The Beautiful Dead (20 page)

I frown at
her. “Why do you talk as if you weren’t once Human yourself?—heartbeat and all?
You act like living people are a total mystery to you.”

“I believe
some of us were not once Human,” she tells me very seriously. “Some of us are Originals.
Created for this world only. I believe this is my first and only life.”

I had never
considered that a possibility. “That doesn’t make sense,” I tell her. “Everyone
has a Waking Dream, though. H
H
aven’t you had
yours?”

“No,” she
confesses with a tiny smile, her eyes detaching. “I’m afraid I do not have a
past life. I’ve been an Original Undead for over ninety-three years and still
haven’t faced a Dreaming Death.”

“Ninety-three??”
I repeat, dumbfounded. “It’s normal to go ninety-three years without recalling
your Old Life??”

“I do not have
one to recall.” She approaches a tree and runs her hand along its bark, lost in
a thought.

I’m lost in my
own. Does she really believe what she’s saying? That she was never alive? That
she was “created” for this world? Maybe she’s just in denial … That’s a valid
possibility. And if that’s the case, then it is extraordinary she has gone
that
long without her Waking Dream. I figured it comes to everyone so much sooner.
It makes me think of a few unsettling things … a few other awful possibilities.
Like, is it possible for some Undead to never remember their lives?

Might I never
remember mine?

“I might think
it better not to remember,” she poses. “You were told the tale of Mad Malory,
of course?”

The sound of
that name hits me in a funny way, other than just knowing who she is. Maybe I’m
thinking about that small moment when my legless prisoner-friend Benjamin had
briefly mentioned her. I miss him too. “Yes, I was. But not everyone reacts
badly to their Dream,” I point out, trying to remember what my neighbor Jasmine
had told me. “Malory’s was an extreme case. For some, it’s very peaceful. Or
has no effect at all.”

“The thought
of never remembering your life is a bit scary,” she goes on, “for some. For me,
I find it quite soothing. Why adjust to this life, only to be attacked by
another? It seems rather wrong, the whole ordeal of it. This is the only life I
want.”

Her argument,
I’m ashamed to admit, resurfaces the words of the Deathless King. Already I’m
resisting the urge to angrily call Marigold a Pretender and fight her seemingly
dehumanized point of view.

Have the
Deathless gotten under my skin too?

“Are you
familiar with this area?” I ask the old man, deciding on a snap to change the
subject. He just gives me a flat-lipped frown, then peers off into the grim
sky.

Grimsky. All
thoughts twist back to him. Was he just protecting me, disguised as a Deathless
only to, at the expense of his own safety, find a way to free me and the
Humans? Or is he truly one of them, having at the last minute betrayed his own
kind to give us a way out?

I exhale with
force, pushing away that last moment at the Necropolis, face my two companions
and tiredly ask, “Which way?”

“Onward,
upward!” suggests Marigold unhelpfully. The old man, just as well he should,
shrugs.

The three of
us, now no longer running from anything except our own self-doubts and haunting
memories of yesterday, continue trekking to wherever. Following the path now,
we pass through stretches of woods for a long while, none of us speaking. With
just the sound of forest twigs snapping and pebbles of dirt settling beneath my
hopping right foot as we move, I’m left with a sudden worry of whether or not
my homecoming to Trenton will even be a pleasant one. I remind myself that the
whole reason our group journeyed from Trenton in the first place was in pursuit
of my runaway Raise. Not knowing what to do was my fault, apparently. Add to
that the fact that we’ve lost the Judge, two of her men—and Helena—to the
Deathless … what Trenton citizen in their right mind would welcome me back? I
fear the only person who will receive me with any scrap of optimism is John the
Human who, with any luck, is still alive.

“Of
course
you should find me.”

I jump at the
sudden sound of a voice familiar, then look about, unable to find its source. “Stay
away,” it says, annoyed and tired. I veer off the forest path and, to my
horror, find a head attached to part of a shoulder, the arm clinging to the
trunk of a smooth, barkless tree.

