, though I find myself terrified with what, exactly, she’s agreeing.

Suddenly her scorpion legs lash out, and I’m trapped in her clutch again. Her wings give a swish, a buzz, and then the world’s dropping away once more.

She doesn’t ascend too far this time. Nearly grazing the land and the pointy dead treetops, she flies low and languidly. Sweeping through trees, rounding around one just as another approaches, I watch with a mixture of fascination and terror as the dust and the death and the nothing pass by. Then suddenly we’re free from the thorny mess, and an expanse of dust envelopes us.

If I can convince her that we have a common cause to fight for. If I can convince this creature that both our livelihoods are in danger due to the Army Of Burning Puppet-People that are savaging the planet. If I can get her to remain concentrated on that.

Maybe John will have his Garden after all.

Too soon, we’re descending again. I don’t recognize the terrain. Trenton is nowhere in sight. “This isn’t it,” I call out, struggling a bit in her grasp. “This isn’t the city. We have to keep going.”

“I won’t let my new friend get hurt!” she calls back.

What is she doing? “No, no. I won’t get hurt. Like you, I’m Undead. We don’t hurt. Bring me to Trenton.”

“I’m not Undead. I’m Shee.” As if unrested by the mere mention of the word, her scorpion legs begin to manipulate me around until I’m facing the ground and find myself hardly dangling by a foot and a strand of hair.

“Shee!” I cry out, alarmed. We’re drooping over a chasm in the middle of nowhere. Nothing is in sight, not even a stray tree, not a single landmark I know, nothing. “Shee, please!”

“Your city is too dangerous for a new friend without wings! You’ll be safe here. I will go play with your friends! Oops.” And then she lets go.

The shriek I try to make gets lost in my throat and in the whirring of white hair that blankets my face as I plummet through sharp air and nothing. The shape of the Shee-lady in flight is swallowed by sand clouds as I descend … falling, falling, falling.

I try orienting my body, but can’t see through my hair. The only glimpse I catch is of the earth racing up to meet my face.

And then it does.

Several cracking sounds wriggle through my body as it settles against the dry, hard-as-cement earth. I don’t move for a moment. I only lie here in a numb, unfeeling pile of limbs. It is a very good thing we don’t feel pain, but I might argue against everyone I know that in some way, we do experience discomfort. My neck is certainly broken and my left shoulder’s shifted in totally the wrong way for it to operate. My legs, I don’t even know where they are. I try to move my right hand, and the fingers on my left one twitch. This is not comfortable.

“Shee,” I rasp, relieved to discover that my throat is not broken and that I’m capable of speech. “Hello? Hello?” As my face is pressed into the ground, I try shifting to one side so that I can survey my surroundings. Bones in my ribcage give another assortment of snapping sounds and unpleasant splintering noises not unlike an ancient slab of wood giving to a horrid weight. I manage to sit up somehow, an awful crunch issuing from my hip somewhere.

I’m in a hole in the earth. A hardly generous pit of maybe twelve feet across, perhaps just the same in depth. Everything is slate grey. Even the mist above. I am alone in this pit, deposited like a nickel in a piggybank.

“So far, being your friend super sucks,” I mutter, knowing all too well that there is no one around. Most likely, this is some creepy secluded spot the spider woman keeps for fun and has no sign of civilization anywhere within a ten billion mile radius. It certainly feels that way. Only a moment ago I was up in the air; I saw all the miles of nothing that surrounds me.

I pull my legs into a position that looks like I’m seated against the wall of the pit. My left leg looks twisted a bit too far one way. I can’t see my own shoulder for two reasons: one, my neck won’t turn that way, and two, I don’t want to see it.

I try moving my right hand again. My left one wiggles instead.

This isn’t good.

Five minutes passes. Then ten minutes. This is only a guestimate here, seeing as I have no means to tell time. I imagine all the worst things first. I see John mauled by a giant scorpion’s poisonous tail. I see Megan trying ever so hard to control Brains, only to get eaten by her. I see the green eye dislodged, rolling along a sad, barren city street. I see all the Humans who survived the insect barrage to suddenly find themselves amidst a wave of fire that rushes at them from the north, swallowing the gates and the walls and the buildings. I see the fear in their eyes, that last moment of their life before Grim claims it and replaces it with something less than.

Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes goes by, and then I imagine a better scenario. Maybe this scary scorpion lady shows up and saves the city. She summons all her spiders, to keep them from harming any more of the townsfolk. She faces off with Grim herself, puts an end to his reign of death by fluttering right on top of him and plucking out his eye. Maybe she’ll pin him to the wall with her spindly legs, clicking, snapping at him. I can almost hear him pleading for her to let him go. I can almost hear the cackle of the scorpion lady, giggling and finding him cute and adorable, then asking him to become her new friend. I can almost hear their voices …

And then I do hear voices. Perking up, I listen. They’re young voices. Teenagers maybe, or younger. It’s a boy and a girl.

“Maybe,” the boy is saying. “When he was alive.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Every night.”

Their voices are still very distant, but I hear every word now. I close my eyes and listen carefully.

“Shut up, you’re lying,” says the girl.

“I’m not.”

“If that were true, you’d be an expert by now. You’re no expert. You’d miss a squirrel if it sat on your head.”

“Of course I’d miss a squirrel if it sat on my head.” The boy laughs mockingly. “How am I supposed to hit a thing on my own head? Besides, there aren’t no more squirrels.”

“There are, too. Remember the one mom caught?”

Brother and sister. They must be.

“No. Now it’s you who’s the liar,” the boy spits back.

“You want to prove you’re a good shot? Next Crypter or spider we find, you sink an arrow in its eye. Then I’ll call you a good shot.”

Crypter, she said. They’re Human.

“I shot that other one in the eye.”

“Doesn’t count. It was already unmoving and on the ground. You’re lying, dad never gave you no lessons.”

“He did too.”

“Then why didn’t he give me any?”

“You were too busy picking berries with mom. Never mind that they’re all poisonous.” They’re growing closer.

“They’re not. There’s two kinds that are not. If you don’t know which is which, then it’s your fault, mister good shot. You couldn’t hit an apple off my head.”

“Wouldn’t want to,” the boy retorts.

They are so, so close. “Why’s that?”

“Because I’d hit you in the eye.” The two of them laugh.

And then they stop. I realize they’ve come up to the brim of the pit behind me. They’re at my back, just above. Do they see me?

“Rake?”

“Yeah,” mumbles the boy. They’ve both gone silent.

I try to turn, but my waist or my shoulder won’t let me. I try to look up, but can’t manage to face them or even catch a glimpse with my inoperable neck.

“Hey! You!” the boy calls down at me, as if he were addressing a horse or something. “You speak?”

I lick my lips. These are not the Undead-embracing kind of Humans. I have to play this very carefully if I hope to get out. “Yes,” I answer.

The boy whispers to his sister: “Let’s go back.”

“I don’t know,” she breathes, reluctant. They don’t think I can hear them. “Shouldn’t we help her?”

“No.”

“Please. It’s been days since we’ve seen—”

“Robin, no.”

“But she looks older. She could have a camp.”

“She could be one of them.” The last three words come out in a hiss, but I hear them perfectly.

“But she can talk. They can’t talk.”

“Dad told me once about—”

“Dad’s not here,” the sister spits back in half a hush.

They turn quiet again. I have to take advantage of this situation. If I play this wrong, I might lose my one and only opportunity to get free of this pit and make my way back to Trenton.

It’s time to act like a Human.

“Help me, please,” I groan, reaching for my thigh. I’m trying to reach with my right hand, and my left grabs it instead. “I’m in so much pain. Are you … are you really there, up there? I can’t see you. I can’t even—can’t even—can’t even turn my neck. Oh, it hurts, it hurts …”

Someone hand me an Oscar.

“What happened?” asks the girl quietly.

“I was put here,” I tell her. “There’s a … a wicked Crypter lady. She’s collecting people, I think. She threw me down here. I think … I think my leg’s broken.”

Other than feeling pain, I really haven’t lied to them yet. Really, I’m being quite truthful to these two sweet kids who’ve happened upon me and who very well hold my immediate future in their hands.

“If you can’t climb,” the boy says, less nicely, “then we can’t get you out anyway.”

“Rake!” The sister’s scolding him. Rake, I assume his name to be. Robin, hers.

“Please,” I beg them. All I need to do is get out of this pit and teach myself how to walk again. That’s all the help I need, and with or without them, I’ll be well on my way. “Can you throw something down? A rope? Anything? I’ll pull myself out. Please, please, before she comes back. I beg you.”

“Robin, where are you going?” The boy’s voice has turned frustrated. “Robin!”

“I’m going to help her. You can help too or just stand there and do nothing.”

“No! I said no!”

“We can’t just leave her!” she calls out, her voice growing more distant as she heads off.

The boy finally comes around the pit, emerging at the other ridge where I can see him properly. His figure looks to be the breadth of a twig, but he’s bundled himself up in a thick coat and a hood, which hangs off the back of his head. Tufts of messy blonde hair peek out of the top and sides of the large hood, shielding his ears like earmuffs. His eyes are huge and sharp and icy. For as severe as the boy’s expression is, he seems otherwise well-meaning. I’d almost say he seems sweet.

This might be my only chance. “I’m Winter,” I tell him, because I ought to.

He doesn’t respond. His icy eyes scan me, his nose wrinkling slightly as he surveys my situation. Perhaps I’m in a worse condition than I realize.

“I won’t bother you or your sister at all,” I tell him, inspiring his eyes to flash warily. “If you help me get out of this pit, I’ll just be on my way. Provided I can walk. Either way, you and your sister can … can proceed and pay me no mind, truly.”

“I may pay you no mind anyway,” he answers.

The actress in me is revived as I groan at a sudden pain in my abdomen. I grip it uncertainly, moaning and groaning at a pain that isn’t there. I really hate doing this. “Oh, oh … I’ve definitely broken something. Oh, no.”

“You’ll die,” he tells me.

Such a chipper one, this boy. “Why do you say that?”

“Even if we get you out,” he goes on. I have no idea how a boy with such icy, bright eyes can make them look so dark. “Then we leave you. Your leg will atrophy. Your shoulder too, by the look of it. Poison will run in your blood and your own infections will kill you.”

I wince. “Let us try for a bit of optimism,” I reply, wondering if the boy even knows what such big words like “atrophy” and “infection” mean in this world.

The girl, Robin, returns quite suddenly, crouching next to her brother. I’m surprised by the similarity in the two of them. Twins, if I had a guess. She’s just as petite, though her hair is a touch sandier and her eyes are hazel. She’s even dressed the same, thick coat and a hood.

More importantly, a dead branch rests by her, its tip peeking over the edge.

“Can you get to your feet?” the sister asks kindly.

“Let’s try that,” I answer perkily.

Hoping beyond hope that the act of standing doesn’t give away my whole act, I slowly let my knees bend. Remarkably, they do. I push into my left foot, my back sliding up the wall of the pit until I’ve lifted myself into a somewhat-jagged standing position. I slowly allow weight onto my right foot, then the left again.

“Am I good?” I ask, trying to sound pained. “Am I good? Is this good?”

“Can you reach this?” asks the girl, lowering her end of the branch.

She’s at the other end of the pit, which is only about four steps forward. Not caring to risk an embarrassing fall, I skirt the edge of the pit, keeping my back to the wall, until I’ve reached the other side. Carefully, I reach up with my right hand—which means my left hand goes—and I grip the branch firmly.

“I need you to pull now,” she says, “while my brother and I pull, and we’ll get you out. Okay? Tell me when you’re ready.”

I hug the branch so tenderly, like a friend, and brace myself against the wall of the pit. I hope for two things: that my kind is as light as I think we are, and that the two of them have the strength to get me out of this hell.

“Ready,” I groan.

And then we pull.

My foot grips the wall, climbing it slowly. Up, up.

They pull again. Up.

I’m almost up the wall. And then a second later I’m peering over the edge. A hand grabs my shoulder, another hand grabs my arm, and then I’m free from the pit.

“OUT!” I yell, overjoyed. “Oh my god, I can’t thank you two enough. Oh, thank you!”

First thing’s first, I shove myself far away from the pit, half-crawling, half-rolling, then maneuver my body into a somewhat natural sitting position. The girl is smiling. The boy is watching me warily. I may never win that one over. I may not need to, either.

“I’m Robin,” the girl blurts out, despite her brother’s piercing glare, “and this is my twin brother, Rake.”

“I’m Winter. And you two may have saved my life.”

The boy huffs. “Didn’t do a thing to save your legs. Or that.” He nods at my shoulder, which I can’t see.

Robin shoves at her brother. “Stop being so mean.” She comes up to my side, crouching down. “Let me have a look. Can I?”

“Of course,” I tell her.

Robin gently starts to examine my shoulder, though I have no idea what she’s actually doing. She pushes in one place, then prods in another. I feel something shift quite dramatically, and then both my hands flinch in response. I lift them up to examine them; they function as they ought to, now. “Fixed!” I exclaim.

Rake wrinkles his face. “That didn’t hurt?”

Oops. “I … have a very high tolerance for pain,” I spit back at him playfully. “Haven’t you been through a lot in your life? Not half as much as me.”

“Can I look at your leg?” Robin offers.

“Yes.”

My own personal tiny Human Marigold. She runs her fingers along my thigh, then my kneecap, examining. She pushes somewhere, shoves somewhere else, and we all hear a loud snapping sound.

That’s my cue. I grunt loudly. Robin lifts her hands, her hazel eyes blinking. “Sorry!” she exclaims.

“Quite alright,” I assure her, playing a convincing sort of groan into my voice. “It’s—It’s—It’s quite alright. I feel okay. Please, keep working your magic.”

And she does.

Rake is not done expressing his bitter suspicion of me, however. “Where are you from, Winter? Tell me.”

“I am from a city, somewhere that way.” I point. “The name is Trenton. My friends are all there. I really hope they’re okay. I have to get back. They’re likely worried about me.” You know, provided they’re still alive.

“Is there food there?” he fires at me.

“Not much. But enough.”

“What’s the last thing you ate?” He doesn’t hide the fact that this is an interrogation.

“Literally? An apple.”

“What are the names of your friends? All of them.”

Robin shoves somewhere near my hip, and we all hear another sisterhood of bones shuffling into place, cracking and snapping and crunching. I play my part and let out a dramatic yelp. “Sorry,” the sister says, and I smile and nod forgivingly at her.

“Names,” demands the boy.

Robin huffs at her hotheaded brother. “Rake, stop it with the questioning. She’s been through enough.”

“It’s okay,” I assure her. “Helena. Megan. Marigold. Ann. Jim.” The last two names come out unseasoned; these two kids don’t need to know how I feel about the people I’m naming. “And John.”

Robin smiles. “Is John your husband?”

Now I’m the one with the wary expression. “What makes you say that?”

“It’s how you said his name. John. I can always tell.”

I smile. I say John’s name a certain way? I wonder if John himself has ever noticed. A sad, panicked bolt of longing sears through my body, thinking of him.

“So is he?” The question comes from the boy, Rake. He’s taken a somewhat lighter tone. “Husband?”

“Maybe someday,” I admit.

Someday.

“I think you’re okay to walk,” points out Robin, “but you will need to be very careful. I’d use this branch we got you as a walking stick, and—”

“How much food’s at your camp?” interrupts Rake.

“Not much,” I answer again. “I’ve already said.”

He hesitates before asking: “Enough for two more?”

Oh. Robin lifts her eyebrows at me. Rake awaits my answer, his eyes screwed onto me with such intensity, I suddenly feel so guilty for deceiving them at all. Even if it was innocent, well-meant deception. Because the truth is, I don’t know if there’s even a city left to return to.

But I am in their debt. That much I cannot deny. “I’m sure if there’s food, we’d happily share,” I answer back, though my voice carries no heart in it.

“Try to get on your feet?” the girl suggests.

“Alright.” I take the stick, push it into the rocky earth, and pull myself up. I am literally astonished at Robin’s work on my joints and bones—whatever she managed to do. My neck still has trouble turning from side to side, but my legs feel almost normal and my bones seem right.

“Can you walk?” Robin’s got a hand on my back.

To keep up appearances, I pretend to rely on the stick to hold me up. “I think so. I’m really, really sore, but I think … I think I can manage just fine.”

The boy’s back to business. “Can we follow you?”

It’s so dangerous. How can I express that without seeming ungrateful and awful to these two kids who just helped me immensely? I’m in their debt and they know it, though the boy seems far more keen on cashing in said debt than the girl.

On the other hand, if we were somehow victorious and overcame the spiders and the Army Of Fire, then there is, in fact, a wonderful, beautiful place these two kids could stay. Food. Shelter. More than they could ask for out here in the wilderness.

But first … “What happened to your camp?”

The twins exchange a look. Then the girl says, “We don’t have a camp.”

“But you two surely came from somewhere?”

“We don’t have a camp … anymore,” she amends.

“Our dad,” the boy begins, swallows, then tries again: “Our dad was all we had left, and he was fighting off a pair of Crypters, and told my sister and I to run.”

“Is he still—Is he still alive?” How else can I ask?

“Yes,” Robin answers proudly, optimistically.

“We don’t know,” the boy answers instead, offering me the more sobering reality. “But we can’t find him. So we’re on our own and we’re … we’re in need of …”

“Of course.” We have to get out of here, and fast. “Yes, then. Come with me. Trenton will welcome you with open arms. We have to hurry, though.” I begin to move as fast as I can manage, keeping up the façade of my Humanness and my so-called injuries. I limp and grunt only subtly, so as not to overdo.

“How far is it?” asks Robin as we make progress across the dusty, cracked terrain.

“Not too much farther.”

In truth, I don’t know. As we steadily walk, I worry whether we’re even headed in the right direction. It’s just another estimate, from the orientation of my body in the pit and the direction in which the Shee-thing was headed. I presume this way is where Trenton ought to be.

Let us hope as much.

The twins are silent for a long while, even after we break into the woods. The air feels foul and thick, or perhaps it’s just the panic that’s settling into my chest. I wonder if I’ll ever find John, if I’ll ever see Megan and the others. It’s amazing how so many days had gone by with no incident at all, calm as ever, only for all of our peace to be undone in an instant. One very bug-infested instant.

“The old camp was in a deep basin where a lake used to be,” Robin tells me. “All that was left were ponds and pools. And there were bushes full of berries, and another bigger tree that had nuts. We even had squirrels.”

