Dead Of Winter (The Beautiful Dead Book 2) Read online

  Dead Of Winter

  (The Beautiful Dead #2)

  by Daryl Banner

  Books By Daryl Banner

  The Beautiful Dead Trilogy:

  The Beautiful Dead (Book 1)

  Dead Of Winter (Book 2)

  Almost Alive (Book 3)

  The OUTLIER Series:

  Outlier: Rebellion (Book 1)

  Outlier: Legacy (Book 2)

  Outlier: Reign Of Madness (Book 3)

  Outlier: Beyond Oblivion (Book 4)

  Outlier: Five Kings (Book 5)

  The Brazen Boys:

  A series of standalone M/M romance novellas.

  Dorm Game (Book 1)

  On The Edge (Book 2)

  Owned By The Freshman (Book 3)

  Dog Tags (Book 4)

  Other Books by Daryl Banner:

  super psycho future killers

  Psychology Of Want

  Love And Other Bad Ideas

  (a collection of seven short plays)

  Acknowledgements

  Madeline Sheehan, Chelsea Camaron & Claire Riley

  Without the three of you cheering me on and encouraging me in the way of dead things, sexiness, and a general sense of “your-life-is-in-danger-if-you-don’t-finish-that-Beautiful-Dead-sequel-soon” this book would not be what it is. My sisters in madness, I’m lucky to know you!

  And for those few of you who have

  not yet been introduced to these three geniuses,

  check out excerpts from their work included at the

  end of the Kindle version of this novel.

  Chris Rivera

  Sometimes my brain feels like a hundred brains

  and you have a very clever way of bringing me back to earth. Whenever I doubt myself, you set me on fire.

  Y’know, in the good way. Keep doing that!

  Jan Behrens

  My friend from across the world! You have a keen eye

  for photography, both in the nature and urban senses. I’m so proud to have your work on my covers. Thank you.

  Mom

  The world needs to know I have an awesome mom.

  There’s no other way to say it. Be way jealous. She is as awesome as you think she is. I love that you embrace the crazy and the freaky and the weird that is me.

  You

  And thank you, the amazing, brave person

  who is about to read this book. Thank you for taking a chance on me. If this is our first time together, I hope

  you know what you’re getting yourself into.

  Copyright © 2014 by Daryl Banner

  Published by Frozenfyre Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used

  or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the

  written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, groups, businesses, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual places or persons,

  Living, dead, or Undead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Daryl Banner

  Nature Photography by Jan Behrens

  ISBN-13: 978-1503035898

  ISBN-10: 1503035891

  B L O O D

  H A P P Y

  S H I V E R

  B U R N

  D E F I A N C E

  A L L I A N C E

  C O E X I S T

  G R I M

  E Y E S

  S K I T T E R

  T H E P R O J E C T

  L O C K E D

  R E C K O N I N G

  O N S L A U G H T

  A F A M I L I A R P L A C E

  T H E B E A U T I F U L W I N T E R

  S O M E O N E E L S E ’ S H O M E

  E V E R A F T E R

  T H E N E V E R D R E A M

  D E A D O F W I N T E R

  F I R S T H A N D

  “Life is more resilient than we think.

  It just doesn’t always look the way we expect it to.

  Even burned grass

  is still very much alive

  beneath the surface

  where new seeds are waiting to sprout.”

  - Chris Rivera

  P R O L O G U E

  The world is a lot quieter than it used to be.

  But there is a sound in the desolate dark tonight; it is the sound of fire burning. The tongue of this great fire stretches up high to lick the silver sky, and its fingers, red with greed, are as long as a lifetime.

  The fire is as ugly and as beautiful as an ex-lover.

  What it feeds on isn’t the wood of the forest. They’re all dead anyway; the trees. This is a fussy fire that only feeds on things you cannot see. It feeds on happiness. With its little yellow teeth, it eats hope for a midnight snack. It eats dreams and laughter and anything little or pretty.

  Especially tulips.

  If you squint, you realize it is not just a fire, but rather an army. Each flame is made of a person, and you realize it is their hope that burns … it is their happiness, their passion and despair and greed, burning, burning, burning.

  A man stands at the front of the fire—the leader—and he burns a different color than the rest. He burns green. Furious, jealous, hungry green. He is not a proud creature, so the Green One stands with hunched shoulders and he watches from the top of his head, and though his pale face was once handsome, he can only form a permanent scowl now with his twisted, ruined lips.

  With this Third Life of his, he will never smile again.

  Kneeling before him, a man begs for his life. A Living man. He’s in tears about a girl he loves and the son or daughter he wants to have someday, and the scowling face we will cautiously refer to as the Green Fire holds him sweetly by the neck, the way one might hold a lover, and he says: “I once loved a woman.”

  The Living man begs, imploring, and the Green Flame says: “She set me free, opened my eye to the gift of death.”

  The Green Fury whispers: “My green eye.”

  But the Living man won’t stop crying and begging, waving his hands everywhere, so the Hungry Green shows him what he means by taking those healthy Living hands and pulling them right off. Over the man’s screams, the Green Inferno says: “These hands, they’ve reached and reached, all your long, tiresome life, clinging to meaningless things. These hands that take so much, yet hold nothing in the end. I free you from them.”

