The Beautiful Dead (9 page)

“I didn’t ask
you to … but thanks.”

“Yup,” he
grunts, still writing.

I watch him
for a while as he writes. Finally, I get up and head back to the bathroom to
change, peeling off my dress and slipping into something more comfortable. I
don’t have plans tonight. I figure, after seeing Grim so much over the last
week or so, and with recent info considered, I’m just not in the mood. Also, Jasmine
lent me a book I’ve yet to read past the first chapter of.

I run the
faucet and, just as I’m about to rinse my hands, I notice something peculiar: the
stream of water seems to bend. I tilt my head, fascinated by this behavior. I
put my hand closer to the water, it bends further away.

At the sound
of a footstep behind me, I look up at the mirror, find John in the reflection by
the bathroom door.

“Not going out
tonight?” he asks.

“No. Why?”

He shakes his
head. “No reason.”

We just stare
at each other, my fingers under the faucet of misbehaving water. He’s still
holding a pencil, thumping it against his thigh as he stands there like a
ghoul. He’s lost weight over the last few weeks, probably not eating as much as
he’s accustomed to. For one stupid moment, I feel inadequate in caring for him.

“What does
Reaping mean?” he asks out of nowhere.

I shut off the
faucet. “Huh?—Why?”

He produces a
letter from his pocket, holds it in the air with his fingers. “This was slipped
under your door today. Something about a Reaping, whatever that is.”

“You’ve been
reading my mail?” I snatch the letter from him, hurriedly unfold it and read,
to my horror, the following handwritten words:

To Miss
Winter,

Your Mayor Of Trenton summons you to the Town Hall at
Middle Night on the day of your receipt of this document, so you may be
properly briefed in your rightful duty of performing your First Reaping. Should
you any questions, or a request of gloves, direct them please to the Judge upon
your Town Hall arrival.

                                                Righteously,

                              
Trenton Raise Coordinator

I read the
letter three or four times before deciding that it really says what it says.
This has to be wrong. There’s no way the time’s already come to perform my
first Raise. This must be some elaborate and tasteless joke. I’d expected many
more weeks to pass, months, maybe even years before I was called upon to do
such a thing.

This has to be
a mistake.

Could this
have something to do with the dialogue between the Mayor and Judge? Is it really
already my time to have my first Raise, or is this part of some devious plan? After
all I’ve heard—
overheard
—how can I possibly trust anything now?

“So what is
it?” he asks guardedly. “Reaping …?”

“I can’t
believe it’s my time already.” I can’t stop myself from voicing these thoughts
out loud. I’m too wound up. I’m too … everything all at once. “It’s too early.
It’s way too early. This isn’t right.”

Now John looks
concerned. “What happened? What’s going on? Are you—Are you leaving?”

I push past
him, drop the letter onto the table and stare apprehensively at the floor. I
wonder also if this could be a result of my having made it “official” with
Grimsky, if maybe the Mayor saw this as a sign that I’ve finally come to terms
with being Undead, that I’m at last a part of this town, that I’m ready.

But I’m so, so
not ready.

“We come from somewhere,”
I decide to tell John. He might as well know, I guess. “Someone was with me on
my first day when I, well, woke up as what I am now. At least I think that’s
how it happened, I can’t remember. Very foggy, that day. Literally foggy. Fog
all around … Misty … the Harvesting Grounds were so misty. And now, now it’s my
turn to … to …”

“Bring one of
them into this world yourself,” he finishes with a grimace.

I don’t even
mind the grimace. I’m grimacing too. I’m terrified. I’m angry. I never asked
for this responsibility. Helena, she warned me my day would come, but not this
soon. Something must be wrong. This letter was meant for Grimsky, surely. But
of course it bears my name…

“Name,” I
murmur. “I have to give him a name. Or her. What if it’s a child? What if—I
can’t bear this. I can’t bear the thought of—”

“You’re not
gonna flake out on me, are you?”