“No, we didn’t. And if we did, it was just one,” the brother says, annoyed. “Probably the last in existence.”

“Whatever, Rake. I’d eat about anything right now.”

Conversation’s all we have, so I don’t figure my next question could hurt. “Have either of you heard of a place called Garden?”

“No such thing,” says the brother tiredly.

Robin just shrugs, maybe having been discouraged to answer optimistically because of her brother’s response. I don’t push the subject any further.

Suddenly I find us in a familiar place in the woods. I can’t say it’s anywhere near Trenton, but it certainly feels like somewhere I’ve been before. The sound of snapping twigs and crunching dead terrain echoes around us as we progress. I have no idea how much time we’ve spent traveling, but I realize that no matter how much of this world I see, it all starts to look the same. Dead this. Dying that. Decaying this. Withering that. It’s all the same.

Then we reach a break in the woods where I get a solid view of the horizon, and my heart sinks. There in the distance is a skyline I’ve only seen one other time in my Second Life. The ridges of industrial towers and the pipes of dead factories poking into the silver sky.

“Why’d you stop?” asks Robin.

It’s the Necropolis.

“No reason,” I say, my voice bitter, even the thought of what transpired here tastes like stomach acid in the back of my throat. There is no sense of nostalgia for this wretched place, even considering it’s where I met Megan and Benjamin. And my mother. Before I knew she was my mother. “But I know the way home, now.”

“You do?”

“Yes.” With the Necropolis as a guide, I can send us in the right direction. Marigold, an old Undead man, and a bag full of the old Judge’s body parts accompanied me last time. Twin Humans will have to do this time.

“Robin!”

I spin around—albeit carefully because of my neck—and find a ghoul of a person-thing limping toward us. He has no nose and half his chest is sunken in. A tie hangs loosely around his neck with only a sad strip of a white shirt hanging around his waist. Death’s tech support. I had always wondered what became of the stray Deathless after the Queen’s reign had come to an abrupt end.

Suddenly, I feel quite stupid leaning on this stick. So in an instant, I call off my fake-Human act, brandish my walking stick like a baseball bat and charge forward.

Then the thing grunts a single word at me.

I stop, frozen, ready to unleash a mighty swing, but the word has caught me.

And then it repeats the word: “W-Winter.”

Its voice is garbled, phlegmy, grotesque. It’s stopped advancing, simply standing there, arms limp, gooey eyes staring at me.

“What?” I ask.

The thing grunts a few times, then moans the words: “P-Pleeeease forgiiiive me. W-Wuh … Winter …”

It’s Grim. He’s communicating to me through this half-dead thing, communicating from afar. He must’ve maintained control of the Deathless after the fall of the Deathless Queen; I know no other explanation. This zombie is acting as a remote talking device of sorts.

“I … waaaant to … saaaave you.”

There is something awful about looking into a pair of half-melted eyes, gooey with decay, and somehow seeing the soul of the man you thought you loved, Grimsky, far, far away … so far away.

“P-P-Pleeeease … J-Join meee … R-Ruh-Ruuule the world at my siiiiide. P-Pleeeease un-understaaaaand …”

And then I’m swinging the stick because I can’t hear another word, bashing the tech support over his head. It detaches upon impact with an unnecessarily gross splat. His body drops to the ground, its head landing elsewhere, the rest of Grim’s pleas sealed within them.

Homerun.

“Winter?”

I face the twins. They look as wary of me as they were of the Deathless thing I just slayed. “No more grunty thing,” I mutter. “Trenton is this way.” I begin walking.

“Winter!”

I turn around. To my utter disappointment, I realize the ghoul was not alone. The rest of his friends apparently would like to invite themselves to our reunion party as well, likely carrying a hundred more messages from Grimsky. Across the way, I spot more shapes that stagger, grunt, and limp. I am so, so finished with shapes that stagger, grunt, and limp.

“We have to run,” I tell the twins, “and I know you both are very tired.”

“It’s getting dark,” Robin points out, trembling. “We’ll get lost in the woods. They’ll overrun us.”

“No,” I say. “They won’t.”

Suddenly I have a twin’s coat gripped by either hand and, carrying them with the ease of two light suitcases, I bolt into the forest.

“Put me down!” shouts the boy.

“What are you doing!” cries the girl.

With a roll of my eyes—which is more of a sweet homage to Helena, whom I hope to see again soon—I tell them, “Why, I’m saving your lives, of course.”

I run and I run, praying that my legs don’t suddenly decide to snap in half again. I carry the two of them evenly, careful not to jostle them around. Though I ought to be a professional at carrying Humans by now, these two happen to be my most fragile and, after the girl was so kind as to fix my bones, it’d be an awful way to repay her by breaking all of hers.

Soon, there are no pursuing grunters or growlers or limpers behind us, but I’m still hurrying on. I’m hurrying because the quicker I get to Trenton, the sooner I will know if my friends are alive.

I happen on a dirt path in the woods. I’ve reached it so soon, I almost doubt it is what it is: the path that connects the Whispers to the Trenton north gate. I tell my feet to hurry, faster than Megan’s. I tell my legs to be strong, like Benjamin’s were. I tell my eyes to stay as focused as John’s are when he’s staring deeply into mine, smiling.

Then the gates of Trenton are before me, and they’re open …

Oh. They’re open.

“No,” I whisper, horrified at what this simple scene implies. I absentmindedly set down the twins, then stare at the wide-open gates. Why are they open? This can’t be good news. Not at all.

Something terrible has happened.

Without hearing what the twins are asking me, I press on into the city. The streets are vacant. There’s a pair of large spider legs against the front door of a building. A fly wing. A giant cockroach wing. Smears of bug guts. Many windows are shattered, the glass shards splayed out across the cobblestone street.

I continue on and I don’t see a soul in sight. Not even a corpse. Nothing but stray insect parts and turned-over tables and broken glass and horror. We’re too late.

I arrive at the Square, and that’s when I see their faces. I run at once. They spot me too, both of them looking up. I wrap my arms around little Megan first, elated that she is okay. I’m psychotic with relief. I let her go so as not to break her, then throw my arms around the other person.

John. His clothes in tatters. Dirt and blemishes all over his face. A nasty cut running down his arm. He’s missing a shoe. His eyes are heavy, watery, worn.

What’s happened?

“John.” I’m so overcome I could cry real tears, I’m sure of it. “The gates were wide open. There’s no one … no one at all in the streets. Where’s Gunner? Where’s Helena and Marigold and the others?”

“Chief and Gunner are looking for survivors,” answers John, since little Megan appears unable to speak, having been rendered silent and sullen.

“Survivors?” is all I can say. How many have we lost?

John pulls me into his arms, bringing my face to his chest. “I thought the worst,” he mutters, his deep voice aching. “I thought you were … gone,” he finishes. His heart races, beating against my cheek as he holds me. It’s like I’ve returned home, just being here in his warmth …

The silence of the city disturbs me, the strange and terrible emptiness. “What happened?”

He kisses my forehead, then says: “Grim happened.”

It’s on the steps of the Town Hall that I’m sat down to have everything explained to my throttled mind. Shortly after the bugs were killed or run off, Grim arrived with his Army Of Fire. John tried to take as many of the Humans as possible into hidden underground chambers beneath the Town Hall, ones that Helena was certain even Grim wouldn’t know about. Many of the Humans did not make it or did not care to trust those in charge. Several of them ran off into the wilderness, including Ann and Jim.

It’s the next news that disturbed me the worst. The further Grim pressed into the city, our own Undead began to ignite in flame. One by one, Grim entered their minds and, before long, the entire Undead populace of Trenton was enslaved. He only needed to get close to each person to take them—but once they were his, he could control them from any distance. All of them, turned to puppets.

Including Helena and Marigold. “That Green Psycho has taken everyone,” says John. “We’re the only ones left, apart from six other Living who were willing to hide with us. His Army trampled all our crops. Even the vegetables we’d planted. The greenhouse. Everything.”

Megan is sitting far away on the edge of the stage with the twins, her legs dangling in the most downcast way. The twins’ faces seem so overwhelmed. I hope this scene hasn’t killed their faith in me completely.

Then, I realize … “What about Megan’s—?”

“Her parents were among those who ran away first, though I can’t be sure. Winter, so much was happening all at once. I don’t know whose lives that Green Thing claimed.” He slams a fist into the concrete step, shaking with a rage I can even feel through my body just sitting next to him. “It’s just us now, plus the six others who were too afraid to come out from the chambers. We were ordered to stay behind and guard them while Gunner and the Chief are scouting. I doubt anyone’s left. G-G-Grim’s Army went through every house, seems like.” He can’t say the name without grinding his teeth.

Doctor Collin, the girls at the Refinery, Roxie, even Brains … Grim’s taken them all. I’d counted on him trying to turn all our Humans into Undead, but I didn’t realize he’d force all the Undead to join his Army as well. After seeing the way he absorbed the populace of After’s Hold, I should’ve expected he’d do the same here.

I was a fool to think any better of Grimsky. He’s got nothing to lose now. He’s a raging fire that can’t be put out. The self-named death-bringer.

Then it’s my turn to spill. I tell John what happened to me. How, during the skirmish, I was unexpectedly swept away by a psychotic, friendless creature called Shee. How this creature showed me a big flower, then deposited me in a pit for safekeeping until the twins arrived to save me.

I fail to mention the walkie-talkie zombies in the field outside the Necropolis through which Grim delivered his little desperate pleas.

“I can’t believe you’re alive,” I tell him.

“You were saved,” replies John with half a smile. “That creature kinda saved you, in a way. If you’d been here, that Green-Eyed Fool would’ve taken you too. I’m certain of it.”

“How’d … How’d you avoid …?”

He opens his palm. A green stone rests in it. “Chief’s got the other one. Gunner kept close to him. Megan proved immune to Grim’s influence too. But soon, we all had to hide no matter. We might’ve been immune to his power, but we were far outnumbered. They could’ve … done worse things, had we let them too close.”

I squeeze into John’s arms, unable to bear the thought of being separated again from him. He’s here. I’m here. His heart beats. Mine doesn’t. I’m pretty much back at home in his arms.

He rests his chin on my head, whispers, “I don’t know what to do, Winter.”

I’m staring at a turned-over spider carcass, and I’m reminded of what the flying tarantula-lady said about her big bugs, and the big flowers, and the voices in those big flowers. Stay away, they told her. Touch nothing …

“John, I know where Garden is.”

C H A P T E R – S I X T E E N

T H E   B E A U T I F U L   W I N T E R

The six surviving Humans emerge from a trapdoor underneath the stage. Four ladies, none of whom I really recognize. Two blondes named Lena and Margie in their forties with faces pale as milk, each as gaunt as a skeleton; sisters, apparently. The third is a tall, slender woman named Ash with thin lips and smooth, dark skin, gashes running down her arm from when she fended off a spider. The fourth’s a short, plump cherry-faced woman named Tina who almost reminds me of Marigold, except devoid of any ounce of cheer; her husband was one of the ones Grim took, I’m saddened to hear.

Of the men, one is Nelson, a stout, older beast with rough yellowed skin, wrinkly eyes, and no hair at all. The other is none other than Gill, cradling his tiny baby girl in his arms. “Hi,” he says quite sharply, though it sounds a lot more like: “Keep your distance, dead thing.”

Seven, I realize, counting the baby who, I learn, still remains unnamed. With Gunner, the Chief, John and Megan and the twins, we have a party of thirteen Living. Plus me, the sole surviving Undead.

Surviving Undead. I’m a regular jokester over here.

The Humans who hid were smart and quick-thinking; they have two satchels of food and supplies with them, including at least six canisters of that milk substitute from Trenton’s storages for the baby. The food’s enough to modestly feed all the Living mouths present for at least a few days, maybe more. Hopefully that’s all it takes to get there, though I can’t say for sure how far away the big purple flower is.

It’s dark, so we don’t leave until the next morning. As we pass through the gates on our way out, I have very mixed feelings. This is really the only home I’ve known in this Second Life. But recently, so many awful things have happened; only the worse memories seem to linger. The peace of Trenton is gone. I don’t know if someday it might come back … or if this is truly the ultimate end for Trenton. Its streets are empty now, its every store and house abandoned. The Town Hall is a silent crypt. If a stray Human or two were to stumble upon this deserted city, they would pick over the scraps and the shattered glass and the remnants of insects. If they’re lucky, they’ll find the storage of canned goods that have helped the Humans here survive at the beginning; that includes the cans of milk substitute powder that have kept the baby alive, as well as the protein alternatives that I imagine taste nothing nice. Hopefully these make-believe future Human visitors we get to our lovely dwelling know of the lake that lies a couple hours north-east of here, the biggest source of our water.

But even as they feed themselves, none of them would be able to puzzle out what awful thing transpired here to terminate the peace and happiness that once was. I can only imagine what these hypothetical Humans would make of our lifestyle when they poke through the Refinery building and find a pan full of fingers and toes.

And let’s not forget Marigold’s bowl full of intestines.

Suddenly all of that seems like a ghost now, drifting at my back and watching me as I leave. John walks at my side with a sword, Gunner on the other with his bow. The Chief brings up the rear, accompanied by the tall woman Ash and the stout man Nelson as well as Rake, each equipped with a steel sword of varying length. The rest of the Humans walk in the middle, among them Robin and Gill, who still clutches the baby to his chest. He hasn’t stopped eyeing the twins or me, trusting nothing and no one. Perhaps that’s best for now; it’ll keep up his guard, and guard is certainly something we need a lot of.

“Don’t look back,” John whispers into my ear.

I don’t listen. I peer over my shoulder and watch as Trenton fades from view. The Dead Woods begin to get in the way, their gangly, frail fingers of wood littering the horizon. Ahead, there is only bone dust and ruin.

“Told you not to,” he murmurs.

“I have a habit of doing what I’m told not to.”

John gave me his stone before we left the city. I kept refusing at first, but he pointed out that if Grim works his necromancy on me, then there will be no Undead left to resist him.

On top of that, Megan’s power is too unstable and seemed useless on any members of Grim’s Army. This apparently frustrates her to no end. All the excitement and joy that I knew in Megan has turned sour; even as she walks now, her eyes harbor this intensity that almost frightens me. Maybe it’s just the Lock-eye, but something in her seems to have awakened, something dark and ugly. Maybe it’s her parents; I can’t be sure. Apparently Megan thinks the eye is a failure and she’s capable of nothing. Took out her eye for no reason at all, but John …

“I tried telling her to give it time,” he tells me quietly. “After all, no one was able to affect Brains in any way, but somehow Brains seemed to listen to her.” I don’t bother to correct him and insist that her name is Helen; even I’ve given up on that front.

“Time’s something we need a lot more of,” I admit. “What if that bug-lady decides to pay me another visit?”

“It’s simple. We take her down, pull her apart, and then there’ll be no more bug-lady.”

I wish I could share his optimism.

The woods give away to another vast expanse of dust and rocks. The land bends downward, terminating at a trench that used to be a river. Unable to feasibly cross the chasm—as it is unsettlingly deep—we walk down its length, hoping to find a spot shallow enough to cross. To our surprise, we find the remnants of a bridge and decide to cross only two at a time, so as not to burden the weak, creaking structure. “Don’t look down,” someone advises.

Seems to be the best bit of advice lately. Don’t look back, don’t look down … Just don’t look, ever. Deny this is all happening.

When we enter the next spread of trees, which look more like splinters of worn bone jutting up from the earth in warring, unnatural angles, we stop to give the Humans some rest. Food is rationed and shared, and quietly they eat. Megan accompanies the Chief, discussing something tiredly. Among the others, I only hear chewing. The baby cries and is annoyingly cranky. I love babies, I swear.

I notice Rake eyeing me from across the group. His sister Robin is paying mind to the baby’s cries, despite the fact that Gill won’t let anyone else hold her. I realize that I’ve never officially explained to Rake and Robin that I’d deceived them—that I am, after all, one of the Undead. They’ve obviously drawn their own conclusions. They’re smart enough. They haven’t confronted me or run away just yet, so I have to take that to be a good thing.

The more of us there are, the better we all are.

“He spoke to me through a dead guy,” I finally tell John. We’re seated on the dry, gritty ground with our backs against a tree, if I dare call it one.

“Grim?” The name sits bitterly on his tongue.

“On my way back to Trenton, the twins and I passed by the ruins of the Necropolis.” John’s never been there, so he couldn’t even imagine the horrors that transpired in that place, or what might still remain in its depths. “The Dead there still walk, and Grim’s taken their minds, too. He can see through all their eyes. It scares me.”

“Don’t let him. He’s a sick person. He’s been driven mad, like the Deathless Queen. He’s …” John struggles for the words.

“Dead inside,” I finish, wondering if those might be adequate words. “All of us Undead are … well, we’re dead in one way. But some of us are dead inside as well. That’s the real tragedy, when all of you’s dead.”

John takes my hand comfortingly.

I catch a glimpse of Gunner and two of the women, the sisters Lena and Margie, watching us. I let go of John’s hand, almost ashamed. It’s still too soon. No matter what the other Humans already know or how they feel, it does us no good to stir the already volatile pot.

John seems a bit annoyed. “Why’d you let go?”

“Nothing.” I look the other way, annoyed myself.

Unexpectedly, Robin crawls over to us, takes a seat at my feet and smiles. “I think I know what makes you alive inside.”

I lift a brow. “What do you mean?”

“My brother and I know you’re dead. We knew you were dead all along, back when we rescued you from that hole.” She glances back at her twin, who is glaring. He doesn’t seem to like his sister opening up so much so fast. After all, we’ve hardly known each other for a day.

“And you still …?”

“Yes,” says Robin. “Dad told us once about these dead people who could talk and speak and act like real people.” Her use of the term “real people” doesn’t hurt my feelings at all; in fact, I find myself smiling, amused. “He said one of them protected him. Still, he warned Rake and I, said we should be careful who we trust. Said some of you like to drink our blood. I don’t know why. It tastes bad.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. I’ve bitten my tongue before, I know.” She leans in closer. “The thing inside that makes you alive, the same thing that makes me alive … The thing us live-people have in common with you dead-people is called Anima.”

I smile, giving her a thoughtful nod. “Really?” I know I’ve heard that term before. “Want to tell me more?”