“J-Judge?” I
say uncertainly, tilting my head to meet her eyes. “Is that … Is that you??”

“I command
you,” she moans, in all the dignity she can muster as a partial upper torso,
“to locate my other parts—and
promptly
…”

“How did
you—?”

“Now!”

I’ll save the
questions. With Marigold’s eager help, we search the vicinity and find the
Judge’s entire lower torso from mid-abdomen down, as well as her other arm and
remaining section of missing upper body. Putting them together, we realize fast
that we have to improvise if we wish her to function properly.

“She won’t
stay together without suitable fastening,” Marigold explains. “If only I had my
kit!”

The Judge
huffs. “Can’t you tie up my parts with vine, or fabric, or … Please, must I
think for all of you?”

“You’re not in
a position to complain,” I point out.

The Judge,
only a shoulder and one arm attached to her head, reaches down to hold onto the
rest of her body. The sight is very unsettling and, for one embarrassed moment,
I have to look the other way.

“What is it?”
she asks jeeringly. “My appearance
bothering
you?”

“Not in the
least,” I lie.

“So how does
it feel,” she goes on while Marigold works to bind pieces of her together with
torn scraps from her own dress, “to have been in love with a traitor?”

I don’t
answer, too busy glaring at a tree.

“Do you
realize that your little lover is the one who did this to me?” I meet her eyes
again, horrified. “Yes, it’s true. I wouldn’t doubt that the sight of me like
this brings you great joy. Holding a grudge still for soiling that pretty red
dress, are you?”

“Hardly
remember it,” I say, fondly recalling that steel sword plunging through me. The
same one that plunged through the short metal-legged guy, at Grimsky’s hand no
less. “I never knew he was Deathless … He played us all.”

“I had my
suspicions,” the Judge goes on. “The Mayor did too. It isn’t often one migrates
between Undead dwellings. A man with that pretty a face can’t be trusted.”

“His face
wasn’t that pretty,” I mumble, remembering our time in the tulips when I kissed
that pretty face.

Marigold throws
her hands up. “This isn’t working! Blast, drat, and half a human’s skull! You
cannot be fixed.”

The Judge
barks: “Try harder!”

“I’ve tried
all I can, your honor. I need my tools.”

Clutching
herself together unsuccessfully, the Judge attempts to stand. For two proud
seconds, she’s on her feet, albeit quite crooked. The next moment, she’s in
pieces again on the forest floor.

“My apologies,
your honor, but I’m afraid we will have to carry you.”

“Like hell you
will!”

But that’s
exactly what we do. The old man holds most of the Judge’s right (or is it
left?) upper torso as well as her lower half, while Marigold—my Raise
still
balanced on her back—carries the head. As I’m partly handicapped myself,
hopping on one foot, I only carry her other arm, still separated from the body.
A very peculiar sight we must be, the three and a half-ish of us strolling
through the woods. In pieces.

Muffled, the
Judge breaks the silence. “When did you acquire—Move your arm, please, would
you?”

“Sorry.”
Marigold adjusts the way she’s carrying her. “I don’t often handle body parts
that still—um—operate.”

“When did you
acquire the old man?” the Judge asks. “He isn’t from ours.” She squints
dubiously at him.

“Obviously he
escaped the Necropolis,” I tell her, annoyed. “I don’t care if he’s Human, and
neither should you. He has the strength to keep up with us, so he’s tagging
along whether you approve or not.”

“He’s no
Human.”

I stop,
turning to give the old man a second look. Marigold does the same, her eyes
brightening. In the semi-quiet of the wood, I realize there is most certainly
one key feature of a Human that is missing.

A heartbeat.
“You’re—You’re one of us?” I ask the old man in a stupor, who of course cannot
respond except simply to bow his head to me like I’m his royal liege.

How hadn’t I
noticed before? The silence in his chest and paleness of face should’ve been
obvious enough. I might’ve noted this fact sooner had I not been so otherwise
distracted.