I turn to him,
furious. “Oh, it’s all about you! All you care about is yourself, making sure
I’ll come home after it all. You just want to know I’ll still be around to feed
you like a nurse. Birds and salads and soggy tomatoes. I’m not your mother!”

He doesn’t
respond, doesn’t even move or anything. His arms just hang there, that pencil
still tapping against his thigh as he watches me panic and squirm and flip.

Like he cares.
“I need to talk to someone. I need to process this. Middle Night is … is probably
soon. Maybe. I can’t believe—How long ago was this letter delivered??”

“Few hours
ago,” he mumbles. “You were out.”

True. Can’t
blame him for that. “I was out,” I agree solemnly. I sit down at the table, the
fight draining out of me like a liquid into the floorboards.

He comes up
quietly behind me, I hardly notice when he puts a hand on my shoulder. The
weight of his hand, it’s like an anchor, pulling my enormous ship to a stop in
the middle of a very turbulent sea of feelings and
not-knowing-who-to-blame-for-this-dumb-dead-crap.

Also I think …
I think it may be the first time he’s touched me since putting his hand over my
lips at the tavern. His hand on my shoulder … it comforts me immediately. His
little act of kindness.

If it can be
called that. “It’s so unfair, all of this,” I finally whisper. “I never asked
for any of this.”

“Life’s
unfair,” he agrees. “I guess so’s death. And you’re not old enough to be my
mother.”

I laugh. For
all the anger brewing in me, I laugh at his timely compliment. He said it
standing behind me, but I heard the smile creep into his voice. “Maybe,” I
respond. “I could be upwards of a hundred years old for all you know. For all I
know.”

“You don’t
look a day over twenty, I’d reckon.”

I press my
lips together. I don’t know why he’s paying me such random flattery. I assume
it’s because he wants something. Why else would he feel compelled to tell me
these things? I’m no fool … I know he resents the help he’s been getting from
an abomination like me. That’s what he said I am, the first night he spent in
my house. Abominations, we are called. Crypters. Wraiths. Soulless. Unholy of
the Flesh … I recall those terms of endearment he said Humans have for us. I
may not remember a second of my life, but I remember those words perfectly.

Or maybe being
called twenty years old isn’t so much a compliment at all. “Whatever I am,
John, I’m still dead.”

“You don’t
look that either.”

He’s being
nice because he needs me. Not because he cares for me, respects me, or even
likes me. He just wants food. A roof, albeit a creaky one. A bed to sleep in until
he’s ready to bolt back through deadly trees and whatever awaits on his way
from here.

“Why’d you
leave home?” I ask. “So determined to return, makes one wonder why you left in
the first place.”

“Long story.”

His hand slips
off my shoulder as he crosses to the kitchen. The moment’s broken, and that’s
all I get for an answer: Long story. So much for conversation.

“I don’t know
the first thing about you,” I argue, “and you know far too much about me. That
isn’t fair.”

“My name’s
John, that’s all you need to know,” he mutters. “Besides, I don’t know anything
about you either. Don’t know how you died. Don’t know who you were when you
were alive.”

“That makes
two of us!—I don’t know those things either! And besides, you know who I am
now
.”

“I’m a
whitesmith.”

“And you also
know that I’m—Wait, what?”

He comes back
to the table with a bowl of nuts. Cracking one open, he says, “I make
arrowheads. I forge blades and knives. I also make jewelry,” he adds, looking
up at me, “and cups and forks. I’m not all brute.”

“How—How
advanced is this Human place you come from?” I ask with little humor. “How do
you have access to things like … like metal? Did your people secure a place
from the old days?—a place with means?—with facilities?”

“You’re asking
too many questions.”

“I’ll decide
when I’m asking too many questions,” I retort. “You owe me that much. What am I
gonna do with this information anyway? I don’t know anything about where you
come from, how your people survive in this horrible world, what wonderful
things they do …”

“They do just
as much good, just as much bad as you do,” he answers, simple enough, “except
we don’t get any second chances. We live just the once. Mess up your chance and
you go to the grave with all your regrets.”