“Yes.” She pulls down her hood, letting her mop of sandy-blonde hair free. Except for its darker tone, it looks identical to her brother’s. “My dad talked about Anima a lot when his brother died. He said he, like, saw it leaving his brother’s eyes, right in his last moment. Uncle Thom, he took a bad fall and the injury poisoned him, dad said. His bones.” She glances back at her brother again who’s turned away, pulling his coat over his face sulkily. “I miss Uncle Thom. I miss dad. I hope they’re okay, wherever they are.” Her hazel eyes meet mine again. “Anyway, I think that’s what you got in you. Anima.”

It hits me. The Deathless Queen, my own mother. She used the term before, back when I was brought to the tower and given the option to cut my maker, Helena, into pieces. It wasn’t my best day. “I’ve heard the word before. So you think someone’s put some Anima into me? You think that’s why I’m … the way I am?”

“Half-living, my dad would call your kind.”

I glance over at Megan, whose conversation with the Chief has come to an abrupt end. She’s listening rather intently to Robin’s words now, the Lock’s Eye gleaming.

“Anima,” I say across the group to Megan, catching her eyes. “Maybe that eye of yours is tapping into some kind of … Anima. Some Locks can give it. Some can take it away. Maybe you can do something else entirely. We just haven’t discovered it yet.” I smile encouragingly.

Megan nods halfheartedly, then casts her gaze down.

I lower my voice, intending my words only for Robin now. “We knew a Warlock once. An awful, cruel guy. I think he was able to … destroy Anima. I watched many of my Undead friends turn to dust before my eyes.”

“I’ve never seen that before,” Robin admits, her voice flat. “I haven’t seen any half-living people. Not until I met you. I always thought it was just another thing my dad would tell me so I could sleep better. Like Garden.”

I hear an amused snort from John. Yes, I know, he’s been comforted all his life by a similar tale of Garden. From his parents, no less, every night and every day.

“Well …” I give her a nice, uplifting smile. “Let’s see if we can turn that bedtime story into a reality.” When I see the beam in her eye, I know I’ve said the right thing.

Soon, we’ve packed up and we’re traveling again. The Livings say we are nearing midday, the sun high up in the sky and bending into its long descent to the west. As our direction of travel is generally east, I wonder if it’ll soon appear to the Humans like the sun is setting our old city on fire, burning the heavens in its path.

The rest of the day passes with no resistance and, thankfully, without encounters from any sort of creature, living or dead … or half-dead. The Humans bundle up and set out spots among a ridge of stones and dirt at the edge of a “forest” to sleep for the night. Notice, “forest” in quotes. That is, a sparse spreading of dead, leafless tree-things. I wonder if Garden will allow me the gracious pleasure of removing those quotes forever.

John and I settle on the other side of the rock, out of the view of the others. Even as the wilderness grows dark for the Living, I see perfectly through the nothing. John’s leaning into me, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling deeply in that beautiful way chests tend to when a person is alive.

With John pressed so close to my body, a rush of excitement courses through me. I know we can’t really … do anything out here, not with an audience. But now that John and I have given ourselves to one another, now that certain things have been done and I’ve seen all of him and he’s seen all of me, it’s all I can think about when I hold him close. I’ve never felt this, even in my First Life. With a stab of sadness, I realize I’ll never know what it could really feel like alive. I guess that’s just a secret I’m never meant to know. Somehow, with John holding me, with the memory of that night in Trenton resting on my face like a lover’s kiss, bringing me to smile, it surely feels like I haven’t missed out on a thing.

John’s heartbeat beats on; I pretend for a night that it’s mine. I stare into the endless grey and return to my dream of a life together in another world. I don’t close my eyes.

When the cold air of morning touches John, he grips me tighter, and I feel his heart beating somewhere against my hip. There’s a wretched, blue-white mist that’s settled over everything in the night, hugging the woods. John’s embrace is several times stronger than that mist, and it makes me forget the gloom of our situation.

His eyes open finally, gently. John lifts his head and those brown muddy eyes find mine. I’m surprised that, when he comes to, he doesn’t let go.

Instead, he says: “Morning.”

I smile. “Morning.”

He shivers, sitting up and taking in a lungful of mist. The others aren’t awake yet, though I doubt the Chief ever slept; I could hear him grunting and shifting around all night. After a moment, I spot Gunner in the distance, likely scouting the area. His crossbow hangs over his shoulder, just within view. The mist tries to conceal him, but that dark hair of his pierces everything. It reminds me of Helena’s hair, which makes me a touch guilty.

Guilty because I wasn’t around to stop Grim from taking them all. I can’t imagine Helena as one of them, mindlessly following Grim, blazing and furious and dead in the eyes. Is it my fault? Should I have reasoned with him more in After’s Hold when I had the chance?

I could’ve taken his eye. I should’ve stayed and tried harder, even with Megan there. I should’ve tackled him to the floor and clawed into his face.

The thought makes me shudder, so I discard it and peer down at John who still hasn’t let go. “You okay?”

He shivers again. “Wish I’d brought a thicker coat.” He snuggles up next to me, presses into my side. “You’re surprisingly warm.”

I suppress a smile. “I have no explanation for that.”

He’s likely the reason any part of me is warm at all. The irony is, he’s probably feeling his own warmth and nothing more. I’m suddenly thankful that his tight grip on me hasn’t unintentionally pulled any of my limbs off. Twice during the night, I was pretty sure John might roll over, still clinging, and take my whole left arm with him. That’s all I need; the horror of John waking up cuddling an arm all by itself.

“Shouldn’t have more than another day or two until we’re there,” I point out. “Maybe sooner. Garden ought to have warmer amenities than the wilderness. Maybe there is a whole city.”

“Maybe.” He runs a hand along my arm, as if studying it. “Your skin’s so smooth.”

He’s making it very difficult to resist my sudden and very prickly urge to abandon all care for our present company and whereabouts and just tear off his clothes, dive into his face, and listen to a heart race. “Thanks.”

“Unexpected,” he grunts.

“I guess that’s Marigold’s magic.” I try to smile, but find myself suddenly quite self-conscious as his fingers dance up and down my arm—which he still clutches.

“She’s only responsible for so much. You’re a person no matter. We’re all made from pieces. I’m a piece of my mother, a piece of my father. How’s it any different?”

John’s come a long way in his perception of the dead.

“Thanks,” I make myself say. “Your fingers tickle.”

The tiniest hint of a smile breaks his face beautifully. “I thought your kind couldn’t feel.”

“I feel.”

He’s still running his fingertips. “You feel,” he agrees.

I peer over at Megan, who’s relocated to a spot under a tree, and find her eyes cracked open. When she realizes she’s been caught, she shuts her eyes quickly. I smile.

An hour later, everyone’s awake and has had a small morning bite. When they begin to gather up their things, the Chief asks me how much farther we have. I tell him I estimate another day or so. His face shows something less than enthusiasm. Gill gives me nothing but darts for eyes, squeezing his daughter so tight I wonder if the poor little thing’s able to breathe at all.

I watch Megan as she bundles up her coat and slings a satchel over her shoulder, and that’s when my eyes drop to the spot in which she was sleeping. There’s a small tuft of grass there. Incredible, considering our environment.

“You found yourself a bed there,” I remark, nodding.

Megan scrunches her face up, confused. Then she follows my eyes and sees the grass herself. “Oh.” She blinks at it, surprised. “I didn’t notice.”

“Wait.” The exclamation comes from John, who’s rushed up. “You didn’t … notice it? Or was it not there before you fell asleep?” Megan is confused, not following.

I remember a weed poking out from the cobblestone right outside of Collin’s hospital in Trenton. It hadn’t struck me as odd until now. “Megan …”

“Try to remember,” John urges her. “Was this here before? Or do you think it’s at all possible that … maybe you might’ve …” He waves his hands in an effort to finish the sentence.

Megan stares at the spot of grass like we’re all crazy. “It’s just some grass,” she says, shaking her head. She’s pushing away our suggestions, denying it. Doesn’t matter that we haven’t spotted a single blade of grass since we left Trenton, not until now. And for the grass to be in the exact spot in which Megan slept for the night …

“Why don’t you try concentrating on it?” suggests Robin, her eyebrows lifted curiously. Even her twin Rake is leaning in, curious, an eagerness playing in his icy eyes.

Megan surveys all of us for a moment, realizing she has gotten everyone’s attention. With a little shrug, she gives into the suggestion, crouching down next to the grass. Slowly, gently, she runs her hand along the surface of the tiny green whiskers, weak little things they are. Nothing happens. She moves her hand away and leans forward, as if daring to kiss them next.

That’s when the grass responds. The little blades bend slightly toward her, swaying as if by a magnet.

“Megan!” the tall woman, Ash, exclaims. She slaps a hand to her mouth.

Now even Megan shows surprise in her face. I can’t tell if it’s just my imagination, but her eye even seems to shimmer as she lets her hand graze over the grass once more, watching in fascination as the little green things sway at her touch.

She looks up at me, excitement in her eyes, even the green one. “Winter!”

I can’t hide the smile that beams on my face. I bite my lip, overcome with watching the joy revive Megan’s spirit in this tiny, unexpected instant.

Moments later, all of our things have been gathered and we leave the green patch of life behind, advancing through the sparse woods. There isn’t a single thing we pass that Megan doesn’t graze with her hands now, curious if anything will happen, if any tiny stem of life will burst forth, if any little frond or leaf or tiny hidden vine will emerge from the gloom, eager to greet her fingertips.

“She always had it in her,” John mutters.

“Question is, what else is she unknowingly hiding in that eye of hers?” The joy of the discovery carries us on and on, our spirits lifted, hope renewed.

I wish I could say the same for the Chief. The joy of the moment is lost on him. His eyes are growing dark and his temperament is nothing short of irritable. The baby starts to cry and Gill fumbles in his bag to produce something for his daughter to eat, ends up spilling half a bottle of milk on the ground. We stop for a moment while he, with the help of the old man Nelson and the sisters, gathers everything back up.

“How much longer,” demands the Chief while we wait, his tone unfriendly and dry. It doesn’t sound like a question.

“I can’t be sure,” I confess to him, fearing his reaction. “To be fair, I was flown there in a matter of hours. Our speed on foot is considerably slower, so—”

“And you saw this so-called Garden?”

Not exactly. “There are … very big flowers. It is unlike anything I’ve … anything that I’ve … seen.” The words come out in a jumble, as the Chief’s harshness suddenly begins to fill me with doubt. Could the Shee-lady have deceived me? What if there isn’t a place with more of those big, purple-petaled flowers? What if we’re chasing a non-existent dream, wandering off to our doom?

I’m responsible for their lives. The realization dawns on me like a sickness. If any of them die, it’s on me.

Suddenly Gunner’s lifted his crossbow, and the whole group shifts to witness what’s caught his attention. When I turn, I see a figure approaching us from the distance. It’s an older woman draped from head to toe in green linens. The gentle breeze plays in them, and then I realize—

“Gunner, lower your weapon! That’s Jasmine!”

The others recognize her too, exchanging gasps, even a cheer from one of the women. Of all the Undead, Jasmine has always been one of the most respected. They nearly regard her as another one of them; a Human. The sight of her gives my insides such a lift, I could melt into a puddle right now. I think deep down, I was afraid I’d be the last remaining Undead on the whole planet that wasn’t taken by Grim’s fire-dancing necromancy.

“Jasmine!” I cry out as she approaches. I race up to her startled figure and embrace her. “I can’t believe it! We all thought we lost you at After’s Hold!”

“Yes,” she agrees mildly. “I thought so, too.”

I pull away. She seems so downcast. “What’s wrong, Jasmine? Are you hurt?”

“No, no,” she insists, her eyes heavy and clouded. “I have been wandering … a very long way,” she admits, her eyes surveying the others. “Hello.”

Gunner gives a nod for a greeting. The Chief grunts, along with a number of the Humans, some of whom smile, others nodding. John says, “I’d hoped you had made it out of that city.”

Almost ignoring him, Jasmine’s eyes find mine again. “Where are you all heading?”

“Garden,” I tell her, overcome. “Somewhere where your skill and wisdom will come in handy.” I laugh again, overjoyed. “You’re going to join us! It’s just another day or two east, maybe even closer than that. We’ll need all the help we can get, especially if we’re found by Grim and his army again.”

“Oh.” She smiles gently, though it doesn’t touch her hazy eyes. “No, we don’t have to worry about them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Winter.” She lays a hand gently on my face. Strange, how she isn’t calling me “rabbit” as usual. “Oh, Winter.”

I’m staring into her glassy eyes, and my own joyous smile crumbles away when I slowly realize it isn’t Jasmine whose eyes I’m staring into.

“Please,” her mouth says. “Stop running. Please. Your friends will die. John will die. I’m the one you belong with, not him. And I can bring happiness to the whole world. Every last Living and every last Dead.”

I thrust Jasmine’s hand off my face and back away. Gunner’s lifted his crossbow again, reading my instinct. John’s come up to my side protectively; he knows what’s happening too.

“Grim,” I say, addressing Jasmine’s eyes, staring deep into them. “You’ve destroyed our home. You’ve—”

“I’m making us a new home,” Jasmine insists, her jaw hanging slackly between her sentences, her eyes miles, miles, miles away. Grim uses her mouth and says, “Let go of the Humans, they serve you nothing but pain. Soon, the whole world will be our home, Winter, my love. This entire ruined planet … Every beautiful dead inch of it.”

“You’ve taken my friends for slaves!” I shout at him, glaring through Jasmine’s cold, dead eyes. “There’s no forgiving what you’ve done, Grimsky, but it is not too late to undo it. Please. Stop this. Stop this …”

Jasmine reaches her hand toward me—Grim reaching his hand toward me, and he pleads: “You should see how the north glistens, my sweet Winter. I’m witnessing my first snowfall in this Life … and it does not burn.”

I cling to John, the fury coursing through my body, all the way to my curling fingertips.

It does not go unnoticed. Jasmine’s eyes darken, watching. “He is temporary. He is a blink. You’re not. All of eternity waits for us, Winter. You should see this … the snow, which will soon cover Trenton. The cold will cover the world. The snow and the ice and the immortal cold,” he says through Jasmine’s dead, languid voice. “It is the dead of winter, my love, and you will feel no more pain.”

Gunner looses a bolt from his crossbow into Jasmine’s face. She doesn’t react. The thing jutting out of her cheek, she goes on: “No more hunger. No more sleep. No—” Gunner looses another into her neck. Her voice raspy now, she continues: “No more blood. No more—”

And then Megan’s between us. “Grim!” she shouts.

Jasmine slowly peers down at Megan. It seems to take her a while before she realizes what she’s looking at, her ghostly eyes squinting. “Ah. The little one. Hello.”

“You have no power here,” she tells him. “Give us our friends back, or we’ll take them from you.”

“Even you,” says Jasmine, and a weak attempt at a smile curves her lips into a crescent moon. It’s deformed somewhat by the arrow protruding from her cheek. “You would feel deep relief joining me, little one. Imagine, to forget the pain of your brother … and forever.”

“I’ve an Eye now,” she whispers back, deadly, biting, “and I choose to remember him. Forever.”

In an instant, Megan rushes up to Jasmine, grips her by the neck, and brings the old woman’s drunken face down to her own as if to plant a granddaughter’s kiss on her papery cheek. Gunner keeps his crossbow aimed, prepared for anything. I’ve clapped a hand to my mouth, scared, unknowing of what Grim might be capable of, even from far away …

“WINTER!” shouts Jasmine, shouts Grim, a last plea.

And then Jasmine collapses to the ground, released from Megan’s hands. I don’t hesitate a second, wrapping an arm around Megan and pulling her away from the limp Undead woman on the ground. I thrust Megan behind me protectively and watch Jasmine.

Finally, she stirs. Slowly, Jasmine lifts her head. She appears bewildered, blinking several times. After glancing to her left, then to her right, her eyes round upon John. “John? Where’s—” She turns, spotting me. “W-Winter?”

The change is like night and day—for a Living. Our Jasmine is back. “Grim took you. Oh, Jasmine.” I make to wrap my arms around her, then realize it isn’t practical with two arrows sticking out of her head. “Sorry. We had to, um … Forgive me.” I gently pull Gunner’s arrows out. Even though I know it causes no pain, I’m afraid of wrecking her appearance too much.

“I’ve been shot,” she observes, staring at the arrows I’ve pulled out of her face. “Did I … do something?”

“Grim did.” I glance at John, relieved. He smiles back, his face having broken out in a worrisome sweat. I peer back at the Humans, finding half of them consoling Megan and the other half still warily watching Jasmine. I guess that’s to be expected. “We’re heading to Garden.”

“Garden?” She screws up her face, glances at Gunner questioningly, then at John. “Why’ve we left Trenton?”

I nod sadly, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I’ll explain it to you on the way,” I tell her, looking right into her eyes and no longer seeing a hint of Grim. His bond to her has been broken. “We’ve a lot of catching up to do.”

Everyone recomposes themselves, preparing to go on. When I hand the arrows I’d collected back to Gunner, I stare cautiously at the steel tips to them as though peering at a deadly flame. Gunner doesn’t seem to notice my odd attentiveness, grabbing the innocent bolts from my palm and cleaning them briskly before returning them to his quiver.

No one knows. Back at Trenton, on that fateful day of the bug invasion, I was shot in front of them all, and no one seems to have noticed. I wonder if it even matters, my little Deathless secret. I wonder if Helena saw, the day the insects burst from the Trenton Square. I wonder if she’s the only one who knows.

Yet another secret to sit heavily in me, infecting my otherwise uninfectable body with guilt.

As we resume our journey, I tell Jasmine everything. How we escaped After’s Hold. How Grim had developed his powers. How the giant insects invaded and our city was torn apart. Jasmine listens in a horrified silence. I wonder if the worst bit of news for her was the destroying of the greenhouse and all their hard work.

The little Trenton gardens were her pride and joy. I lean into her, consoling her however I can, and I say, “Just you wait. You’re about to have more garden than you can handle.”

My tale is punctuated with the sounds of Megan filing her knives, the scraping metal noise flitting through the trees as we walk. The twins are asking the Humans all about Jasmine, curious to catch up themselves. Robin, especially. She asks what life in Trenton was like. The Humans are remarkably patient; even Gill, though I catch his eyes rolling several times.

