hyperventilating on absolutely nothing, filling and emptying my lungs of air I don’t need over and over. All these habits of my First Life rush back to support me in this time of need. I’m two steps from throwing one of my infamous tantrums that used to get Claire whatever she wanted.
The rain keeps pummeling the glass, taunting me, like Mother Nature herself were a bully, laughing, slamming fists made of water and life and time against the windows. Gunner, who had a troubled past himself, who’d helped me fend off a giant spider, who helped defend Trenton in its time of need, then fought valiantly at Garden, only to be knocked off the roof of a building—hence his injury. And somehow during his years of recovery, he couldn’t manage, he couldn’t cope, and now he’s …
“Dead,” I whisper, my eyes clenched shut and my hands gripping my ears so tight, I’m certain I might pull them right off—then I’d be spared having to hear anymore of Megan’s horrible news. “Dead, dead, dead. They’re all dead and we’ll all be dead soon. The real dead, the certain dead, the forever dead. Dead, dead, dead.” My voice trails off, dead, dead, dead , until not even a thought can find me, drowned in the raging storm outside.
Then suddenly the rain relents, or perhaps it’s that Megan has come to my side. She’s standing there, and the presence of her body distorts the sound.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. With my ears shielded, it feels like I’m the only person in the world who heard my apology. I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for.
Through the hands that desperately cover my ears, I hear her response perfectly: “This is the only life I know. My emotions died with my parents. My emotions died with John, with Grim, with you. This is all that’s left.”
The storm exhausts the remainder of its wrath, and soon the peace, if it can be called that, is returned in an instant. The silence of the room after the storm is louder.
When I finally remove my hands, the first thing I hear is the beating of Megan’s heart. The rhythm of life, the drumming, the thrashing of blood in her veins. It makes me think of the tavern where John and I first met. It lends me memories both wonderful and terribly painful.
“There’s nothing left …” I whisper.
I imagine my mother with a face I may not recognize. I feel the horror and the pain and the resentment Megan must have felt, watching the Deathless Queen being put back together before her eyes. My mother.
“There’s nothing left …” I whisper once more, twice more, and I realize that I will never, ever hear John’s heartbeat again.
Megan, the Mayor, extends a hand to me. “Come,” she says. “I’ll take you to the Housing Manager.”
C H A P T E R – T H R E E
N E W T R E N T O N
The Necropolis, which I will forever call it, is a well-oiled machine of commerce, industry, and peaceful cooperation. Whatever the hell that means.
Living and Undead are nearly identical, told apart only if one observes their daily routine, their nature given away when one is spotted eating. The “Pretender” nature that I’d gotten so used to back in Old Trenton is, both regrettably and thankfully, a thing of the past. I still remember a quaint, upscale dinner that Grimsky tried to get me to eat—a meal that was likely made of wax, for all I would know or taste.
The Necropolis is generously filled with many covered walkways, should an Undead find themselves exposed during a sudden siren-sounding. After all, as I witnessed twice already myself, the sirens do not, in fact, give fair warning before the rainclouds tear in half.
Gardening areas, “Bio-pods” and rows of produce seem to be spread throughout the entire city, instead of being kept in one location or area. On the way to my new home, I pass six different spreads of vegetation. The Housing Manager even walks me past a large rice field with a thin metal bridge stretched across
The rain keeps pummeling the glass, taunting me, like Mother Nature herself were a bully, laughing, slamming fists made of water and life and time against the windows. Gunner, who had a troubled past himself, who’d helped me fend off a giant spider, who helped defend Trenton in its time of need, then fought valiantly at Garden, only to be knocked off the roof of a building—hence his injury. And somehow during his years of recovery, he couldn’t manage, he couldn’t cope, and now he’s …
“Dead,” I whisper, my eyes clenched shut and my hands gripping my ears so tight, I’m certain I might pull them right off—then I’d be spared having to hear anymore of Megan’s horrible news. “Dead, dead, dead. They’re all dead and we’ll all be dead soon. The real dead, the certain dead, the forever dead. Dead, dead, dead.” My voice trails off, dead, dead, dead , until not even a thought can find me, drowned in the raging storm outside.
Then suddenly the rain relents, or perhaps it’s that Megan has come to my side. She’s standing there, and the presence of her body distorts the sound.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. With my ears shielded, it feels like I’m the only person in the world who heard my apology. I don’t even know what I’m apologizing for.
Through the hands that desperately cover my ears, I hear her response perfectly: “This is the only life I know. My emotions died with my parents. My emotions died with John, with Grim, with you. This is all that’s left.”
The storm exhausts the remainder of its wrath, and soon the peace, if it can be called that, is returned in an instant. The silence of the room after the storm is louder.
When I finally remove my hands, the first thing I hear is the beating of Megan’s heart. The rhythm of life, the drumming, the thrashing of blood in her veins. It makes me think of the tavern where John and I first met. It lends me memories both wonderful and terribly painful.
“There’s nothing left …” I whisper.
I imagine my mother with a face I may not recognize. I feel the horror and the pain and the resentment Megan must have felt, watching the Deathless Queen being put back together before her eyes. My mother.
“There’s nothing left …” I whisper once more, twice more, and I realize that I will never, ever hear John’s heartbeat again.
Megan, the Mayor, extends a hand to me. “Come,” she says. “I’ll take you to the Housing Manager.”
C H A P T E R – T H R E E
N E W T R E N T O N
The Necropolis, which I will forever call it, is a well-oiled machine of commerce, industry, and peaceful cooperation. Whatever the hell that means.
Living and Undead are nearly identical, told apart only if one observes their daily routine, their nature given away when one is spotted eating. The “Pretender” nature that I’d gotten so used to back in Old Trenton is, both regrettably and thankfully, a thing of the past. I still remember a quaint, upscale dinner that Grimsky tried to get me to eat—a meal that was likely made of wax, for all I would know or taste.
The Necropolis is generously filled with many covered walkways, should an Undead find themselves exposed during a sudden siren-sounding. After all, as I witnessed twice already myself, the sirens do not, in fact, give fair warning before the rainclouds tear in half.
Gardening areas, “Bio-pods” and rows of produce seem to be spread throughout the entire city, instead of being kept in one location or area. On the way to my new home, I pass six different spreads of vegetation. The Housing Manager even walks me past a large rice field with a thin metal bridge stretched across
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