“You never
know. You could wake up after your death in a misty field with some woman named
Helena staring at you. Or someone like me,” I add, thinking on the duty I’m
clearly stalling to attend. “I really should go.”

“No offense,”
he says, “but I’d rather stay dead.”

I watch his
face awhile, the softness in his eyes I’ll never get used to, all the hundreds
of Undead eyes I’ve stared into that don’t compare in the least, not even
Grimsky’s. I can listen to his heartbeat from here, from across the room, like
my favorite song on the radio.

“I don’t blame
you,” I whisper.

Then I’m
heading for the door. He isn’t right behind me this time when I leave the
house, but as I descend the porch steps, I hear the click of the lock.

For a moment,
I thought I might talk to Grim next door, but the idea of running to him makes
me feel weak, and I need to feel strong. There’s no way to avoid this thing I
must do, as Grim said himself. The day the Mayor calls, it is your duty to
answer. And now, someone’s grave awaits me. Some very unfortunate someone.

I’ve never
actually entered the Town Hall the proper way before, but I know where it is,
thanks to my teenage friend Ann. When I pass through its creaky doors, I see a
sad little desk with a perky woman doing absolutely nothing at all. She looks
up, her big sprightly eyes frightening me at first. “How may I help you?” she
asks, coming to life.

“I have a
letter from the Mayor. He summoned me.”

“For what
grievous offense?” she asks politely, thumbing through a yellow notepad in
front of her. “Are you the skull sketcher, or the terrorist?”

“Um, what?”

She glances
up, brows raised. “You’re not the girl who’s stealing spare eyeballs from the
Refinery, are you?”

“I’m here for
my First Raise.”

“Oh!” She
flips her notepad over, jabs a finger at it. “Winter! Wonderful, of course,
right this way.”

Reluctantly, I
follow the cheerful woman down a short, dismal hallway. She taps on the last
door three times, then swings it open with the flare of a magician presenting a
magic trick. I nod to her, pass into the room and stand before yet another sad
little desk, this one occupied by none other than the plump Mayor himself.

“Winter, yes,
mine-lovely lady, have a seat!”

I sit down
hesitantly. The lady shuts the door, leaving us to ourselves. There’s a little
instrument sitting on the edge of his desk swinging back and forth, clicking as
it moves, giving the audial illusion of a ticking clock.

“Tonight is a
big night for you,” he tells me. “Say, how have you been enjoying Trenton thus
far?”

“It’s just
fine,” I say, a little on edge. I watch his eyes for any sign of his demeanor,
the conversation between he and the Judge still sitting heavy on my shoulders.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but isn’t it a bit early for me to be doing my own
Raise? I hadn’t expected this so soon.”

He shakes his
head once. “You’ve nothing to worry you. The Harvesting Grounds aren’t scary in
the least. Simply listen in the mist for your cue, find your mark, then aid
your mark in wholesome unsubmergence. No sense in doing it partway. Be present,
be comforting. The best rope you can hand them is a name, I always say
mine-self! That brings them to this reality, just as their eyes adjust to the
overabundant dark. Bring your Raise to the Refinery quickly and your good
friend Helena Trim will be there to receive, just as she was to receive you.
Such kind favors we each pay in our own turn, don’t you think? Two minutes from
now you’ll be embarking on your quest to the Grounds. Any questions?”

I stare
unblinkingly at him. That’s it? That’s my briefing? Questions, he asks? Where
the hell do I begin …

“Actually,
we’re behind schedule,” he decides. “You need to go now. The mist is already
restless. Make your way through the north Trenton gate, take two left paths,
you’ll be among the Harvesting Grounds in no time. Take care, mine-lady, and
remember, Helena will be waiting for you at the Refinery upon your return. Good
night!”