John stays at my side all the while. Twice, I catch him looking at me through the side of his face. I can’t say for sure what he’s thinking or why he keeps glancing at me, but I already can’t wait for the next nightfall. I miss the tight, nightlong embrace.

Just thinking about it, excitement lances through me. It’s almost painful, how good it feels. I can’t stop glowing.

Halfway across a desolate waste of grey sands and beige, indistinct boulders, my storytelling is concluded, and there’s little else to say. The whole group has drawn quiet. The sun passes over us, according to the Humans, while Jasmine and I peer up into the silver nothingness.

We stop once more an hour past the massive stretch of nothing to give the Humans a chance to regain their strength. Shelter is found by a spread of rocks and fallen-over trees. From a glance, I could almost convince myself that the trees might still have life in them. I might also be kidding myself, like a man lost in the desert, constantly convincing his agonized thirst that an oasis awaits him on the other side of the dune. It’s quite possible nothing awaits us, that what we chase is just another Dead girl’s daydream. Like a life with John. Like children.

I ignore the impatient glances from the Chief. It’s in these moments that I’m thankful to be dead; I can easily hide the doubt that I know where I’m going, or that we’ll even reach our destination at all. I have to be confident and not let these Humans lose hope. Sometimes, I’m practically convinced it’s hope that keeps them alive, even more so than food or the very blood in their veins.

Keep the hope alive, and it’ll keep the Humans alive.

Hours pass. Hours more, and the sun has set. We reach a heavily shaded area, the branches of the half-dead trees reaching one another high above us, as if shaking hands. The ground is soft. The air is thick and breezy. Wind hisses through the trees, bending their branches and creating a song of earth that rattles lightly all around us.

John curls up into me and I stare into the labyrinth of webbing trees and gnarled branches. John’s heavy arm lays limp over my lap and he’s already snoring lightly. Megan and Jasmine share another tree, and the rest of the Humans are huddled over a campfire, quietly discussing a plan for tomorrow. Rations are running thin. We haven’t crossed a single source of food, save a bush of nuts here and there. The man, Nelson, even started gathering leaves from any bush or tree he could find, thinking he’d chew on them in a desperate measure. “To save myself from eating one of you,” he had jested, though no one seemed to find the joke funny.

The Chief eyes me again. I resist the urge to glare back.

The calm night soon swallows the day. The fire is put out when the Living drift to sleep, and I am secretly thankful for that. With Grim occupying so many Undead eyes, I feel like he can even watch me through campfire flames. Isn’t that terrible? I don’t even trust fire anymore.

I feel the heartbeat of my favorite Human vibrating through me, his breath tickling my arms. Yes, John, they tickle, and I wish there was a way to have that tickle of your life, of your body, of your being with me forever and always. And for once, I’m the one that squeezes him, bringing John in for a tight, crushing hug. He squeezes back sleepily, his head nuzzling into my neck, and in the dark, which for me isn’t dark at all, he searches for my lips and meets them with his own.

I know nothing of what happens for a solid hour, lost in the confines of John’s soft lips, of John’s strong arms, of John’s breath and his tickling and the words he whispers in my ear: “Don’t ever leave me.” I know we’d both like to do a lot more than this, even in the dark where it’s possible no one might witness us, but lips are certainly exciting enough, at least for now, and the memory of our special night in Trenton will have to suffice for us both.

When he drifts back to a warm, snuggly sleep, I watch Jasmine’s backside as she holds Megan in the night like a granddaughter. I’m touched for a while, unable to think much of anything.

I wish I could live within this peace forever.

Maybe it’s the silence of the night after a long, trying day of travel, but the enormity of our situation begins to sit heavily in me, and I have to confess the truth to myself:

We are not safe.

Alone now, I let myself process the true consequence of Jasmine having encountered us. Before Megan broke Grim’s control, even before any of us knew that Jasmine was under his control, I told her where we were heading.

That means he knows, too.

C H A P T E R – S E V E N T E E N

S O M E O N E   E L S E ’ S   H O M E

Before the others are awake, Jasmine has freed herself from Megan’s clutch and I’ve slipped out of John’s arms. The only other one who’s up is Gunner, who’s taken to scouting the area ahead. Only Jasmine and I can see him, our ghostly eyes proving once again useful when looking afar, and utterly useless when looking up.

The silver untelling sky twisting above, Jasmine asks, “So, Grim knows?”

“Yeah, I imagine he does.” I fold my arms. “It’s not your fault. He’s … manipulative. I used to love him. Our story’s a complicated one. He saved me from a cliff, then sent the Deathless to a tavern to abduct me. That’s where I met John.” Jasmine smiles warmly; I’d told her that story before, long ago. “Grim saved me again at the Necropolis. I saved him in return at Trenton. That’s all it’s been, really. Just a long series of us saving one another. Now he thinks he’ll save the whole damn world by ending it …”

“Sometimes, trouble is a drug,” says Jasmine. “People are drawn to it. People are born by it. Grimsky is a man who’s never had his Waking Dream. We can’t know what really troubles another’s mind. It’s not for us to know.”

“We’ll never know what troubles his,” I point out. “He told me the price of becoming Deathless—it’s to give up one’s First Life. He’ll never have the Dream, Jazz. He’ll never know.”

I understand a lot about troubled minds and secrets. All those months spent with a less-than-kind John taught me as much as I figure I ought to know.

“That’s a most unfortunate tragedy,” Jasmine agrees.

“Yes.” I look back at the group. A few of the women have stirred, one of them picking through the satchel of food rations. The satchels are growing lighter. The lighter they get, the heavier my heart gets. “I don’t want them to starve. What if … What if we never find Garden?”

“It was certainly a risk to journey so far from Trenton. But I say, a far better thing to have risked taking such a journey and die reaching for that dream … than to not have taken one at all.”

Our conversation draws to a close as the Humans wake and begin nibbling on their rations, which have all been portioned even smaller than before. John is among them, offering some of his rations to a quite-fatigued Megan. None of the Humans thought they’d be in this position again; starved, tired, surviving on scraps and barely hanging on each day in a harsh, spent world. I watch them from a distance, amazed at how cooperative everyone’s being. Even Gill with his suspicious, pain-ridden eyes. I still remember his wife in that last moment, her breathy final words that I never heard, her hand reaching for me.

What a horrible thing, to be given someone’s final words and not to have heard them.

“Chief,” calls out Gunner, returning from his scouting just as the other Humans finish gathering up their things. “There’s a river not more than ten minutes ahead of us, fifteen at most. Water. Real water.”

He’d filled a canister, which is quickly passed around to the most in-need. The Chief slings a backpack over his shoulders, eyes us all with his hardened stare. “Onward, then. Let’s make to the river.”

A real river. Water. That must mean life, right?

When our party of fourteen crosses through the mess of deadwood and dust, we happen upon the river. Its water is still and gentle, almost like a lake, and green and brown fronds and bristles of grass and weeds grow in sad, modest lumps. After the endless dead lowlands we’ve crossed, I’ll happily accept sad, modest lumps.

And so do the Humans. Rushing to the river, the sisters plunge in their hands, bringing the water to their faces and letting it run down their hair. Ash and Tina share a joke between them as they fill bottles. The twins and Megan explore the river a bit further down, Gunner following somewhat to keep an eye on them.

“Not the cleanest,” remarks the Chief. “Murky waters, these are.” He nods warningly at his people. “I wouldn’t trust to drink it so freely. The water’s stagnant.”

“The water’s stagnant and we’re starved and thirsty,” John says back, caring not to sound too defiant to the more-irritable-than-ever Chief. “Can’t blame a Living for taking every opportunity.” He smiles, turns his eyes to me—which inspires a warm sensation through my whole body, from face to fingertip—then crouches by the riverbank to fill his own.

“Flower!” the voice of Megan calls out from farther down the river.

Music to my ears.

When I rush to her, she’s bent over a flower similar to the one Shee had shown me. Its petals are the purple of plums, each of them the breadth of an outstretched hand.

I glance across the river. It isn’t a very wide river, to be reasonable; about thirty feet across or so, just by eyeing it. On the other side, the thorny trees and bramble grow thick. Even with their dried, dead appearance, I’m convinced there is still life in them, somehow. The trees are too dense, intertwined to create a canopy of nettles and veiny limbs above. At a glance, you can’t even tell where one tree ends and another begins.

The rest of the Humans have caught up, tripping over themselves to observe Megan’s find. When the Chief draws near, less impressed, he mutters: “Which way?”

Trust me, Chief, I’m just as impatient as you are to get to this place. “The river curves around,” I point out. “We head further this way, following the river.”

After Megan spends another moment playing her tiny fingers over the lush, purple blossom and watching it gently respond, we progress further down the riverbank. The rest of it is much of the same, though we encounter no more flowers; only orphaned tufts of grass and spindly weeds. Eager murmurs and whispers are traded among the Humans. Yes, they’re as excited and anxious as I am. I pray we’re moving along the river in the right direction.

“Where the water goes,” Jasmine murmurs in my ear, “the life will follow.”

Nearly two hours pass before the excitement has worn off completely. We might as well be traveling through another dusty waste, for as melancholic as the group has once again turned.

“Another flower!” Megan cries out, rushing to it.

Hope is stirred amongst the others once again, until the Chief raises a hand, stopping them. “No,” he grunts, then points accusingly at the ground. “Footsteps. Our footsteps.” Approaching, he leans over the flower, then glares back at us. “Same flower as before.”

“No, it isn’t,” Megan argues, but when she examines it closer, the doubt registers in her face.

“We’ve gone in a circle,” says Ash, despairing. Tina moans in agreement, putting a hand to her cherry cheek.

“How is that possible?” argues Nelson.

“It’s very possible we don’t know where the hell we’re going,” states the Chief, his eyes dark as a storm. “Taking us in circles, by the look of it.”

“No,” grunts Nelson back. “It isn’t possible. Rivers don’t run in circles. Where the hell is it running to?”

As the Humans begin to debate and argue over what’s happened and what’s possible and not possible, I find myself at the riverbank. There has to be an explanation for this. Crouched right by the water, I slowly reach my hand toward it. The still, stagnant water gently pulls away. I move my hand closer. It pulls away even more. Soon, it’s pulled as far as it can possibly pull, repelled by the presence of my Undead hand, until finally my fingers, in fact, break the surface of the murky water.

Submerged, nothing happens at first. Then it begins to sting … a creeping, cold sensation. The subtle sting turns into pain, and then I thrust my hand out, unable to take it.

“Winter?”

Everyone’s paused their bickering quite suddenly to pay attention. It’s John who spoke my name. How the water pulled away, it reminds me of the other lake, the one by which the old Human camp had settled.

This water, this river, it doesn’t flow at all. Like a lake.

I look across it once more, studying the thick bramble and the webbed trees on the other side. Those knobby, earthen fingers that seem to grasp one another, like a ring of old friends … as if to guard something.

“Guys,” I mutter quietly, realizing. “This isn’t a river.” I turn back to look at them. “It’s a moat.”

Comprehension spreads across all their faces—or at least most of them, the ones who know what the hell a moat even is.

My eyes jumping between John and the Chief, I go on. “You’ll need to cross it alone. I think the purpose of this river …” I peer into the water, studying my reflection, “is to ward away the Dead.”

Gunner has come up to my side, squinting across the way. Soon, the Chief’s there too. He peers down at me, his expression quizzical. “What you’re telling me is, you think Garden’s in there?”

I nod.

Gunner and the Chief exchange a look. John comes to my side, then says, “There’s no reason we can’t bring you with us. You and Jasmine.” He’s met by several defiant stares, which he appears to ignore, pressing on. “They’ve carried us from harm. Why can’t we return the favor?”

A few of the Humans still look confused, so Gunner, who’s kept rather quiet around the Chief, speaks up: “The Dead can’t touch the water. It hurts them. What John’s suggesting is that we carry them over the water.”

“What?” shouts Gill. “Are you serious?”

Of course it’d be that one with the problem.

Gunner glances at the Chief, who nods approvingly, and then says, “Yes. I’m serious.”

“How??”

“Over our heads,” finishes John. He nods at the kids. “Get the young across first. The girls and the boy and the babe,” he says. “Then us older will carry our Undead. Sooner we’re across …”

Gill seems to have another complaint or two on his tongue, but he lets them die there.

Soon, the young ones are aided across. Megan and Rake go with ease, but Robin needs help, as we discover she cannot swim well and panics when the water touches her chin. Gunner jumps in, brings her over on his shoulders. She carries the baby with her while a very anxious, unblinking Gill watches from the other bank.

“Your turn,” says John to me.

I nod. The men—Gunner, Chief, John and Nelson—carry me over their heads. The way is slow, but it is a cautious slow, as they each are careful not to lose their footing below and drop me into the water. I’m holding my hair so it doesn’t get wet, though I’m not sure I’d feel any pain; again, we’re taking all the precautions, even unnecessary ones. When I reach a toe out and step foot on the opposite bank, I sigh with relief. So does John. The women make their way, the Chief and Nelson minding to help Tina in particular, who is short and unable to keep afloat easily; she keeps fighting their efforts, though, even insisting she can swim despite constantly dunking her head too far beneath the water—at one point, only her lips are visible, gasping for air.

When Jasmine is lifted up, it’s only Nelson, John and Gill who take the weight, as the Chief and Gunner are investigating a way through the bramble and Jasmine is smaller than me. The women tend to a whining baby and the twins are discussing something lightly with Megan as the others slowly bring Jasmine across the water, stepping with the same caution.

“What do you think?” asks Megan.

I wasn’t paying attention to their conversation, as I watch John cross with Jasmine hoisted up. “Of what?” I ask, still keeping my eyes on the men in the river.

“Garden. Do you think they’ll let us in? Do you think they’ll fight us? I’m ready to fight if they do.”

“I don’t know, Megan.” I guess I’m trying not to think about it, considering I don’t even know if anything rests beyond those twisted brambles and trees.

Nelson almost misses a step, their unit jerking to the left slightly, then they resume after regaining balance.

“What if they aren’t our friends?” Megan goes on, and I care for the girl dearly, but her paranoia is getting on my nerves. Considering I have great misgivings of my own, I’d really rather someone tell me something comforting than to constantly flood me with worry. I have plenty of worry enough. “What if they’re our enemies?”

“Sometimes friends can be enemies,” I mutter.

And then Jasmine drops into the water.

“UP, QUICKLY!” shouts John, reaching for Jasmine, who’s violently flinging her arms in every direction. With the help of the other men, they manage to bring her out of the water. More quickly now—and above Jasmine’s screams—they finally deposit her onto the bank.

“What was that?!” John yells, rounding on Gill the instant they set her down.

Jasmine is still screaming. I rush to her side to see if she’s okay. Megan and a pair of the women join me.

“I didn’t do nothing! It was him!” Gill shouts, pointing a finger at Nelson.

“The hell it was!” Nelson shouts back, swatting the finger away. “I watched my every step, you oaf!”

Jasmine’s screaming can’t hope to drown out John’s booming voice. “You dropped her deliberately! I felt you let go of her!”

“That’s a lie.”

“Who’s next then? You going to try and harm Winter now? You lay one finger on her and I’ll kill you myself.”

That’s when my head perks up. John’s face is red and he’s breathing so heavy, his chest pumps like a machine. Megan is trying to get Jasmine dry, wiping away the wet with a sleeping blanket she carries, while Jasmine keeps screaming, “It burns! It BURNS!” And I know her pain.

“You’d kill me over a dead person? End a life for a Crypter who don’t even bleed?” Gill spits at John, landing it on his foot.

John’s anger snaps. He grabs Gill and the two of them tumble into the water. Everyone is on their feet now, gasps and shouts of concern ringing through the others. Even the Chief’s demands for them to stop go unheard, and suddenly Gill’s flipped John onto his back, and John’s head is thrust under the water.

I abandon Jasmine, take a broken tree limb to my palm and, before I even know what I’m doing, I have Gill in a chokehold using it. Peeling him off John, I drag the man halfway across the bank, choking him with the tree limb while he rasps and tries to reach backwards for me.

“Winter, let go.” The order comes from Gunner.

“And then what??” I cry out, surprised by the insanity that’s taken my voice. John’s back on his feet, and even he looks surprised at the rage in me. “He tried killing Jasmine! And John just now! When will this end?? H-He’s a danger to all of us. He shouldn’t have even come with us when we—when we … He shouldn’t even …”

The baby is crying in Robin’s arms, crying and crying without end … and suddenly I find my conviction broken. The memory of Gill’s dead wife Laura, her hand reaching out to me, and the last words I didn’t hear.

Half of Jasmine’s arm has fallen off. Her left foot too. The skin on the right side of her face is sunken in. The sight of it makes me choke.

And then I let him go, dropping the stick. Gill backs away, rasping, rubbing his throat and glaring indignantly at everyone. Jasmine issues a soft moan, still unmoving, and I stare at her detached arm in a sad, furious silence.

“Sorry,” I spit out in half a whisper, half a hiss.

“Don’t be,” says Megan at once, her real eye and her green one both giving Gill a scathing look. He’s backed into a tree now, warily watching everyone, as if daring someone else to come at him. He’s still rubbing his throat. I feel no sympathy for him.

I speak quietly: “Jasmine?”

She’s stopped moaning. Her head tilts ever slightly to the side, as though addressing a sweet grandchild, and she says, “Yes, my rabbit?”

“Your arm. Your foot.” I suck in a bit of air quite unnecessarily, then finish, “They’ve fallen off.”

“Yes,” she agrees slowly. “They have.”

“We have n-no Marigold to … to …” I shake my head, refusing absolutely to look at Gill, the one responsible. I’m afraid of what I might do if I see his dumb, indignant face again.

“On the bright side,” Jasmine points out, stifling a grunt of pain, “I can’t get any deader than I already am.”

An ear falls off.

Unable to stand even his presence any longer, I say, “Chief. Respectfully. You ought to take your Human in with you. As far from the bank as possible. If he’s here with my decomposing friend another second, I may be very tempted to dislodge something from his face.”

“We have a clear way in,” says the Chief, ignoring my demand. “Through this gap in the thorns. Gunner, you and I will scout what’s in this grove. You too, Gill.”

“And me,” says Rake, rising.

Robin shakes her head. “No way.”

“Yes. I want to see it for myself.”

“Then you’re not going alone.” Robin takes up her knife and draws her hood.

Gill is less eager. “Why’s it that I head on first? You can take Nelson or John, just as well.”