  The man’s voice breaks, his shrieks echoing off the bodies of dead trees, so the Burning Green takes his throat too and grips gently, the way one might embrace a friend. He brings his mouth close and says: “This Life, your permanent solitude, the torture of being Human … you are so hungry for a meaning to it all. Let me feed you.”

  Something dark as a void passes between them. One might say it’s the man’s Life, or soul, or something called his Anima. Whatever it is, it’s so quick it’s already gone.

  What remains is no longer alive, yet he is not dead. The man’s worries are forgotten, his girl is forgotten, his future, his past, his dreams, all of it, and his screaming is ceased. Handless, lifeless, deathless … he stares with stony glass eyes into those of the Green Death.

  The Green Death, who says: “It is the dead of winter, and you will never hurt again.”

  C H A P T E R – O N E

  B L O O D

  “Oh, don’t worry … It’s just the sound of you dying.”

  She squints her little brown eyes at me. “Say what?”

  “Undying,” I correct myself. “And don’t mind all the chaotic, annoying wind. That’s, like, totally normal.”

  Her head turn
s right, turns left. “I don’t hear any—”

  “Just pretend,” I whisper.

  “Right.”

  To make way for my favorite little Human’s pretend Raising, I dust her off with a dramatic sweep of my hand—and my hand goes flying into the mist. I watch it with a mix of horror and bewilderment.

  Megan lifts her head of big unruly hair off the ground, wincing. “You should get that looked at, Winter.”

  It landed somewhere in the mist. My freaking hand. “It’s always the left one,” I complain. It’s gonna take me a good while to find that sucker again, I just know it.

  “Can’t you get a new one?”

  “Put your head down. You’re supposed to be dead.”

  “Sorry.” Megan lies back.

  In other news, my worst fear came true: I completely forgot what chocolate tastes like. I’m pretty sure it was my favorite thing when I was alive.

  “So, I’m undying?” she asks. “Is that what you’re really supposed to tell them? That’s an awful first thing to hear.”

  “Hmm. Well, that’s what Helena said to me when she first Raised me.” Of course, she was not the best example. And let’s face it, neither am I.

  “So, if I’m your Raise,” the ever-talking Megan goes on, lifting her head again, “does that make me your child? And does that make you my Undead Mommy?”

  “No, not exactly.” I figure out a way to explain this to her. “There’s, um … there’s fake families. We’ll call them fake families. Sometimes the Undead will pretend to be part of a family, and … and it’s sorta because they, um, well … they want to pretend to be alive. But they’re not.”

  “Is that why you called Helena your Death Mother once?” Patiently, I nod. “Oh. That’s weird.”

  There’s way too much about this dead world that’s far weirder than pretend-families, and I hope Megan won’t see the worst of it for the rest of her little Human life. “We still have a lot left to do. You ready to move on?”

  “Sorry.” She lies back down. “So … you listened for all that chaotic wind stuff, you found the spot where I’m buried, and then you pulled me out and told me I’m—”

  “Undying, yes. And now …” What’s that other thing Helena said was soooo important to do for a newly-Risen Undead? Oh, right. “Your new name! I henceforth name you … Tulip.”

  “That’s a stupid name. Can I just stay ‘Megan?’”

  “I’m your Pretend-Reaper right now, so you’re named whatever I want, silly. Besides, new Raises don’t recall anything from their old life when they’re first pulled from the earth, so … you don’t know your name was Megan.”

  “That’s dumb.” She sucks on her teeth, annoyed.

  “So tell me, Tulip …” I peer into the nebulous forever-grey-and-silver sky, suddenly worried if the sun’s out yet. Undead eyes don’t regard light the same way the Livings’ do, so I can never properly tell time. “Is it light yet?”

  “No. Is this when you take me to the Refinery?”

  “I’m not actually taking you to the Refinery, Megan. This is all pretend. You wanted to know how the Undead are made and, well, this is how.”

  “This place smells.”

  “Sorry, Megan. We Undead can’t smell.”

  “But you can see and hear really good. How?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “This place still smells. Is it true you can’t feel pain?”

  “You already know the answer to that.”

  “But like, are you sure? … not even if I stabbed you? Like, in the heart?”

  “I don’t have one. You’re morbid for a little girl.”

  “Not even if I stabbed you a lot?”

  “Megan, it’s almost morning … I think. Any more questions, or would you like please to resume undying?”

  The Harvesting Grounds—or the Whispers, depends on who you ask—is about the bleakest place left on the planet. It’s where the local Undead begin their Second Life. Vast and treeless … a sprawling lowland of despair, if you will. Not that there’s much else to compare it to; the rest of the world’s about as cheery. And no, this wasn’t my first choice in what to do with my day.

  “Why aren’t you and John talking?”

  I was about to say something else, but her question hits me like a cold dead slap to a cold dead cheek. “I’m … What do you mean? We’re not—There’s nothing—”

  “I deserve to know.” Her face hardens with a stubborn look of entitlement.