“Still doesn’t
answer my question,” the Judge says, peeved. “He isn’t from ours. Where is he
from?”

“He doesn’t
talk,” says Marigold. “The poor thing!”

I peer back at
him, hopping and trudging along as we are. “Where
are
you from? Can you
give an indication?”

He can’t.

“You are too
trusting.” The Judge scoffs. “It’s a wonder you weren’t charmed by the
Deathless, the foul lot of them. You’d fit right in.”

“Oh, should I
consider going back?” I ask mockingly.

“That ring on
your finger is the only thing that saves you, otherwise I’d assume you yourself
were turned.”

“Assume what
you want. I don’t answer to you.”

“You most
certainly
do
answer to me,” she bites back. “As long as you wish to live
in Trenton, you will answer to the Mayor too. A lot of questions you’ll be
pressed, a lot of them when we get back. Don’t think yourself an unhooked trout
just yet.”

I fidget with
the clunky thing on my hand, annoyed.

“I wonder what
will occupy your days,” the Judge goes on, “now that pretty boy is vacated?”

“What does it
matter?” I gracelessly hop over a dead trunk in the road. “Other than impaling
me with a sword, you paid me no mind what I did with my days before.”

“Not to
mention,” she goes on in her tireless endeavor to pester me, “your nameless
child here on the back of Marigold. What a failed rescue she is. Curious what
the Mayor will think of that—Or the fact that my men were left behind, and your
Reaper …”

“How did
you
get free, for that matter?” I spit back. “This interrogation should go both
ways. You escaped somehow, entirely unable to walk, and ended chopped up in the
middle of the Dead Wood without any apparent aid. Explain that one.”

“Trained,” she
says, her entire explanation.

“I’m not
discussing this any further,” I snap, “until you’re more than just a head!”

She keeps
quiet after that, hanging in Marigold’s arms. The rest of the journey home is
silently fuming. In my empty mind where imaginary synapses still fire, doubt is
flooding me like a storm, its rushing, angry torrents growing heavier and
heavier. What I’ve done to Helena. What Grim’s done to me.

Following the
winding dirt road, a part of me collapses with relief when I first catch sight
of the walls of Trenton in the far distance. Not once had I ever truly felt
connected to this obscure, odd dwelling … Never until now had I been so glad
seeing its tired gates awaiting me.

“To the Refinery
at last!” Marigold sings.

Like this
whole exploit was nothing but a weekend’s blissful retreat, she returns
waltzing through the city gates with a third of the Judge in her arms and my
Raise on her back, the old man quietly following.

“I need to go
home,” I tell Marigold, urgency gripping my throat. “Meet you at the Refinery
in half an hour.”

“That can
wait,” the Judge barks from somewhere under Mari’s arms. “You and I have
unfinished business.”

“Our
business
can wait!”

Without
listening to her furthered protests, I pass the Judge’s arm I was carrying to
the old man like a football and rush as best as I can down the winding streets
of Trenton. The colorless dirt roads, the cobblestone walkways to the front
steps of quaint wooden homes, the sparse, leafless trees that overhang portions
of the road … These things I never knew I missed until just now.

I hardly
contain my relief when I turn onto my street.

I trip halfway
up the steps of the house, so clumsy the excitement has made me even despite
the nonfunctioning left leg and dangling flesh-torn arm. I throw open the door
… then realize …

“It’s—a good
day—” I start to sing before it belatedly occurs to me that the door was not
locked. After giving myself a moment, I cautiously shuffle inside. Nothing. Not
a sound, not a whisper, nothing finds me. Everything seems in place, from the
table to the half-burnt candle.

“Hello?” I
whisper, creeping toward the short hall with bedroom and bathroom. No one’s
there. I crouch down, peeking under the bed. I lift the sheets, find nothing
but a pillow. I open the bedroom window, peer around as though in search of a
stray cat, then shut it. Into the bathroom, I find no one, nothing, nowhere. I
reenter the living room I’d already searched, looking under the table and
moving a chair out of the way—as though it could possibly house a Human beneath
it.