The Chief’s voice is steel. “Regardless of what has transpired here, I will not leave you with any Undead. You know you’ve a history. We all know it.”

Gill’s eyes shift uneasily among the group. Megan is holding Jasmine’s arm in place, trying to reconnect it somehow. The sisters and Ash watch him warily, Tina tending to a sore foot of her own. Nelson and John are wordless, cold. No, mister hothead, I’m afraid you don’t have many friends among us.

“I can’t leave the baby,” he answers sourly.

“The women will take care of your little one,” the Chief states. “You’ve known Lena and Margie since camp. Lena saved your dear Laura’s life back at camp, may she rest in peace. Things have been done, things cannot be undone. Now come with me and be done with this.”

Finally, Gill pushes away from the tree, draws near enough to his little girl to plant a kiss on her forehead. “Daddy’s coming back,” he promises, eyeing the sisters warningly, then heading off with the Chief. He’s followed by the twins, and then Gunner. The sound of their feet crunching in the nettles and the snapping twigs is all we hear for a while until they’ve disappeared into the grove.

“If Garden’s in there,” Ash starts to say, “just beyond those trees, why don’t we just …?”

Nelson shakes his head. “No. They ought to go first. We keep watch here. Caution’s gotten us this far, hasn’t it? The whole thing could be a trap.”

For a moment, I’m about to take that personally, as if he meant that I would lure everyone into some horrible trap. Then I realize how little sense that makes anyway. To be honest, I haven’t seen Garden; only the possible evidence of it in the form of giant purple flowers.

“I can’t just sit here,” Ash insists, impatient. Her eyes glow longingly, as if reaching with phantom hands at the Garden that might await her through the grove. “We’re idiots to be so close to it and just wait here.”

“Go.” The order comes from Jasmine, who slowly lifts her head from the riverbank. The agony is in her eyes, but she lifts her brows gently and says, “Go on, my rabbits. I am quite alright. Please. Go on to your … to your destiny. You’ve certainly waited long enough.”

Ash needs no further prompting. She heads for the opening in the trees and vanishes at once into the thick of it. Suddenly Megan’s on her feet, eyeing me, as if asking whether she ought to go as well. John too, his eyebrows lifted questioningly.

I ask Jasmine, “Can you walk?”

She shakes her head. “I think I’d rather enjoy the view here on the river. Please. No more harm can come to me. I’m already dead, for the love of god.” The remark earns a titter and chuckle from the two sisters, who have finally quieted the baby. “Go on, you silly fools. Even you, my rabbit.” She winks at me. “I only ask you come back to tell me what it’s like. Paint me a nice picture.”

The sisters rise without further discussion and take the baby into the trees. Nelson nods at us, gives a grunt as he rises, then chases the others through the crunching path.

Just the four of us now, I join John and Megan by the body of my friend, smiling. “Here’s to hoping,” I say.

“I’m gonna stay with her,” says Megan, taking a seat by Jasmine. “I have my Eye. I can protect her. And, well, I know a thing or two about Upkeep. Maybe I can help get her arm and foot reattached. Sorry Jasmine, not sure if I can do anything about the ear.”

She lays a hand on Jasmine’s arm, and I’m reminded of this one time when I visited by grandma’s and she was bedridden. I remember sitting by the bed, annoyed that I had to keep her company for some reason, and she started telling me stories about her childhood, times when she was happy, and how she used to have long pretty hair and all the boys would look at her. I remember sighing a lot and checking the clock on the wall, wondering when I’d finally be free.

She died a week and a half later. That was the last time I ever saw her, and I spent those entire twenty-two minutes rolling my eyes.

Claire. Claire wasted her life rolling her eyes. It was all Claire. But Winter …

“Protect her then,” I agree, smiling. “I’ll be back for you, Megan. Just so happens, I’ve an Eye of my own.” I open my palm, flashing the little green thing at her and giving a sly wink.

Megan waves us off, then turns back to Jasmine and starts up a conversation about potatoes and gardening as she inspects her broken parts. John puts his arm around me and by reflex I rest my head on his shoulder as we pass into the woods. One might think we were on vacation, taking a stroll through the park. The thick web of trees and thorny vines and ropes of rotted wood dangle above and lie underfoot, threatening our feet as we press on.

“What do you hope lies ahead, John?”

I feel his arm tighten on my waist as he takes in a big lungful of Human air, then answers, “Anything.”

Every step, I feel him squeezing me tighter. We walk in such perfect sync, it nearly feels like we’re one. Even his heart beats for us both. Through his coat, I feel every ridge and movement of his body. His breath touches me.

The symphony of John carries us through the woods. Then the dark nettles begin to reveal a curious rise in the land ahead, rocky and jagged, bending abruptly upward, like a wall. As we ascend the curving ridge of stone, the sky seems to open up like a door of silver light on our faces, the web of shadowy nettles falling behind, and a hungry eagerness takes us both as we let go of one another and climb the ridge gently to its peak.

We peer over the brink. Slowly, John and I drink in the scene. We are, the two of us, stolen of breath.

It’s a crater. Held deep within its earthen bowl, there is glowing greenery, trees the size of dreams, and colors that defy anything an Undead ought to be allowed to witness. Among the rich greens and blues and yellows of the thriving vegetation, there rests cottages, tree houses, tents, rings of stone. John may not be able to see all of it from this distance, but my Undead eyes see it all.

“It’s true,” he whispers, awed. I look at the side of John’s face, taken by the tears forming in his eyes, tears that swell, but don’t spill down his face. “It’s true. It was always true. If only they were here and could see this …”

They. He means his parents, the ones who told him all his life the tales of Garden, every night. The bedtime story that settled a younger, innocent John’s mind before he drifted into another world of dreams. And his dream is now within reach, and it is no longer a dream. It has become reality.

Crude steps have been carved into the crater’s wall as it descends into the flowing green below. “Let’s go down there, Winter. Let’s meet them.” John doesn’t look at me while he talks, his eyes transfixed to the lush beauty of Mother Nature beaming and bright.

He doesn’t even realize …

“You should go on,” I tell him, not wanting to spoil the moment. “Find the Chief and the others. I’m going to head back and check on Jazz and our little Lock.”

He finally wrests his gaze away, then fixes those two gentle brown eyes on me. I’d melt if I weren’t so scared of water. “You’re going?” He sounds like a disappointed boy.

There are so many sides to John, I’ve lost count. “Just to check on our friends. I want to make sure they’re okay. It’s really hard to trust anyone on their own for too long, considering what we’ve … recently been through.”

“Okay. Then I’ll wait for you.”

“No, no. Go ahead, John. Really.”

“I’m waiting for you, Winter.”

“John …”

He pulls me in for a kiss. When our lips meet, the effect is instant. How does he do that? Nothing worries me when the world becomes just our mouths and the thrashing, beautiful drum in his chest.

“Come back very quickly,” he whispers when our lips separate. “Come back too quickly, if you want.”

The smile I return is as real as my heart.

As I descend the ridge of the crater and plummet back into the deadnettle and thorn, I feel heavy with guilt. How did I ever think this would work? I’ve known how our story ends, ever since the first day I met him. John, with all his excitement, he isn’t seeing the flaw in the plan. He doesn’t realize …

He doesn’t realize I can’t follow him down there.

C H A P T E R – E I G H T E E N

E V E R   A F T E R

I hang with Jasmine and little Megan on the riverbank for a while. Jasmine makes a joke about how peaceful it is, to exist freely in the wilderness without the bother and fuss and worry of a house to uphold, and daily habits to indulge, and books to read to let one’s mind escape …

“Really, the true escape from life is just running right into it.” She laughs, then winces as a droplet of water runs down her face from her hair.

Megan managed to reconnect Jasmine’s arm, though its movements are still somewhat awkward. She looks up suddenly, even her green eye seeming to fix on me. “So, it’s true, then? Garden? Just beyond those dead trees?”

Jasmine closes her eyes and starts to hum a tune.

“Just beyond and not much further. John’s waiting. I think you ought to go with him,” I tell her, “and explain that I’m staying with Jazz here. Garden awaits.”

“Won’t you get to see any of it?” asks Megan.

“I’ve seen it.” I poke her in the leg, then lay a gentle hand on her cheek. “It’s your turn now, Tulip.”

She smiles. “I’ll bring you back the biggest flower I can find.”

With that, Megan gets up and bolts into the twisting deadwood. Her quick-footed crunching grows quieter her every step, until nothing but the ringing silence swallows Jasmine and I … a pair of Undead who neither breathe nor beat nor stir. I lay on the riverbank next to my friend and find myself smiling emptily into the endless grey above. I even reach over and hold her hand. I don’t care that the dampness stings a bit; I let it.

After an hour passes, I know for sure that reality must have set in for John: he’s ventured into Garden without waiting for my return.

It’s better this way.

Even long after Jasmine is perfectly dry and able to move without issue, she remains lying on the riverbank, finding herself too at peace to bother moving. “Maybe I’ll grow roots,” she muses, staring languidly into the sky. “Maybe I’ll grow roots and turn into my own Garden.”

“As long as someone’s around to tend you,” I jape.

“Haven’t I taught you anything?”

We both laugh.

I imagine Grim finding us here. I imagine his whole horrible army stopping at the other side of the river, unable to cross. Isn’t that funny? All their power, all their numbers and promises of the true end of the world, and just a little rope of water stops them. I can see them surrounding the whole crater with their rainbow flames, lining the riverbank in a circle. Among those faces I would see Helena, dead in the eyes. Deader than usual, I mean. I would spot Marigold as well, all the joy gone from her cheeks. Her employees standing at her side, zombified, Roxie and her half-opened eyelids staring listlessly ahead. Brains, for having so little brain in the first place, now even has less than that, the little bit left taken from her. I wonder if Brains ever had a chance. Maybe she was doomed since the day she was Undead-born, screaming in the barren Whispers.

Maybe I’m the worst thing that happened to her.

“When I had my Dream,” Jasmine goes on, “it was not the crippling stuff of other’s Dreams. In fact, I felt rather pleasant afterwards. I learned that I was rich and happily married,” she says with a dry chuckle. “We were always traveling. A new country every week. When we’d return home, it’d feel like a vacation from our travels. I realized, of all the jewelry I owned, and the assistants, and the ten-thousand dollar gowns, my life had become just another pretty pair of sunglasses.” She tilts her head, squinting at me. “My favorite pair, but a pair nonetheless. Yet I was happy. I didn’t need to be saving the world. I didn’t need to be the one with the vision or the grand ideas. I just supported my partner and … and I just …”

“Loved your partner,” I finish for her.

Jasmine smiles ruefully, then makes her point: “What do you think of your happily-ever after, my rabbit?”

My gaze detaches. I peer across the river, imagining Grim’s army again. “If it weren’t for the big scary fire made of people somewhere out there,” I answer, “I’d say it isn’t half bad.”

“What I’m really trying to say is, I think sometimes a happily-ever-after is just helping someone else find theirs.”

I nod. Jasmine knows what I’m going through. She’s so smart, knowing things about me long before even I do. For some reason, hearing a bit about her First Life makes the habits of her Second Life seem so fitting. Nurturing the earth … caring for its fruits … helping Humans find their comfort and peace in order to find her own.

Still staring at the imaginary army of Grim across the river, waiting, watching, daring … I’m afraid to say I find no peace in myself.

“Who’s to say this is my happily-ever-after?” I ask, though I wonder if I’m asking her, or myself. “With all of eternity spread out before us, who says we ever get one?”

It must be nearly nightfall when John returns to the river, Gunner at his side. “Winter. It’s so beautiful. I’ve never seen anything … never seen anything so … so …”

“Green?” I offer helpfully.

“Come with me,” says John. I notice even Gunner is wearing an unexpected smile … or at least I think it’s a smile; with Gunner it’s impossible to tell. “I want to show it to you.”

Is he serious? “John, you know I—”

“We’ll get as close as possible,” he insists, knowing.

I shrug. “Jasmine, you done staring at the sky?”

“No, dear. I think I’ll rest here. I have at least a few more years of dreams left in me, so I have plenty to keep me company.” She smiles with both rows of teeth, her papery face wrinkling in the effort.

“Good dreams, I hope. Keep this for protection,” I say, setting the Lock’s Eye in her palm.

“Of course.” She brings it up to her face, inspecting it.

John and I head into the thicket, Gunner following us. He doesn’t even have his crossbow with him, I notice. Is this place really the paradise they’ve hoped it to be, for Gunner to not even bother being armed? Maybe the people who already occupy it are creepy and militaristic, insisting on taking their weapons away, only to turn on them and bake them into fertilizer for their humungous plants. I humorously suggest this to John.

“Not really,” he says, enjoying my dark possibility. “In fact, they’re pretty tame. They figure the moat keeps out the Crypters. That is, the Undead that aren’t … like you.” He isn’t sure how else to word it. To be honest, neither would I. “It’s repelling away the Crypters without them even realizing they’re being repelled away from anything. Hiding in plain sight, I think he called it.”

“He?”

“Their leader of sorts. His name is Ray. He was told the same story about Garden that we were, growing up.” When I meet John’s eyes, confused, he explains it to me. “He was tired of searching for Garden … if it even exists. So he stopped searching and created his own.”

“So … this isn’t Garden?” I’m dumbfounded.

John shrugs. “Who’s to say whether it really is or not? You could call it our Garden.”

Strange enough, I actually believe that story a lot more than I would the alternative: that we, in our most desperate moment, happened so conveniently upon the legendary Garden that would save us all from the endless despair that is the rest of the planet.

“And his name … is Ray,” I repeat. Really, though, what was I expecting? King Gardenonia, Emperor Of All That Is Green And Thriving?

Through the bramble and the deadwood, which I learn is exactly what it seems to be—another keep-the-hell-out for the Crypter-type baddies, John tells me all about the people in the village, and the fact that there are not very many. Nineteen women, seventeen men, and a number of children among them. They even have milk for babies, not the powder substitute we’ve relied on. Others in their village also came from the wilderness and joined, like us. There’s something about rescuing one another from the wasted world that brings people to peace; no longer afraid for their lives, no longer aching the days and nights long. I have to sneer a bit when I hear that, because it sounds an awful lot like Grim’s dream.

“They know about you and Jasmine,” he finishes just before we arrive at the edge of the crater.

I lift a brow. “And?”

“He would like to meet you. Both of you. But not just yet.” John’s face wrinkles, his lips turning pouty as he purses them in thought. “Even though he’s being really, uh, nice to us, I think he’s also being just as cautious. I would be too, if I were him. What he’s built here is so …” He searches for the word.

“Green,” I offer helpfully, again.

That gets me the smile I wanted to see from John. “I think we’ve established how green you think it is.”

“So, we’ll meet him later.” I nod. “That sounds fine. You can let him know that Jasmine and I will … be happy to keep watch. Maybe someday I’ll be fortunate enough to hear that a piece of your Garden has died,” I point out, tasting the bitterness on my tongue. “Then Jasmine and I can … you know, built a cottage and move right in. Hey, then we’ll be neighbors.”

John studies my face. I don’t know what’s suddenly come over me. I should be happy we’ve found a place for them. I should be relieved that Garden is something real, something tangible, something more than a fantasy. Instead, I’m out here in the death and decay, sulking.

“Winter …”

“I know.” I look at Gunner. “Sorry, guys. I’m sorry. I’m really happy for you.”

Gunner says: “I get it.” He rubs a spot on his cheek. “I get it. You’re here but you’re not welcome. Appreciated but not welcome. I doubt any of us have even properly thanked you.” Gunner’s dark eyes meet mine, his jaw firm. “Let it mean as much or as little as you want, but thank you. Without you, I might be dead.” He takes a breath, then says: “Without you, I would be dead.”

I wonder if I’ll ever see an emotion from Gunner’s smooth-as-slate, young and untelling face that isn’t just … totally Gunner. Not caring, I put my arms around him and pat his back. “Thanks.” His whole body turns rigid at my hug. I let go and step back. “If you recall a large spider, I believe without you, I wouldn’t be in a kind place either.”

Gunner nods, I think appreciatively, then turns to John. “Gotta discuss supplies with the Chief.” After a shy secondary sort of nod at me, he swings over the ridge and is gone.

John’s arms are around me in an instant. He kisses me deep and I let him. Then another feeling consumes me at once, and it may just be the opposite of sulkiness. We fall to the rough, unkind ground, and we’re losing clothes. His breathing turns jagged and he say something in my ear that makes me laugh. I return his words with a kiss that I place on his ear, and then many more kisses follow that are placed on many other parts of our bodies.

A lot of time goes by. The nearly-indistinguishable shadows shift from one side of the trees to the other. We are wrapped up in each other’s clothes, and the sky is opened up above us, our only witness.

“I could get used to this,” I decide. “This really isn’t so bad. Maybe I could even come to—” He interrupts me with a deep kiss. I was going to say I could come to love all of this, but I think he knew already.

When he pulls away, he says, “There’s only one other thing we need to get used to.”

“What’s that?”

“Big flies.” He chuckles. “Apparently, the large spiders we dealt with at Trenton were here too—maybe even came from here—but they never endangered the people. They help stimulate the growth of the plants, actually. Big beetles are here too, big ones. Bees to cross-pollinate.” John leans against a tree, looking proud of himself. “I learned a lot in just a few hours. Do you know what cross-pollinate means?”

I hide a smile. “No,” I tell him innocently. “Explain what it is, John.” Sometimes, John is just too easy to play with. Really, I just love watching his face work, watching him think of his next words, watching him excited about things he’s discovered.

Watching them live in that bowl of green down there.

Watching the Humans from afar …

Watching; it’s all I’ll be doing, now.

John talks to me about the bugs and the plants and the flowers and the grass. He tells me while we stare into the colors, laying along the ridge in each other’s arms. He watches in awe for a moment, observing the sun as it sets, but all I see is grey and grey and grey. I so wish I could marvel at it with him.

He kisses me goodnight, then returns to the crater.

We have many days like this.

Every midday, Jasmine and I are visited by a few of the Humans. John’s always among them. We get regular reports of things that are developing, which is kinda nice, I guess. Tina apparently is a good cook, though she never tried cooking anything in Trenton. Ash and Nelson have both learned a great deal about farming and tending to the produce. The sisters Lena and Margie are terrified of the bugs—rightfully so, after our incident in Trenton. Gill keeps to himself, but John suspects it’s more out of shame for his recent actions than anything else; when he joins them for meals, he does so reluctantly and says very little.