  John’s the ruggedly-handsome, strong-and-silent type, brooding and totally-alive Human I live with. The last time we spoke, he grunted and I broke a plate on the wall. Instead of mentioning that, I say, “John and I are fine.”

  “Okay,” she says, but her eyes seem to know the truth anyway … far too intuitive for a girl only ten and a half.

  “Megan, are you lying about the time?” I glance again into the silver, untelling sky, dubious. “I’m pretty sure we’ve been out here for a few hours.” When I see the girl’s eyes shift away, I realize I’ve caught her. “I only agreed to do this if we get you back by morning! Your parents will be up and they’ll be furious with me, and I—”

  She’s pushed off the ground, apparently furious for her own reasons, and starts marching through the fog. Great. What now? I gather myself and keep up, minding not to trip over the uneven terrain.

  “Megan, slow down. This was all supposed to be for fun, remember?”

  “I just wanted to know what it’s like,” she snaps back, still hurrying on toward the sparse dead woods that hug the Whispers. “I’m tired of being just a Human.”

  This comes as a surprise. “Why would you say that?”

  “I’m tired of eating. You don’t need to eat.”

  “No. But that’s not—that’s not a good thing, Megan. I miss eating. I miss …” Kissing. A racing heart. Clinging to a person to keep warm in the night. Falling asleep in their arms. “I miss … marshmallows.”

  She stops and wrinkles her face. “What’re those?”

  “Soft, fluffy wads of heaven. Listen. Life wasn’t the best for me either, but … but I certainly wouldn’t have traded it for this one.”

  “I’m tired of feeling sad and angry,” she goes on, ignoring me. “You don’t feel. You won’t remember your First Life until you have had a Waking Dream or a Dreaming Death or whatever it’s called. I’m tired of my life. I’m tired of remembering my … my dead brother.”

  I stand in front of her, stopping her. “You can stab me all you want and I won’t feel a thing, true, but it doesn’t mean I don’t get sad, Megan. I still get very sad. And mad. I still get …” My mind trails off, thinking of the last time John looked at me in that silent, brooding way he does. It’s sexy. It’s maddening. And I think about the stew of emotions that burned through my body without the aid of a racing heart or blood in my veins to redden my cheeks. I wonder, how much do the dead really feel?

  “You left your hand back there,” she mumbles.

  I glance at the stump that remains of my arm. “Damn it, Megan. You made me forget my hand!”

  “The sun was already up when we got here.” Megan pushes past me, continuing sulkily into the woods.

  I watch her, baffled. “But your parents—?”

  “Don’t care anymore,” she calls back without looking, tramping down the path, “if I live or die, if they live or die, if anyone does.” And with me watching, still beyond words, she disappears into the haze of scant dead trees.

  Alone now, I vanish back into the mists and get on all fours—or is it three, technically?—and search for my left hand. When I find it at last, the fingers look like carved sandstone reaching up for the sky. I watch that hand with deepening wonder. What’s it reaching for?

  I look up, as if to indulge my own left hand, and that’s when I see it in the ever-twisting monochrome.

  A bird. It’s a bird in a dead world. A bird, so tiny, so far away, so high … and it flies off, flies farther off, away. Already it’s gone from
sight. Only mere seconds, that’s all I get to see of a species I’d thought extinct. The sight of that tiny black bird warms the nothing in my chest.

  “I’ll be damned,” I say, then realize I kinda already am.

  When I return to Trenton, the groaning gates and the pokey metal spires greet me. I pass through the Square, which is basically the heart of the city, and it has evolved quite a bit with the addition of Humans six or so months ago. Considering Humans sleep, they’ve now set this interesting idea of “store hours”, which the Undead have since adopted, attracted to the idea of having actual organization to their workdays. The Humans indicate when it is sunrise, when it is sundown. We’ve added streetlamps and lighting to our major stores so that the Humans can see properly (as Trenton was apparently very, very dark at night). We can also finally make use of Trenton’s long-ignored store of nonperishables, including milk powders for babies, as well as some canned protein substitutes. “Just add water,” they read, like a sick joke.

  Some Undead discovered a hidden pride for the city, taking an effort to neaten up our dilapidated dwelling. Most of the effort, sadly, did little to make the city less creepy or quaint. Now it’s just creepy, quaint, and clean.

  Not that the Humans mind. They have a place to live. Where once they were scared in the woods, settling in temporary camps to clutch at some semblance of a life, they now have a true home. They have walls. They have ovens and kinda-running water. Sure, it was odd at first for them to have Living-Dead neighbors; Humans aren’t used to meeting people whose heads can literally pull off and still talk. Several times already, Humans have run away screaming from some of us. To be fair, until now they thought all the Undead were flesh-eating monsters.

  Since the Undead don’t sleep—well, that is, those of us who don’t bother with pretending to sleep—it’s kinda nice having a purpose for all the beds now.

  I’m not one of those who pretends.

  When I push through the doors of the pink and squatty Refinery, I find the infamous fake-flesh-mender busied with some activity at the counter. “Marigold?”