Dead Of Winter (The Beautiful Dead Book 2) (28 page)

“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.