The Chief and Megan share a room with two of the Garden natives. John secretly confides in me that Megan cries sometimes at night; she feels guilty about her parents and doesn’t know if they’re alive. Upon hearing that, I feel an awful stab of regret myself. After all, her parents have not really had a proper moment with her since the Lock’s Eye issue. Apparently Megan also had a friend or two she’d made in the last few months, and the fact that none of the other Humans’ whereabouts are known is rather unsettling, considering all the awful possibilities. Nelson had a friend too, who is now lost to the wilderness. Ash was not so lucky; among the Living, she had a significant other who, regrettably, was one of the ones Grim took. No one knew why she would cry out in her sleep, until now; the image of her lover turned Undead is a recurring nightmare for her. Twice, her own screams have woken the baby, who sleeps next door with Gill.

Three days since we’ve arrived, Megan shows up to join Jasmine on the riverbed. The twins have come along too, and the three of them complain to Jazz about how Ray and the Garden people won’t let her bring Winter a flower. “They have hundreds and I only wanted to bring you one. He’s being a meanie and won’t let me.”

“Don’t worry, Megan.” Jasmine pinches her cheek, which inspires a snort of annoyance. “You oughtn’t pluck a pretty thing in this world. There’s so few of them left, and the world could use a little more pretty.”

The twins have been competing against one another in knife-throwing. A target was set up against the wall of the crater, and Rake almost consistently won over his sister, who kept accusing him of cheating. Once, Gunner had strolled by, invited a knife to his slippery fingers, and let it go in a flash. Bullseye. Then both the twins were scowling and had a new so-called cheater to accuse.

One evening when the Humans are all in Garden, Jasmine discovers she is able to walk again, though her every left step is a bit sideways. She accompanies me to the brink of the crater and we watch the evening routine of the Humans. Having finished a meal, some tend to laundry while others scatter to the cottages and tents. Jasmine and I speculate for fun what they are all doing, their little curious activities. The fun in our conversation soon draws flat, and I find myself staring at the life in the crater, feeling far more apart from it than I ever have.

“I still haven’t met this Ray guy,” I point out, rolling my eyes. “Not that I expected him to show us any certain hospitality, considering we can’t step foot in all that.”

“He will come when the time is right.”

I smirk, resting my chin on my hands. “It’ll never be right, Jasmine.”

“Don’t you find it poetic,” she says wistfully, “that Garden is founded in the deep of a crater? It makes me think on the dinosaurs … of the supposed meteor that took them all out, inspiring thousands of years of winter. This crater, it is evidence of a world ended. And what is our history, but just a series of worlds ending?” She smiles into the side of my face; I know she’s trying to cheer me up, annoyingly intuitive as she is to my thoughts. “The cleverer of us realize there is no true end, not even in death. Every world’s end is another’s beginning.”

“Jasmine?”

“Yes, my rabbit?”

“When Gill’s wife was giving birth, he injured his leg and I got it all over me. The blood. From his leg.” I’m staring off into Garden, not minding Jasmine’s face as I spill. “I ate the blood.”

There is no response for a moment. Then, gently, she asks, “Why?”

I shrug. Burying my face in my hands, I say, “I just had to tell someone.” My words are muffled. “I just had to.”

“Do you feel guilty?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you do it?”

I look at her finally. I’m surprised to see her expression is one of sympathy. As if I ought to expect anything else from kind, patient Jasmine.

“I did it because I—” Suddenly, I’m smirking at her. “You know damn well why I did it.”

Jasmine returns my smile. “How did the sun look?”

“Bright,” I admit.

“Was it worth it?”

I look down at the Humans. I’m thinking about the burning of the sun as it rises, as it sets. I’m thinking of the Burning Army, somewhere out there in the world. Then, I’m thinking of real rainbows, stretching across the sky. I think of the blazing blue clear of a midsummer day, and the clouds that are surely in the sky. Real, honest clouds.

I understand why the Deathless exist. I understand what my mother craved and what she was selling to me. After all I’ve felt, I realize how desperately tempting blood can be. And it’s so easy to forget the temptation. It’s easy to convince myself that it’s a choice, that I had a choice that day in the hospital, that I could’ve chosen not to bring a finger to my mouth. And I realize the existence beyond the pale, secretive sky that always waits, the world I keep pretending to ignore, pretending to forget. And when my fake-heart is beating so fast that I’m convinced this is all a dream … And when my lungs fill with air that isn’t there and I’m screaming to release the emotions I know I can feel … And when my lips are kissed by blood, only then do I remember what it’s like to be almost alive.

“It was worth every drop,” I whisper. And then at once I’m struck by a realization. “Jasmine, I don’t have the Lock-eye. Did you—?”

“Oh!” She bites her lip and looks at me uncertainly. “I suppose I left it on the riverbank …?”

“Actually,” I realize, remembering how I’d set it down next to her. “I think it was me. You stay, I’ll run back.”

Panic settling into my gut, I dash back to the woods, hurrying through thorns and shadows. On the way, I spot two slithering shadows, only to realize it’s a pair of large spiders skittering up a tree. “Garden’s full of them,” I have to remind myself, out loud. “They’re super good for the plants and stuff. He told me all about it. They help the environment by doing … um … what was that big word John used the other day?”

When I break out of the trees and onto the riverbank, the little green stone is glowing in her palm. She’s staring at it, puzzled, curious.

“That’s mine,” I tell her gently.

She quickly looks up, as if surprised by me. Her brows lift, her bubblegum pink hair jumps, and the insect wings on her back give a little flutter.

Then she moans the words: “It’s beautiful …”

The Shee-lady is not her normal self. She seems oddly calm, composed, focused. I take a few cautious steps toward her, my eye on the Warlock’s Eye.

“Winter,” she says.

I stop and look into her eyes. Only after a stretch of long, bewildered seconds do I realize whose eyes I’m really peering into.

“What do you want, Grim?”

Shee smiles, and it’s Grim smiling.

Of course, that’s what happened. The half-scorpion lady flew back to Trenton after dropping me in the pit. She must’ve arrived during the invasion of Grim’s Army. She’s Undead, so Grim took her over. Another pet for his arsenal, of course, and this one has wings.

“Are you okay, my love?” It doesn’t get any less eerie, communicating to Grim through these different voices, these different people. “What are you doing out here, in the middle of nowhere? Are you safe?”

Is he truly concerned, or is he fishing for information? He already knows. He must know; I’d stupidly spilled our whole plan when he’d assumed control of Jasmine.

“Yes,” I answer cautiously. “I’m just fine. You can … You can leave me alone now. But I’ll need that back.”

“I saw Megan,” she says, he says. “Her eye. Is that the plan? Are you turning your Humans into Warlocks, now? To … to protect yourself from me?” Her face looks pained and, impossibly, so like Grim’s face when he is pained. I could almost trick myself into believing it is him I’m speaking to. “Winter, that makes me feel so awful. I feel so awful that Megan did that to herself, just because I—”

“Because what you’re doing is villainy, Grim.” I speak firmly and calm. “You’re enslaving the Undead. You’re ending lives long before they want to be ended.”

“Tragedies happen every day,” he reasons, speaking through Shee’s curved, wicked lips, “that Humans have no choice in. But after suffering them, they grow. They are thankful for those tragedies because without them, they would be weaker, they would be lost, they would never learn. I’ve been around for over a hundred years, Winter. I know loss. I know guilt. I know starvation. I’ve seen it. What I have to offer is a gift.”

I reach her in one quick dash, grabbing the Lock’s Eye, but she’s caught a hold of me just as powerfully, and I find our hands locked, struggling, neither of us relenting.

“Please, Winter,” she begs me, he begs me, those red-or-violet-or-pink eyes tunneling into my mind. “I’m trying to build an eternity here, please, don’t have me spend it all alone! Please!”

Her wings begin to flutter. I’m still clinging to her hand, arm-wrestling the scorpion-lady for the Lock-eye in her powerful grasp. The wings flutter faster, and I’m lifted off the ground with her.

“He’s a Human,” Grim hollers out, frustrated, angry. “Your love will go nowhere with him! Why him??”

We’re spiraling now, spinning in the air. Her wings flap harder, more desperate now, and the dead woods fall below us, stretching on and on as we fight in the air.

“LET GO!” I cry out. “GIVE UP, GRIM!!”

“I can’t let go, Winter. I need to see you. Please, just come and speak to me face-to-face. You’ll feel it again! What we shared in our meadow, the tulips, our dates. It was real, Winter, it was as real as the blood in their veins …”

The night air spins around us, and far below, I see the river bending around the awesome, massive crater in which Garden hides. The land dropping farther below me, too far, and I’m clinging to the Lock-eye and screaming for him to let go.

“Just one more chance. Look in my eyes. You’ll see—”

And then I reach behind her and, in a moment of madness, I grab her left wing and pull. She starts to spin the wrong way, sharply drifting to the side and grunting. I yank on the stone with a guttural cry, then pull again on the wing, and pull again, and pull again—

“You’re the only one I will ever love, Winter.”

The wing breaks off. Shee plummets, only one wing thrashing madly to keep her afloat, and failing. Plunging back down to the earth, I find myself atop her, prying at her long, desperate fingers, until at long last the stone breaks free—but slips from my own and falls out of sight.

Four seconds later, we crash into the river.

I thrust myself toward the inner bank with psychotic drive. I don’t even feel the furious burning, nor do I look back. I kick my legs at the Shee-lady in the water, thrust myself onto land and, with an intense sting traveling up and down my legs and spine, I hobble awkwardly toward the mouth of the woods and claim the fallen green stone.

When I turn around, Shee has drifted to the opposite bank, where the scorpion legs are slowly and so tiredly digging against the mud and the dirt, clawing their way out of the water. An agonizing amount of seconds later, the scorpion legs—almost acting like some separate entity—dumps her upper torso onto dry land.

She lifts her head off the ground, bewildered. Her human arms don’t seem to work, and half of the scorpion legs have melted off her body, floating lazily in the water. Two of her limbs twitch, shudder, and then she croaks: “My friend. My friend, friend, friend, friend. You’ve come to save me?” She slowly grins with teeth, the creepiness of Shee returned to her eyes for only a moment. Then, her head drops heavily back to the earth, as if taken by sleep.

I sit there on the bank, the stone gripped so tight in my hand that I wonder if I’m trying to bury it there in my palm. I grow numb to the pain of the water stinging my Undead skin, regarding it not at all.

If I had breath, it would all be stolen away. My eyes, they would be welled with tears of exasperation. My heart, it would be yearning for that day in the meadow, that day when I thought I’d found a true peace in this dead, peaceless world. I remember it all, Grim.

What’s happened to you?

I stare at Shee’s unmoving body. It isn’t until a full ten minutes later that I realize I’m still clutching the broken wing with my other hand. Letting it drop to the soil, I bring the stone up to my lips with both hands and kiss it. The Warlock’s Eye that I’d given to John, who then gave it right back to me for protection. My little piece of John.

“Winter?”

Coming from behind, John has emerged, taking a few steps in front of me. He observes the creature on the other side of the river, cautious, alarmed.

He turns back to me. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“How … How did it find us?”

“Grim.” I say, “I don’t think he has control of her anymore. When she wakes, if she wakes, she’ll be herself again.” I look up at John, despair in my eyes. “He knows where we are. We went up into the sky. He saw Garden. Or maybe he knew all along. I feel like …” I can’t even say it, the words trapped in my chest.

John crouches down in front of me. His eyes focused, stern, fiercely connected to my own. “Don’t keep nothing from me,” he demands. “I see it in your eyes.”

I kiss John, if just to interrupt his sudden rage, our lips touching for a second, before I finish: “I feel like he was … making his final plea to go willingly, before he …”

“That Green Monster doesn’t belong here. He knows he doesn’t. He can bother the whole rest of the world with his killing wishes and his green-eyed curses, but he can’t have you.” John pulls me in for another kiss, and then we drop to the bank. I lay myself on his solid body where I get to feel the pleasure of every twitch and squirm and movement of his muscles beneath me. His arms squeeze so tight, I fear I could snap.

John tells me the moon is bright tonight just before he drifts off to sleep and the deep breathing takes him over. “I love you,” I whisper to the side of his sleeping face, holding him close. Full and pale and bright, that moon, and I imagine what it might see if it could peer down on the two of us. I wonder if it could tell our kind apart, Human and Undead, or if it would simply see two lovers on the riverbank … trapped in one another’s arms.

Not an hour later, there is a distant scream.

John stirs, flicking open his eyes. We both sit up, listening to the eerie, distant cries. Are they coming from Garden?—or is someone screaming in the wilderness? I almost can’t tell. Our panicked eyes find each other.

Quickly, we tear through the thorns and the vines and the deadwood, rushing toward the crater. The screams sound distorted and strangely hollow, whisking through the trees on their way to my ears. Twisted coils of color bleed into the sky. My feet can’t carry me fast enough. John trips twice, falls behind, but I’m still running.

At last, I reach the wall of the crater, pull myself up to the lip of the ridge and peer into the valley.

At first glance, it looks like Garden’s being showered mercifully by a gentle rain which, by the light of a sun that is not in the sky, casts a rainbow upon their world. But there is no peace in the surprise invasion of Grim’s Burning Army as they pour like ants from an enormous hole in the earth. Grim didn’t need to get past a silly moat; he learned from the mastermind Shee, the insect queen, and burrowed his way in. Spiders and scorpions and dragonflies and hundreds of other bugs I can’t name are swarming with such angry temperament, one might think them a buzzing black storm cloud that’s descended on Garden. But the thunder one hears is in the form of men screaming for their lives, of women shouting like wild animals, of steel licking steel and sparks flying. Among the madness down there, I know that Marigold and Helena and countless others are, against their will, fighting on the wrong side of this war. Until it’s over, there is nothing good I can do to stop them.

In a flash, John rushes past me, flinging himself over the ridge and tearing down the steps of the crater. I hardly flinch before John’s thrown himself into the chaos.

“JOHN!” I cry out. “DON’T!”

But my plea is lost on the Human with which I’m in love, the Human who must charge in to save his friends. Seeing as Jasmine is not here, she must have run down there too. Somewhere else in that madness, the Green Death himself, Grim, is working heartily to claim every last ounce of my happiness left in this world.

I plunge onward, teeth bared and ready. It’s time for his green reign of fire to end.

C H A P T E R – N I N E T E E N

T H E   N E V E R   D R E A M

The closer I get, the closer the green gets.

Every step is a fateful step into the Garden in which I never thought I’d permit myself. Somewhere deep within the imagination of me, a heart thrashes.

Thump, thump … with my every step.

I’m still running and the first blades of grass become the first victims of my Undeadly presence. I keep on, and soon there is plenty of green beneath my feet. But behind me as I pass, it’s green no longer.

The screaming swallows my skull until it’s all that I am. Megan’s scream is in there too, and the Chief’s, and Gunner’s … and somewhere lost in there, John’s. In the earthen bowl of Garden, there is no escape from the sound and the sights and the hellfire.

At once, I spot Grim, his green fire burning in an unnatural hue contrasting horribly with the green of the world around us. He’s perched on a stone, calling out to the warring crowd: “Come willingly and this chaos will end! The world is doomed anyway!”

And doom he casts here, doom he casts there. The flames of the Undead swallow the cries of the Living, until I can’t even hear the bite and scrape of steel anymore. Buzzing and skittering among them are unrested bees and flies and critters with too many legs.

Even with the flames burning, I can’t for a while distinguish Humans from Undead. I push through two people and narrowly miss receiving an ugly haircut from someone’s throwing axe. Somewhere ahead of me, a fiery Undead reaches out desperately to take hold of the Human’s sword that’s swinging toward his head, but he is too late, and where once he was one part, now he is two, and then three, and then four …

“Incapacitate them!” cries out the Chief, bursting forth from a throng of dizzied Undead. “Hands! Heads! Chop them off! Hands! Heads! Hands!”

One such hand goes flying in a pretty arc in front of me. To my side, a head follows, and if I hadn’t stopped short just now, I would’ve caught it like a football. The thing rolls by my feet and I care not to identify to whom it belongs. My only priority right now is finding John.

Instead, I find Grim again. He’s moved farther away, his phantom green flames burning so bright, I’m shocked he hasn’t burned away the cabins and the trees, even with his fake fire. I fear the level at which his necromancy must be engaged, to somehow orchestrate every limb and look and swing and chop of his enslaved Dead.

But he is not perfect, and many of the Undead turn clumsy, their swings of blades missing the Human heads they aim at. The Humans cling to this fortunate lack of accuracy, retaliating with brutal, calculated force.

An arm lands two strides ahead of me, still gripping a sword. Uncaring who it belongs to, I snatch the weapon, its hilt made of wood, prying it from the fingers.

Maybe this is Jasmine’s weapon. Or Marigold’s. Or …

I spot Gunner atop the roof of a cottage next to me. He nocks an arrow and cries, “Not today!” before loosing it at his target. It zips through the air so fast, I can’t even follow it, and then suddenly I’m watching Grim reaching at an arrow that’s stuck in his shoulder. Gunner seems disappointed by his hit, however, as he likely was aiming for Grim’s pretty eye. “But I never miss,” Gunner says, amazed for only a second before the blunt side of an axe slams into his head, throwing him off the side of the cottage.

“Gunner!” I cry out, but as I charge in his direction, a wall of fire forms, blocking my way, and each flame is made of a person with a face more filled with malice than the next.

I’m blinded by the flashing and twisting of colors. I’m driven deaf by the screams of throats and steels. I can’t distinguish a single face that blocks my way …

Until Helena is standing there with a sword hanging to the ground, its point cutting a waterless creak in the earth as she marches toward me, dead-faced and wordless. Her steely eyes are locked onto mine as she lifts the sword to slay me. Is it Grim in there, still? Is any part of the Grim that loved me watching this, watching me through her eyes, desiring me to be cut into bits before him?

“Sorry,” I tell Helena before slicing her in half across the waist. Without even a grunt of surprise, she falls to the ground almost gracefully, now in two pieces. Her arm is still trying to cut me with her blade, so I chop it off too and apologize yet again.

When this is over, I promise to put her back together.

