Dead Of Winter (The Beautiful Dead Book 2) (20 page)

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 …?”