Dead Of Winter (The Beautiful Dead Book 2) (14 page)

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 4
^th
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?