Hopping over her, I find myself climbing onto several Undead who’ve seemed to become a confused, wriggling pile of limbs. It’s atop this heap of Dead that I spot Megan, completely unarmed, confronting two burning men. With only her hand, she seems to be channeling their Anima and releasing them from Grim’s control. The recovered men look bewildered, staggering helplessly. “You’re free!” Megan shouts. “Wake up! Help us! Pick up a weapon!”

An Undead is coming for her back.

“Megan!” I cry out. “Behind you!” I’m racing toward her, lifting my sword in the air, prepared to make a swipe of it at her assailant.

In one quick motion, Megan’s grabbed a sword off the ground and thrusts it through its head, right in the looker. “Eye for an eye,” sings Megan, driving the now-impaled Undead away from her by walking it into a tree. “Take that, Grim! You have no power over me, you hear that??”

He hasn’t any power over her, but he still has power over too many. We won’t win like this. It doesn’t end until Grim does. I can’t protect my friends; they have to fend for themselves now. The green fire began with him and it will perish with him.

I grip the wall of a cottage and hoist myself up onto its roof to get a better vantage point. Across the cacophony of blades and screams and fire, I see Grim. He’s rushing up a ladder that leads to a very high treehouse of sorts that connects two mighty trees like a bridge. As he ascends, the tree itself seems to turn grey at his touch …

I see John as well, boldly chasing after him.

“JOHN!” I cry out.

He doesn’t have a Lock’s-Eye. Grim will kill him.

I tear off the cottage, throwing myself through the crowd in wild pursuit of them. Several faces pass by, faces of Humans, of Undead, of Humans that very recently became Undead … and among them I see Ash, her glass eyes throttled as an axe takes her in the back, and I see Nelson among the mobs, fire swallowing him as he swings his axe dumbly at anything that moves.

Even the Chief; his life has been forfeit, given to the Undead. I see him searching listlessly for a Human to slay. The Chief. My heart is up in my mouth. The Chief …

How many more sacrifices must we make before Grim is ended?

And then I realize the reason: the Chief gave his stone to John. That’s the only explanation I can think of. He knew John was going for Grim, so he gave him his stone to protect him. It’s only speculation, what may have transpired, but it’s all I have when there’s no one left to tell me what’s happening, to explain to me the reason for this madness. Everyone has turned Undead all around me, I can’t bring myself to observe who is left. Did Ash give herself willingly to the Undead because her lover had been taken? Was it her way of ending the nightly tears? Did Nelson join her so she wouldn’t be alone?

There’s a scream to my left, shouts of murder to my right, and spiders skitter across the dying grass, hissing and clicking as I race by. Only John matters, now.

Garden was so full of colors bright and vivid before the Undead came, and now it is even more full of colors, but in the form of fire. And as the Undead spread further out, the color slowly drains from the world. Every purple flower wilts gently to grey. Every bright yellow blossom, every leaf, every single blade of grass dies its own, private death. Where the fire leaves, it takes its color permanently with it. Ever slowly, ever patiently, Garden suffocates, its color bleeding into the empty embrace of grey.

I slam into the bottom of the ladder and begin my urgent ascent. John is far ahead of me, already nearing the top. The further I climb, the more difficult it is to manage getting my hands on the next rail. I have never been more focused on a target. My dead, dumb limbs can’t keep up.

The world falls below me. The chaos and the furious little fires that know not what they fight for.

Fourteen more steps and the final destination will be reached. “John, stop!!” I call out in vain. Twelve more steps. Nine. Eight. The treehouse is so far up, I won’t dare look down. Even my nerves that don’t properly exist are already shot beyond repair. “John!” Four more steps. Three more. Two more.

One.

The ladder spills me into a beige, wooden room with no furniture, floor-to-ceiling windows that line either wall like giant eyes … and Grim. He stands at the other end of the room, blanketed in furious green tongues of flame. The sounds of the war beneath us hiss into the room through the cracks in the floorboards. Even the rainbow haze of the Undead fire seems to float in the dusty air like a death sentence.

I rush to John’s side, gripping my sword and watching Grim with deadly conviction. John hardly seems to notice my arrival, as his eyes aim furiously ahead at our enemy.

“We end this,” growls John. I’ve never before seen a fury so deep in his eyes. Not ever, not even in the Battle for Trenton. “You cannot harm me. You cannot touch Winter. You pull out that eye and you—”

“And what? I cannot die.” Grim is composed, calm. “You must readjust what you are witnessing, John. Your friends are not dying. Your Chief is not dead, no more than Winter is.” His cold, poet’s eyes survey me. His voice is so level, it’s like he believes he can actually reason with us. “Remember your first days in Trenton, my love?”

“DON’T SPEAK TO HER!” John shouts, the sword in his grasp shaking so terribly, he’s making diced meat of the air in front of him. “DON’T YOU DARE!”

“You were my first love. I was yours.”

“I WILL CUT YOU INTO PIECES!” screams John. There are tears in his eyes. I realize he’s afraid. He doesn’t know what Grim is capable of, whether by the power of his fire … or the power of his words. John won’t simply charge at Grim because there is no certain victory here.

“Do you remember?” Grim asks once more.

I step gently in front of John. If there’s anyone on this cold dead planet who can reason with Grim, it’s me. “I remember meeting you. I remember that you made my fake Second Life in Trenton bearable at first. I remember your kindness and your care and your … poetry.”

“Don’t speak to him,” John begs me from behind. “He will lie to you. He’s evil. His mind is warped. He doesn’t deserve to exist after what he’s—”

“I was created Deathless for one purpose, and one purpose only,” Grim goes on, drowning out John’s pleas. “I was sent to confirm that you had been Risen. I was sent to collect you. I was sent to recruit you. I was not sent to fall in love with you.” His eyeless face wrinkles, but for the green stone that flashes. “But I did.”

I take John’s hand and give it a comforting squeeze, then drop my weapon and take a step toward Grim. “You did?” I ask, encouraging him to go on, and I hope John’s rage aids him in seeing through what I’m about to do, while Grim’s so-called love continues to blind him.

“When the Deathless fell and the Mayor fell and the Necropolis burned … I knew what was next for us. The world must burn, Winter. What are we after our Waking Dreams, but prisoners to our past? What is the world of the Living, if not a punishment for our having died? Death is blameless. Every life is spent dying. Even he, that man named John, even he is dying.”

I am slowly crossing the room, unarmed. The hissing sounds of the war below plays into my ears and tickles my neck like an unwelcome friend. “Waking Dreams can be pleasant,” I tell him.

“And I will never know. I won’t stop until I’ve even killed the Waking Dreams, every last one,” he whispers, and I hear his every last word. “There is more than one kind of dying. There is more than one kind of Dead.”

I come to a stop only two strides away from Grim. This close to him, his Eye pulsates with such a violent green light, it looks nearly blue.

“I wanted to build us a world,” he whispers, and I remember the poetry in him so well. I remember our time together like it was only last week. John says my name again, warningly, but I continue to listen to Grim. I’m so close, I might be able to pluck his eye right out. I’m calculating whether or not I’d be quick enough; one misstep and the whole world burns. “But I cannot live in it alone. Please, Winter. Wake up from this dream you’ve built yourself with this … Human. It won’t work. Even if I turned him Dead, Winter, he would not belong to you, and you would not belong to him—but if you were mine, Winter, just think—”

Enough thinking. I launch at him like a snake, my fingers going straight for his Eye—but Grim is just as keen and he deflects my action, having anticipated it, and I’m suddenly caught in his arms, my back to his chest, and I stare ahead at John.

“Let her go,” John growls, gripping his sword with both hands now. Where is his Warlock stone?

“Winter, please,” Grim whispers into my ear with the ease of a lover’s kiss. “Don’t trade forever for just now …”

John’s teeth are clattering—I hear them across the room like the applause of skeletons. I’ve never seen him so afraid.

“Give me your Eye,” I bargain with Grim, “and you can have me.”

“Lie,” he hisses into my ear.

His squeezes my body, twisting me in tighter to his own, so tight I hear two snaps in my ribs and another near my hip. Grim could break me. Grim could break me and then what?

“You’re hurting me.”

“We don’t hurt,” he hisses, getting angrier. “At least, not in the way that a fool with a heart can see.” His voice is turning dark and full of malice. His hands and body have become stone. Even the green wisps of fire have turned black in the corners of my vision. “You lie to me again, I end you both.”

I’m losing this. I’m losing Grim and John is all the way across the room.

“Why are you lying to me, Winter? After all we’ve been through? Why?” Something loud and thick cuts into the underside of the floor. Then again, twice as loud. Is Grim directing his Burning Army to attack the treehouse? Are they throwing axes at us? “Why, Winter?”

“Calm down,” I beg him. Two arrows zip through the window and strike the ceiling. “Stop, please!” Another arrow soars in like a lightning bolt, narrowly missing John as he parries backward. “GRIM!”

“Isn’t that what every dying man says on his deathbed, every dying woman on hers? Stop it, they beg. Stop it … But you cannot, will not, will never stop it,” he growls, like a promise. “Death cannot be stopped!”

“You win,” I tell him, staring at my Human. Another chop of a throwing axe is heard from under the floor, and I see the evidence of a still-waging war beneath my feet, glowing through the floorboards. “You have taken all of my peace. You have destroyed almost everyone I know. If you give me your Eye, then I’ll—”

“Give me yours,” he growls back, his grip tightening worse. I swear I can feel the heat of his anger against my dead cheek. “Give me yours and I’ll let your Human live long enough to run for his pointless life.”

“I’m not running,” declares John stubbornly.

I’m turning desperate. “Run, John. You have to.”

“You know what’s remarkable about fire?” Grim’s face shifts. I feel his eyes grilling the Human across the room. “Humans can’t bathe in it the way we can. Hey, Winter. Want to see a magic trick?” Grim’s mouth comes close to my ear, and the next words are only meant for me: “You wanted him alive, you can have him alive. Let’s see how brave your John is while his heart still beats.”

Suddenly, Grim’s black flames take root in the wood of the treehouse, and what was once a furious illusion is now a terrifying and deadly reality.

“RUN!!” I scream to John, even as the flames hungrily eat the weakened floor and the groaning walls faster than anything natural. “GET OUT OF HERE!! RUN!!”

John turns to run, and the floor splits from under him. As his foot drops heavily downward, pulling the rest of him with it, he throws out his arms and barely catches a floorboard by his fingertips, knuckles bleeding white. He clings to it for his life as the black flames spiral down the throat of the room, hungry and vile.

“JOHN!!”

I shout, mad as Malory herself, wrestling violently against Grim until I find myself broken free. Whether he let me go or I actually got out of his powerful grip, I won’t ever know.

At once, I’m at the floor where John dangles by his fingers, the war hundreds of feet below him with the dying Garden and the hellfire.

I shout: “Grab my hand!!”

He clutches my wrist desperately, pulling, reaching further up to gain purchase on my arm. I cling to the loosening floorboards so that I don’t fall myself, the black flames at my back.

“Don’t you let go!” I beg him.

Grim screams tauntingly at my back: “Still you run to him! Dare I stop the fire? It will burn forever, Winter! It will burn and it will burn and it will burrrrrrrn!”

I feel my own flames within. The flame of every candle I’ve ever watched in awe. The moment in the meadow. The nights Grim and I had. The offering of his hand at the cliffs on my very first day as an Undead. The smile he gave me that would’ve made me blush, had I any blood in my veins. I bid all of those wonderful, dear moments an unkind farewell as I let them burn.

“John,” I breathe, slowly pulling him up.

“I’m slipping. Winter, Winter …”

His arm can’t reach, he slips off my right arm, drops a foot, then clings to the only part of me he has a hold of, my hand.

My left hand.

“No, no,” I breathe, reaching out now with my right, but he’s too far. It’s so tragic, this inadequate, fragile-yet-enduring body of mine with parts so immortal and parts so very temporary … Immortal as a memory. Immortal as love. Temporary as a memory. Temporary as love.

He’s slipping. Or my trusty left hand is breaking off once more. The flames close in around us. There comes a time when you have to make a choice. You go to prom or you stay home. You cross the frozen lake or you don’t. The world is burning and the black flames eat away my only means of escape. There is only one way left.

“John,” I whisper to his eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes meet mine, trusting me with his life.

So I make a decision.

I leap out of the hole in the floor with him.

The world somersaults and I cling to John as we plummet. I hold him as strong as a heartbeat. I hold him as tight as the bond between metals to forge steel.

The world spins and spins until gravity embraces us and he is above me and I am below, embracing him, as it should be. I plan to break his fall.

Dropping through the air, for one blissful moment, there is no war, there is no crashing steel or blazing fire, and there is no life or death.

There is only John.

And then we land.

I keep my arms wrapped tight around him. I don’t let go. The world has become silence all around us and I hold him close, so close … It’s like another night spent in calm, unbroken peace. I won’t open my eyes either. I feel the song in his body and I let it gently play to me, his gentle drum. He’s playing the song gentler than usual.

“John.”

He can’t respond. His arms hang limp on either side of me, the full weight of his body pressing into mine.

“John, can you hear me?”

My eyes are still closed, but I know there is nothing around us. The war has somehow ended. I run a hand up and down John’s back soothingly, my embrace with him never breaking. I feel his song so faintly, I almost wonder if some magical force is pulling us apart.

But he’s right here, right on top of me. We’re holding each other tight. Nothing is pulling us apart.

“John?”

I open my eyes. The side of his face is leaned into mine, his ear by my lips. I kiss his ear. “John,” I murmur quietly, too quietly. “John, talk … talk to me.”

“W … W-Win … ter.”

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t lift a finger. He doesn’t flinch an arm. I try his name again, whispering it into his ear several times. His song is still going, the song in his chest, isn’t it?

I squeeze him and gently turn him over. He slides softly into the grass, which is still somehow green.

His eyes are half-open. His lips parted.

I crouch over his body, my hand on his chest. I am ignoring the circle of burning Dead that stand around me like candles, watching stonily, emptily, and I speak to the only person in the world who exists: “John …?”

His brown eyes flinch. He struggles to open them. They reel for a short, desperate moment, then he finds me as if through a haze. Does he really see me?

His lips part further and he says, “W … W-Winter …”

“I’m here, John.” My hand never leaves his chest. I bring my face close to his. My lips touch his cheek. My lips touch his forehead, touch his eyes. “I’m here.”

His mouth flinches. I wonder if he’s trying to smile.

I look out, suddenly desperate. The faces of all the Burning Undead stare down at us, each of them appearing more sad than the next. It’s a hundred mirrors of Grim, who I notice has descended from the sky, where the treehouse no longer burns. He watches us and the fury glows in his eyes.

“He needs help,” I say, unsure who I’m talking to. Is Doctor Collin among his army? “Collin? Please, Grim, release him, release all of them. Doctor? DOCTOR!” My eyes are searching, but there are so many faces, so many people Grim has stolen from the world.

“W-Winter …”

I turn back to him, the Human in my arms. I press my hand into his chest, my favorite song stirring through my little fingers. But beneath that song, I feel his struggling lungs, and I know his breath is short. I knew it when we landed; I’d hoped to break his fall, but the fall broke him anyway. “Don’t move, John. I’m getting help.”

“Y-You … w-w-were always …” He has to suck in a horrible lungful of breath for every word. “Y-You w-were always … always the … r-reason.” His eyes are happy.

“Don’t do this.” I’m gritting my teeth. I can’t hold him for fear of breaking him. For all I know, I’m the one that broke him. I’m the one responsible. “Don’t say goodbye. John, stop it.” I spin my head around. “COLLIN! Please!”

My furious eyes beseech Grim. He is the only person who can release the doctor to me to save John’s life, and all he does is glare, the fire raging in his green eye. For a second, he nearly looks victorious. “Winter,” he says. “Let him go, and walk with me into eternity. Together, we—”

And then his face changes.

His lips are parted for the next word that never comes.

I’m waiting for him to finish. I’m waiting for him to send me Collin. I’m waiting for anything, but Grim is suddenly frozen in place. All the passion has vanished from his face in an instant. What’s happened?

“G-Grim?”

He looks at me right then. Something changed. He saw something. Maybe he saw many things. Memories. A rush of a billion memories of a Life he once had. Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing? Is that the face of a person who just had their Dreaming Death? Or am I so desperate to believe in anything … simply to get Grim to cooperate?

“Help me, Grim. Please.”

Suddenly, his flames vanish. The Grim who stands before me is not the man who let us fall. The eye in his face has just become dull as another rock in the riverbed.

“Grim,” I beg of him again. “Release them. PLEASE! Please, if you ever loved me, please!” My voice breaks. I’m hysterical. “GIVE ME MY JOHN BACK!”

Grim flinches. He peers down at John, his green eye heavy and horrible. Then he turns his back at once and runs away, disappearing through the crowd in a rush.

A moment later, their flames vanish too.

The Anima seems to flicker in their eyes. Awareness stirs within them. They stare at one another, bewildered, as if waking from a long, long dream.

“COLLIN!” I cry out, desperate for help. “PLEASE! DOCTOR COLLIN! PLEASE!” I turn to John, looking into his eyes. “Stay with me. Please, John. Don’t you dare leave me all alone in this horrible place. Stay right here.”

He parts his lips, chapped and red, and whispers, “I’ll always … always be …” A single tear fills his eye, escapes, plays down the side of his face. More tears swell in the other, and his browns are gleaming and bright. “W-With you …” he finishes.

I kiss him. I can’t feel the drum in his chest anymore. It has to still be there, it must be, but it’s so, so faint … I can hardly feel his breath. “John …” I already know.

I already know.

I already know but I refuse to accept it. I call out with a broken voice for the doctor, my eyes glued to the only person I will ever love. The doctor’s been found and he’s pushing through the crowd to join us, but I already know. The song is gone and I know. Ashes from the ghosts of things that Grim’s fire has eaten float in the air like a gentle snowfall.

My hand is in his hand, though his fingers may never move again. Play my favorite song, John. Please. Just one more time. Just one more stupid time.

With his last tendrils of life, John watches me, those tiny tears gently, patiently slipping from his glassy eyes … and he almost appears happy. His lips form a smile while the doctor examines him … and John’s soft and loving gaze never lets me go.

Oh, what I wouldn’t give for another stupid squeeze of his hand. What I wouldn’t give for one more laugh, or even a playful scowl. What I wouldn’t give for just one more night in the woods, gripping each other tight.

Still holding my hand, John takes his last breath, then gently sighs.

C H A P T E R – T W E N T Y

D E A D   O F   W I N T E R

Hours pass.

I’m holding his hand still.

He’ll never leave me and I’ll never leave him.

Marigold whispered something to me a while ago and I didn’t even hear it.

Collin had said something earlier about broken spines and bones, but all I feel is a strange dead peace within me. It’s such a bizarre, indescribable lightlessness. I think I’ve only felt it one other time: my very first day as an Undead, when I had no attachments to this world or the last, when there was nothing to gain or to lose, when even my First Life was gone—the very thing that proved I ever existed.

John may never leave me, but suddenly I’m as light as nothing. I’m not alive, and I’m not even dead, I’m just nothing. The air could take me away if I let it.

Helena comes up from behind and hugs me with a strange, awkward clutch. They sewed her back together. Many of them are getting sewed back together, now that the Green One’s released them and there is no more threat. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.

I’m holding his hand and he’ll never leave me.

Grim destroyed everything and then he ran away. Grim didn’t even have the decency to stay around long enough to Raise John from his lifelessness. Not that I’d even trust him close enough to John’s body to try.

“I can try,” the little Human Megan tells me. I haven’t looked away from John’s beautiful face, still haven’t. Not even a glance. I don’t know what condition Garden is in. I don’t even know who’s still alive, who’s turned Undead, whether the twins made it, or Gunner, or whether the bugs still fly and flutter and crawl everywhere. The entire world is John’s parted lips and his broad shoulders and his hand in mine. I can’t even bring myself to move.

It’s impressive, isn’t it. The way time passes when you’re one of the Dead. I will stay here with John for the rest of my eternity.

However long that lasts.

“I … I can try,” repeats Megan. Reluctantly, as if afraid I might bite, she moves her hand over John’s chest. I don’t watch her face, but I can see her little fingers hovering an inch over his body, searching, searching, searching.

It’s gone, Megan. Your search will be fruitless.

“I feel something,” she murmurs, though her voice is doubtful, uncertain. Her hand glides toward his face, and when her fingers move near his eyes, I suddenly find myself grabbing her hand. “Ouch. Winter!”

I don’t say anything. I’ve just grabbed her little fingers because I couldn’t stand for them to get in the way of my staring at John’s beautiful face.

I don’t want anything in the way.

“Winter, you’re hurting me!”

I release her fingers, gently returning to John’s, letting him have both my hands again. If they bury him, I’ll find a way to destroy my own Anima and turn to dust with him.

You did this to yourself.

Megan’s voice is so small when she says, “I’m … I’m sorry.” Her chin begins to quiver. She sniffles loudly once, then twice. “I’m sorry. I was just …”

I don’t watch her as she runs away. She knew John too. Longer than I have. I wish there still existed a thing in me called sympathy. I guess it died with John.

The Chief turned Undead, but I already knew that. I don’t know who came to my side to inform me. He was scared as a boy, and he kept asking what happened. They all are asking, because none of them know who they are. Now even the Chief won’t remember his own real name, not until some Waking Dream finds him. If the Dreams even exist anymore; Grim was adamant about burning them too. The Chief just keeps asking, “Who am I?”

Gunner is still alive, but he has horrible wounds that Collin is looking at. The twins are with the baby in a cottage, where she’d been watched over the whole time by Margie. The four of them survived, and the baby was named Laura, and really, what other name would it have?

I learn the baby’s father intercepted a throwing knife meant for John. He intercepted it with his abdomen and the only person who witnessed this act of heroic sacrifice was Ray, who never bothered to meet me. The baby’s father crept to the side of a tree where he died in peace.

Maybe Gill’s final thought was reuniting with Laura.

When the twins come to my side, neither of them say a thing. They are mercifully without words, and neither of them touch me. Rake sits by the tree nearest us while Robin kneels by John’s other side. Mother nature has dusted John’s body with flakes of ash from things that burned. A blanket, tucking him in for a good night’s sleep.

John.

What I wouldn’t give …

I find myself thinking about all of the months we spent together before we figured out how much we loved each other. All those months we wasted arguing and giving one another scathing glances and attitude. All that time we could have spent …

Time isn’t supposed to matter to an Undead. Maybe Grim was right. Maybe the world would be better off if …

Maybe it’d be easier if …

I scoop John up in my arms, lifting him from the only green bed of grass left. The whole mixed community of Living and Dead seem to stop what they’re doing, just to witness my next move. It’s like they’re afraid of what I might do, all of them, even the ones I’ve never met. For the first time since John’s death, I survey the destruction Grim has brought down on this beautiful, impossible place. I see all of the eyes and the mouths of the Undead who no longer burn with an eternal, hateful flame. I hold John in my arms, his head leaning against my arm, his legs dangling. He could be asleep, dreaming of funny things, bothersome things, a clever idea or two.

It’s up to them to find their own peace. Mine left with the man in my arms, the man whom I will never leave.

The only one left to blame is you.

I carry him across the dead and dying Garden. No one follows, but everyone watches. The few patches of grass and bursts of green and purple that survived against all odds seem to smile at me as I leave.

I don’t smile back.

No one follows me, but with John in my arms, I’m never alone. The hole through which Grim’s Army came, that’s where I take my leave. I carry John through the winding tunnel. The only sound I hear are my own damp footsteps coming back to me.

Emerging from the tunnel and into the wasteland beyond Garden’s moat, I continue without interruption. An Undead can walk until the end of days. I may do just that. I wonder how many days that is, exactly.

As long as John never leaves, it could be all eternity.

The harsh land seems to kiss my feet with every step. It seems to know I don’t fear it anymore. I’ve been here before and I’ve seen worse.

You did this to yourself.

The farther I walk, I realize there may be no one else for tens and twenties of miles in all directions. No one alive and no one dead. John in my arms, we are alone.

John in my arms, we’re all we need.

The rest of the world is gone.

Trees engulf my vision. Dead trees. Pointy ones. Thorny ones. Fallen ones. Then dry lands, then rocky lands, then sands of varying shades of yellow and slate and nothing. When you cross the world of the dead, every terrain is like every other terrain.

The land beneath my feet grows white and the ash in the air turns cold. I am marching now through the first snowfall I’ve ever seen with these dead eyes. I feel Claire welcoming me to her domain, a wretched place of endless regrets and bitter tongues from which there is no escape.

It doesn’t matter to me, and John’s in my arms.

The air grows thick with mist that kisses my skin, leaving a gentle, stinging sensation. I press on because I’ll never feel anything again. The enormous wall of a cliff emerges through the haze of cold and desolation. It’s toward this wall that I slowly head. I won’t be afraid of what’s about to happen, if anything at all, because Grim has given me the ultimate gift of invulnerability, as now nothing can hurt me ever again, and John’s in my arms.

When I reach the foot of the cliff, I find only snow. Laying John down in the cold, my fingers claw into the white. I dig here, I dig there. My fingers sting mercilessly, but I feel nothing as I move with patient, uncaring hands the snow that has buried what I seek.

I scrape away enough of the snow to disinter her head, still attached to an armless torso. Her long, colorless hair seems to disappear in the snow, and until I say her name, she does not stir.

“Mom?”

Her eyes, a sick hue of pale pink and nothing, twist to find mine. With a gentle lift of her brow, she seems to have trouble making her lips work at first. Her cheek twitches, the absent parts of her face—namely, all of it—seem to shift around uncomfortably, stretching, snapping itself in and out of place. I wonder if she’s made her face work at all since dropping off the cliff at the end of my steel sword.

“C … C-Claire,” she murmurs at last.

I find my bottom lip quivering. It’s the way it used to quiver when I was alive, just before I let out my pity-me tears. Every tantrum I ever threw seems to rush back to me, the way an ocean wave crashes into the back of your head and threatens to turn you over.

“All is lost, mom.” I’m crying without tears. I feel it all breaking apart. I never confided in my mother, my whole life. She was cold and horrible. I was worse. “Mom, I can’t do this. I … I … I … I want to die and I can’t, I can’t because I’m already—I’m already—”

“Claire.” It seems to be the only word she can say. The tiny bit of skin above her eyebrows pull in, as if to convey sadness.

“I need my mom.” I’m not Winter anymore. She died with John. I’m Claire. My name is Claire Westbrook, it always was. “I need my mom back.”

“I’m here, Claire.” This disgusting thing without arms because she obviously shattered when she landed here, this piece of a person who hardly has a face. “Mommy’s here. Claire. Please, please don’t cry.”

“I can’t cry!” I shout at her, enraged suddenly. “We’re dead, mom. Deathless Queen. Mad Malory. Whatever you want to be today. I’m dead. You’re dead. John’s dead. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to go home.”

What the hell am I saying? Do I think the house in the north still exists? Do I think it’s still prom night and this was just one elaborate dream I had when I got back to the lake house? I must be losing my mind, because suddenly I’m begging my mom to take me home. I’m begging this piece of a corpse, this thing, I’m begging her …

“Mom …” I wipe away the imaginary tears on my face with the whole length of my arm. My hand returns to me dry and I say, “Mom, I’m sorry.”

Her eyes meet mine. I don’t care what they look like. I don’t care how ugly and horrifying they are, I still see my mom. I see the person who fixed my prom dress. I see the woman in the wheelchair and I see the three or four times she smiled at me.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she tells me. “Claire. I’ve waited so long for you to come back to me. I’m the one who’s sorry, sweetheart, I let the madness control me. I thought I’d lost you forever.”

“Did dad die?” I ask suddenly. All of the questions of my life that have gone unanswered rush up my throat, catching in my mouth. The last memory of my dad is him in a hospital bed. He was poisoned by a cut of rusted steel. “Did he die in the hospital?”

“He got better, dear.” Her scary face forms a smile. For some reason, I needed to hear that. I needed to hear that because maybe someday I’ll get better. “But I’m afraid I never did,” she adds, hissing every other word, her deformed mouth struggling with a syllable here and there. “Your father and I never knew what happened to you. Claire, you were …” Her eyes seem to search mine, those sickly pinkish things. “You were gone.”

“I snuck out,” I confess instantly. “I snuck out and I ran away with Gill and my friends to prom.”

“Yes, I know, sweetheart. They were the ones who reported you missing. Please, sweetheart. Claire. Put me out of my misery and tell me what happened.”

After a moment of watching her horrible eyes as they pour pleadingly into mine, waiting for the story, yearning for it, I realize it’s not only my own past that desperately needs closure, but hers as well. My mother and I, we were twice torn apart from each other; once in the First Life, and again in the Second.

So I tell her how I died. Running into the snowy woods with a boy who would eventually abandon me. The snowfall and the endless winter and the ice cracking below. The cold, the eternal, and the moment of clarity.

“You froze,” she whispers, gently hissing through her teeth. “What a comfort, to finally know. I froze too, but in a very different way.” Her shoulders seem to shift, as though she would be reaching to touch my face, had she any hands or arms. “I was trapped in a wheelchair. I lost my legs and then I had lost my daughter. I felt so useless. I’d taken so much pride in my appearance, but after you were gone, I took pride in appearing vile, ugly. I wore my misery. Oh, I imagined a hundred different ways you may have died. Until I was brought into this Second Life, I spent every day hating that I could not be out there in the world looking for you. I hated my useless, inadequate body. Dead, long before I’d died. But the truth is, Claire, we are more than just our bodies.” She purses the black pieces of skin that still serve as lips. “I’m in pieces. I’ve fallen apart to nothing and I am still your mother. I’ll forever be your mother and you’ll be my daughter.”

“I am Deathless,” I tell her suddenly. “His steel ring burns my fingers and I don’t know why. What happened, mom? What happened to me?”

“The blood,” she answers. A gentle breeze picks up her colorless hair, making it dance. “It will take the death right out of you for a brief, beautiful moment. And a part of it will stay within you forever. Deathless, forever be.”

“And him?” I watch her achingly, longingly, praying she will have another answer. The one I’m looking for. “John? Is there anything left in him? Or is his … or is his Anima …?”

My mother’s eyes drift. I don’t know if she can see him, or if she’s even looking for him. She says nothing.

The snow is still falling.

“Please,” I beg, and I’m not certain who I’m begging anymore. I’m desperate. I’m lost. “Mommy, please …”

I’m a child again. Claire, begging her mommy again. Claire, begging for yet another thing. The mist doesn’t even sting. The careless snow is coating my already white-as-winter hair.

“You do realize what it would mean?” she asks.

I watch her eyes. “Yes.”

“He won’t remember you.”

My gaze is cast to the wall of the cliff where John’s body rests. He looks so peaceful, sheltered slightly from the long and patient snowfall. What’s the price, I wonder?

What’s the price for another Life with the man I love?

“Our Second Life is far from over,” I say and realize at once, still watching John from across the drifts of white. “A second chance waits for us all.”

“Claire …”

I look down at my mother. Her eyes are light with a peace and happiness I’m certain she has yet to feel in this wretched world. Being the Deathless Queen couldn’t give her the peace she knows now. Being Mad Malory, or even Magnificent and Marvelous Malory couldn’t grant her the smile that crosses her ruined lips.

“I’m coming back for you, mom.” A smile finds me too. “This is not your end. And this is not mine. It is the dead of winter, and we will never hurt again.”

I bring John into my arms for our final journey.

T H E   F I N A L   C H A P T E R

F I R S T   H A N D

The Whispers are grey and white today. I’m kneeling before a hole in the ground and my fingernails carry the mud and earth. I lay John to rest. The snow isn’t yet falling here, but the world feels cold nonetheless. Gently, I place the stone on his chest, the one that protected him. I kiss his lips one last time, then put my love to bed with a blanket of earth. I still hold my own stone, pressed close to my unbeating heart.

If I close my eyes and listen, I can still hear the gentle drum of his heart from the first day we met.

I see the surprise in his face when he encountered me in the tavern. The wetness of his eyes. The red in his cheeks. His parted lips.

“Wait.” I remember it so well. “Do you hear that?”

“No.” His deep voice, the fear in his warm, brown eyes, the panic.

From my pocket, I remove John’s ring. It’s been there ever since the day it burned me. I slip his ring on, and my skin reacts with a soothing whisper and a mist that starts to rise from it. I don’t ignore the pain; I embrace it with a smile and I look down at his grave and wait for the Whispers to answer me.

“I hear nothing,” he’d said.

I wait for the Whispers to answer me.

Time to an Undead is a very strange thing, isn’t it? I can wait here for several hours and have it feel like the ticking of seconds. I can wait here for the rest of the day. I wouldn’t even know. We simply can choose to disregard time entirely. Maybe I can do just that.

Maybe I can wait here forever.

Days may pass. Days may be passing right now. Days that lift the remaining Humans from the ruins of Garden and give them strength to move on. Days that reconcile the newborn Undead with the Living there who know better. Days that watch the rebuilding of Trenton. Days that include the reuniting of old friends, Living and not.

Don’t worry, you’re just dying—I rehearse the line in my head, just like Helena taught me, just like I taught little Megan.

Undying, of course. Undying is what I meant.

The passage of time is a numb and unknowing one. Weeks may pass as I wait here with John, never leaving him, not for a moment. His steel ring burns my finger, and I take it as a sweet reminder that he’s still with me.

“Wait,” I told him, still straining to hear the sound, the sound of a gentle drum. What was it that I was hearing? “Just listen … Listen.”

Months may pass. Megan may grow up. The baby Laura may have her first step—the sisters and the twins applauding little Laura. She turns one year old and Marigold makes her a cake, surely; a cake no one can eat.

“Listen,” I urged him.

The Chief may have a Dream and remember his name. With no more green fire in the world, they may rebuild Garden again. Nature’s green takes root, bringing life to the barren wastelands, quenching the thirst of a dry and dying planet, feeding the groaning bellies of plains and rolling hills and mountainsides. I can even feel it all around me, the green of nature’s roots sprouting in all directions, everywhere, for miles and miles, a big world bursting back to life. I can feel it like a distant dream.

Years. I still wait for the Whispers to answer me. I never leave John’s side. I never take off the ring.

Years more.

I stay with him like I promised.

The mist that hugs me goes almost unnoticed until I lift my chin to pay it mind. Are you listening? The winds stir, picking up dust and letting it dance around me in whirls of chaos and fun. It’s like … a gentle drum. I can almost hear laughter in the wind, laughter in the furious whispers. Funny, I’ve never heard anything pleasant from the whispers before, not until now. The wind howls so loud, for a second I can’t even remember my own name.

Do you hear it?

And his hand bursts forth from the earth.

E P I L O G U E

After the Dreaming Death has found you, it won’t matter at all what’s transpired in your Second Life. Quite suddenly, the only thing that exists is your First.

His name is not Grimsky.

He is neither the Green Fire nor the red, nor the Fury With The Eye nor the ghost’s rainbow.

He remembers a pretty girl from his First Life. A girl he loved and lost. It was his fault. He remembers her and the fire.

He remembers taking his own life too. He remembers the letter he wrote and how one of the last things he regretted was lying to the girl about what he did for a living. But he confessed it all in that letter. Surely someone would forgive him someday. Surely he would be absolved for all his wrongs.

He remembers one of his last thoughts being: I’m so happy I’ll get to see her again.

The fire may be out, but something still burns within him. He drops to his knees. He clenches shut his Eye, then releases all the fury in one blistering cry that’s certain to shatter the heavens, sunder the earth before him, cast lightning from the sky and emit a thunderous boom that rolls halfway around the world. When he opens his Eye, none of those things have happened, and he’s still alone.

Maybe he’s finally realized that fire can burn many things, but it can never burn away a Waking Dream, when it at long last finds you.

He reaches into his face and removes the green, glowing culprit. He lets it slip from his fingers and doesn’t listen to where it ends up. He looks blindly to the left, sees his beginning and the girl and the fire. He twists his neck blindly to the right, sees an endlessness and a hundred regrets. He’s created a world for his love and finds there’s nothing left to set fire to.

Table of Contents

B L O O D

H A P P Y

S H I V E R

B U R N

D E F I A N C E

A L L I A N C E

C O E X I S T

G R I M

E Y E S

S K I T T E R

T H E P R O J E C T

L O C K E D

R E C K O N I N G

O N S L A U G H T

A F A M I L I A R P L A C E

T H E B E A U T I F U L W I N T E R

S O M E O N E E L S E ’ S H O M E

E V E R A F T E R

T H E N E V E R D R E A M

D E A D O F W I N T E R

F I R S T H A N D